Futile Devices Scans

Late at night in early autumn, the air was cool as water.

In Xiling, within the bustling city of Xianglian, at the far end of Tiannan Street, stood a certain residence.

The main hall was spacious, brightly lit with candles; fine wine and delicacies were laid out in abundance. Yet it lacked the lively clamor of clinking cups and merriment. The soft, lingering melodies of silk and bamboo accompanied the drifting fall of red leaves, lending the place an oddly desolate air.

The master of the residence, drunk and flushed, embraced two singing courtesans, drinking cup after cup of rich wine amid their coaxing. The only guest at this banquet was a man in a gray robe. His face was thin, with neatly trimmed short whiskers; not particularly old, yet deep lines furrowed his brow, as though weighed down by endless worries.

He lowered his gaze to the wine in his cup. Unlike the host, he did not drink heartily. Instead, he seemed distracted, his fingertips tapping lightly against the table in time with the music.

“Honored one, why are you not drinking? Is the wine not to your taste?” The host, suddenly inspired, staggered over with the courtesans in his arms and laughed heartily. “Today is a day of great joy! With such good news, how can we not celebrate with wine? Come! Let me share a drink with you—I’ll drink first as a sign of respect!”

Though the drunken man clung to him, the gray-robed figure remained unmoved, his expression unchanged. Still, he cooperated, lifting his cup and saying calmly, “Please.”

The host tipped his head back and drained his cup, yet made no move to leave. Shaking off the courtesans’ support, he sat heavily beside the gray-robed man, tugging at his sleeve and muttering drunkenly:

“Honored one, these past years haven’t been easy for us… how much we’ve suffered—living under false names, wandering in exile. At last, Heaven has opened its eyes—the evil ghost has finally gone out like a snuffed candle…” He thumped his chest. “Let me tell you honestly… in all these years, only tonight can I finally set my heart at ease and sleep soundly.”

By the end, his voice even carried a trace of tears. The gray-robed man’s expression softened slightly, and he said in a low voice:

“Do not be careless. Although Yu Gong Feng Ting is dead, those people are still around. They may not let things rest so easily.”

“Heh… heh…” The host laughed drunkenly, spilling more than half his wine onto his robe. “Honored one, do you know what it means to be a ‘bird startled by the mere twang of a bowstring’?”

“Sometimes I think—it’s not that those people are truly so formidable, but that we were frightened out of our wits back then. Ever since, at the slightest sound, we run like startled rabbits…”

“Four years ago, Yu Gong Feng Ting personally ordered the dissolution of ‘Bihua’. Xiling, Qiyun, and Dongyu—which of these great powers isn’t watching Longsha like a hungry tiger, ready to seize any weakness? Even if those ‘Dead Lanterns’ were willing to keep working, would the new king of Longsha have the nerve?” He hummed out of tune, collapsing like a heap of mud onto the ground, yet the manic delight in his voice rose higher and higher. “We’ve been in Xiling for three years without a single mistake—they can’t find me… hmph! They’ll never find me!”

“With that old thing dead, we’re finally safe…”

Suddenly, a chill autumn wind swept through the hall, extinguishing every candle—and with them, the host’s final words.

At the very instant the lights went out, the gray-robed man moved like lightning. He shot from his seat, broke through the window, and landed in the shadowed corridor of the courtyard in the blink of an eye.

“Who’s there?”

His reaction was extraordinarily swift—but since the attacker had chosen this moment to strike, they were not unprepared.

In the next instant, a faint hum cut through the air. A blade flashed like a star, striking straight down at him.

The gray-robed man drew a saber from beneath the railing and parried the descending strike. Steel clashed against steel, sparks scattering. The black-clad, masked assassin rebounded several paces away, while another ghostlike figure surged from behind—light as a whisper of night wind. The gray-robed man barely managed to turn his head; a thin, sharp blade carved a burning red line across his cheekbone.

