Chapter Forty: The Third Young Master’s Miserable Fate

The situation had taken a turn for the worse—Feng Jingzhe, along with the old woman, was cornered against the wall. Just a few yards away, more than a dozen burly men had formed a semicircle, their eyes glinting with menace.

"I'll count to three, and then we all go in together..." The scar-faced leader gave the order, and at once, every man surged forward, brandishing his weapon.

Feng Jingzhe opened his stance to shield the old lady behind him, prepared to take a few hits if it meant seizing a hostage. Yet these men were no fools either; before he'd taken more than a few steps, several packets of unknown powder came hurtling his way.

He was ready for this. With a flick of his short stick, he managed to deflect two of the packets, sending them flying far from him. But a third struck the wall just behind, bursting open in a pale, choking cloud.

"Cover your eyes, madam—it's probably quicklime!" Feng Jingzhe yanked the old woman close, covering her face as he darted aside. Even so, his hair and clothes were dusted with the powder.

"Hmm... this isn't quicklime..." He dabbed some from his sleeve and tasted it with his tongue.

"Idiot, that's knockout powder—don’t lick it!" the old woman snapped.

But before Feng Jingzhe could spit it out, a heavy dizziness washed over him; his vision blurred and doubled.

"Good grief, were ancient knockout powders always this potent? No cooldown, instant effect—this doesn’t make sense..." He’d already inhaled a bit when the packet burst, and his reckless taste test only made it worse. No wonder those thugs had all retreated to a safe distance.

"Don't worry, madam, it's just knockout powder." He reassured himself—after all, with his powerful healing abilities, even the deadliest toxins were nothing to him. This was nothing but a trifle.

At least, so he thought. What he’d failed to consider was the amount of wine he’d drunk earlier. And, as luck would have it, this particular knockout powder contained an ingredient that interacted strongly with alcohol.

So, barely had Feng Jingzhe finished his bravado when his knees buckled and he collapsed, unconscious.

"Heh heh heh... Let’s see you act tough now! Twenty taels for a packet—I've gone all in on this..." The scar-faced man wiped his blade against his boot, impatience plain on his face.

"All right, move! Be quick about it—dump them both in the river once it's done!"

As the ten or so men advanced, knives drawn, the scene everyone expected—a trembling old woman begging for mercy—did not occur. Instead, she nudged the slumbering Feng Jingzhe with her toe, a trace of helpless amusement flickering across her face.

"Let’s hope this never happens again," she said, her voice raspy but calm.

Those short words sent a chill racing through every thug present; an inexplicable terror shot up their spines. The scar-faced man, forcing himself to be brave, stepped forward.

"Crazy old hag—are you out of your mind? Don’t you get it? You’re about to die!"

As he spoke, he raised his knife high.

A flash of cold light darted from the old woman’s fingertips, and in the blink of an eye, it pierced straight through the scar-faced man’s brow. Only a single bead of bright red blood welled from the wound.

"Such noisy crows..." The old woman clasped her hands behind her back and, as if nothing had happened, turned and began to stroll leisurely toward the mouth of the alley.

It wasn’t until she’d taken several steps that the scar-faced man’s heavy body finally crashed to the ground.

"Boss... Boss, what’s wrong?" One of his men reached out to check for breath and found that he was already stone cold.

But the true terror had only just begun. From the rooftops, the walls, and the shadows of the alley, four masked figures in black suddenly appeared. Each wielded a short dagger, and wherever they passed, no one was left alive.

Even those whose arms and legs had been broken by Feng Jingzhe moments before were not spared. In less than twenty seconds, not a single living soul remained in the alley.

The shifting light of the torches cast ghastly shadows on faces frozen in horror.

Pingkang Ward—the Feng family estate.

Feng Jingzhe was discovered by the household servants at the third watch of the night; the screams began only at the last watch, echoing from deep within the mansion.

There was no respite for the unconscious man, no time for him to react. What finally roused him was the excruciating pain of a rolling pin smacking his exposed shinbone.

After the initial wail, there followed a string of desperate pleas, punctuated by more shrieks fit to wake the dead.

This cycle repeated itself the entire night. According to a certain Mr. Li, who spent that night trembling beneath his covers, the reason the Lady of the House was so unrestrained in her rage was entirely due to the third young master’s own actions.

Some said, “So what if he snuck out to visit a brothel? Did he really deserve to be beaten half to death?”

But they did not know the whole story. The brothel visit was only a minor offense; the real reason for the outrage was that the old Madam Jiang had been missing for nearly two hours and was eventually found unconscious in a cesspit.

This calamity was all thanks to a dutiful son who’d promised to bring her something tasty and told her to play hide-and-seek with the puppy while she waited. For an elderly woman with the mind of a five- or six-year-old, it was all too easy to fall into such a carefully laid trap.

Fortunately, the new sewers in the Feng estate had only just been constructed, so the last few cesspools weren’t yet in use. Still, because of her son’s blunder, the old lady spent two hours in that filthy pit, covered in insects by the time she was found.

Her arms, legs, and face were swollen with mosquito bites. When Feng Xiaoman saw her, she nearly collapsed from guilt and grief.

So it was little wonder she took such severe measures against her wayward brother. Normally, if punishments went too far, Old Li and the house’s senior maids would intervene. This time, though, even they pretended not to hear, allowing the pitiful screams to reverberate throughout the night.

For a long while after, the third young master was nowhere to be seen on the streets of Chang’an. The lamb skewer vendor at Chunming Gate waited over half a month, but he never appeared.

During this time, Sun Fugui delivered invitations to the Feng residence every other day, always in vain. Not even the most generous bribes yielded any news.

Later, Liu Lei returned from Runan and tried to visit, but was refused entry at the gate. The official word was that Young Master Feng was unwell and not receiving guests.

Meanwhile, Meng Xiaodie’s fame soared. The success of “The Beaded Curtain” eclipsed even her previous hit, “Slow Song.” Now, when the people of Chang’an spoke of courtesans, they spoke only of Meng Xiaodie and her illustrious house; few even remembered the former top courtesan, Tang Hongdou.

As for Feng Jingzhe, a newly minted invalid, he now sat idly in a wooden wheelchair. His entire left leg was wrapped in a thick plaster cast, his right hand similarly bound, except the fingers were forced into a crooked “seven.” The bruises on his face were hidden, but the bandages around the back of his head remained in plain view.