He knew every corner of this residence. For three years he had lived with weapons at the ready, never once letting down his guard. Yet even with all preparations, his heart now pounded violently, as if about to burst from his chest.

“May I ask which faction you belong to? Why not state your name? We can discuss matters—why resort to killing without a word?”

Only the cold night wind answered. Clearly, the attackers had no intention of negotiating.

The gray-robed man wiped the blood from his face. Knowing that a fierce battle was unavoidable, he thrust forward with his blade, pursuing the assassin ahead, while his left hand concealed two iron darts. When the second assassin attempted the same trick from behind, he flung the darts backhandedly.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a muffled grunt of pain. The gray-robed man felt a momentary relief, then pressed forward, slashing at his opponent.

But suddenly, pain exploded across his back. Before he could complete his move, his opponent seized the opening and returned a strike. The thin blade grazed past his nose, tearing open a wound along his brow ridge.

A young woman’s clear, laughing voice rang from above:

“What kind of scrap metal is that? And you dare show it off? Here—take it back!”

Two sharp sounds sliced through the air from behind him. The gray-robed man dodged—but before he could recover, a bright male voice laughed:

“Why not try mine instead?”

Their voices overlapped in perfect coordination. With one eye clouded by blood, his vision impaired, he had no time to evade again. Relying on sound alone, he raised his blade to block the incoming projectiles.

The moment they struck, he knew something was wrong—the force was too light, too insignificant for lethal weapons. Looking down, he saw that what had fallen to the ground were merely two apricot pits.

Fury surged at being toyed with. His grip tightened on his blade—but the sting from his brow wound forced his reason back into place.

Who were they? How many had come? Ordinary thieves would not dare such boldness. If they were robbers after wealth, they would not remain silent about their purpose. He was certain he had offended no martial sects—then there was only one possibility—

The night wind brushed against his skin, but the true cold seeped from deep within his bones. His hands could barely remain steady, but his heart was sinking into a bottomless abyss.

From the hall came the screams of the courtesans and the crash of shattered cups.

There was no moonlight tonight. By the dim glow, he glimpsed several figures darting about. The musicians were undoubtedly assassins in disguise—and the outer guards he had carefully arranged were as silent as the dead.

If he still failed to understand the situation now, death was already at his doorstep.

This residence had long been under watch. The calm had been bait; the news of his old enemy’s death, a powerful lure. At the moment of their greatest complacency, that unseen serpent had already coiled around them without a gap—its fangs bared at their throats.

If this standoff continued, he would inevitably be worn down alive. He could not be dragged into a prolonged battle. Wealth and property could all be abandoned—he had to escape immediately!

The gray-robed man’s thoughts raced, and he made his decision in an instant. Once again, he swung his blade to force back the two black-clad assassins. No longer lingering in combat, he turned and leapt back into the inner hall, kicked aside a musician blocking his way, and seized the host’s hand, which was flailing in panic:

“Go, now!”

A strange and inexplicable sensation suddenly crept over him, as though he had stumbled into a fog. As if burned, he flung the man’s wrist away. That piece of flesh drooped limply, then hung suspended in an unnatural posture.

The hand he had grasped—had no pulse.

His eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, finally made out the face before him: the man’s eyes were wide open, lips parted slightly, his expression forever frozen at the moment of terror. At the center of his brow was a blood hole like a black mole, and around his neck ran a thin line of blood, extending upward, connected to silk threads hanging from the beam above.

This was a corpse.

The earlier struggle, the resistance, the evasions—had all been manipulated, a puppet show deliberately staged for him.

At last, the gray-robed man understood the source of that earlier unease. He lowered his head to look at the dark blood spreading across his own chest, then lifted his gaze to meet his companion’s lifeless, unfocused pupils.

It had been a strike—swift, and silent.

Decisive, clean, and precise. The force and distance had been calculated perfectly—so perfect that not even a drop of blood had splattered.

The silk strings, like slender serpents, silently recoiled back into the rafters. The master of the house collapsed heavily to the ground, revealing the assassin who had been standing quietly behind him—the one who had delivered the fatal blow.

The gray-robed man clutched his spurting throat, gasping harshly. His fading vision could no longer make out the assassin’s features clearly—only a faint, wavering trace of pale light, like an illusion.

Was that… moonlight?

He fell backward. In his dilating pupils was reflected the dark night sky beyond the window—empty, devoid of anything.

The assassin stepped closer and bent slightly. That faint trace of light slid downward with his movement.

“Fooled by your own favorite trick—surprised?”

The tip of the blade lifted open the gray-robed man’s robe. The rise and fall of the tattooed chest beneath gradually weakened. The assassin crooked a finger toward someone behind him, then casually tapped the man’s face with the cold back of the blade, murmuring a farewell:

“Go keep company with the dead you love most, Venerable Quanlin.”

The heavily made-up songstress stepped forward, pushing past the others. Her movements were calm and composed—completely different from her earlier screams. She took a leather pouch from her companion, spread it open, and drew out a thin, razor-sharp silver knife.

At the second watch of the night, flames roared skyward, engulfing the entire residence.

Startled by the fire, neighbors poured out of their homes, hastily throwing on clothes to see what had happened. A drowsy young man carrying a bucket rushed into the crowd, only to be pulled back by the others:

“Stay back, stay back—that’s too dangerous!”

“The fire’s too big, it can’t be saved—be careful!”

“Don’t go, Erlang, come back!”

“Isn’t that Master Song’s residence from Dongfu Silk & Satin Shop? How did it suddenly catch fire?” Erlang craned his neck, trying to see more clearly. “I even heard singing from the courtyard earlier tonight!”

A neighbor waved away the smoke. “Who knows? Maybe they didn’t watch the candles properly. Such a big estate—gone just like that!”

“What about the Song family? Did they get out?”

“They’re over there—look, a whole crowd at the gate.” The neighbor pointed, clicking his tongue in amazement. “Who would’ve thought the Song family hid their wealth so well? Usually they keep a low profile, but just look at how many servants they’ve hired. How rich must they be?”

Erlang nodded vaguely, murmuring, “Truly wealthy…”

“What’s the use of money? Even with all those people, they couldn’t prevent the fire. I say this is fate—what is meant to be, will be; what is not, cannot be forced…”

Erlang pricked up his ears, about to hear more, when officials arrived. Seeing the wind picking up and the flames growing fiercer, they feared the fire would spread to the main street. Without further ado, they dispersed the crowd.

Erlang was shoved along by the throng, nearly losing his shoes, and could only turn back toward his own courtyard with his bucket in hand.

He bolted the gate behind him, confirmed that no one was following, set down the bucket, and walked to the west wing. Gently, he knocked six times.

The windows and doors were covered with opaque paper, pitch-black from the outside. A sliver of candlelight leaked through the crack. Erlang stepped quickly inside, shedding his earlier drowsy confusion. He straightened himself and bowed slightly toward the black-clad figure by the candlelight:

“My lord Huiyue, aside from those two, no unrelated members of the Song household were harmed. The officials arrived just now. The inner courtyard fire was too intense—they couldn’t get in, nor extinguish it in time.”

“I understand.” The man called “Huiyue” raised a hand, signaling him to rise. “You’ve done well. Thank you for your efforts these past days.”

He took an item from a companion behind him and pushed it toward Erlang. “Take this. You may… deal with it however you wish.”

It was a thin roll, lighter than a handkerchief. Erlang accepted it carefully with both hands, yet his entire body trembled as if he could not bear its weight.

The raging fire outside seemed to burn into his eyes. He stared fixedly at the object, his facial muscles twisting uncontrollably.

No one spoke. In the absolute silence, even the distant crackling of flames could be heard clearly.

“Thank you…”

Tears the size of beans fell together with his forehead onto the ground. Erlang choked with sobs, prostrating himself fully in a deep kowtow:

“On behalf of my elder sister… on behalf of my entire family, I thank you all for your great kindness!”

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