Chapter Three: Toying with the Wicked Woman

The door was gently pushed open.

Yun Tianjiao entered, carrying a tray. Upon it rested an object wrapped in clean silk, exuding a faint, refreshing scent—a blend of pine resin and soapberry.

“Ning’er…” Yun Tianjiao’s voice was thick with emotion, her eyes swollen and red. She approached her daughter from behind, not uttering a word of protest, but instead, with the utmost care, handed over the silk-wrapped item.

Wen Changning accepted it and carefully unwound the silk. Inside lay a false Adam’s apple, meticulously crafted from pine resin, beeswax, and a touch of medicinal herbs, polished until it was smooth and lifelike.

Its shape was uncannily realistic, the texture warm to the touch, with even the subtle rise and lines of a man’s throat perfectly rendered.

The edges had been finished with such finesse that it was clear the maker had poured heart and soul into its creation.

“Mother…”

Her fingertips caressed the small, fragile thing, and a tide of bittersweet warmth swelled within her. This was not merely a tool of disguise; it was her mother’s silent support and deep, abiding love.

“Silly child,” Yun Tianjiao reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear, her gestures brimming with infinite affection. “I know I can’t stop you. You and your mother… you’re so alike.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes, yet there was an unmistakable pride and comfort.

“Back then, your mother was just as stubborn. Sadly… she didn’t have your skills.”

She paused, drawing a long, steadying breath, her voice laced with a desperate resolve. “Go, do what you must! I… I’ll wait for you to come home!”

Wen Changning gripped the warmth and faint soapberry scent of the false Adam’s apple, pressing it carefully to the hollow of her throat, smoothing the edges with gentle fingers.

In the mirror, the subtle bulge of a young man’s Adam’s apple was flawless—no trace betrayed her.

She turned to her mother, whose eyes glistened with tears yet burned with unwavering determination. Wen Changning nodded firmly.

“Mother, don’t worry.”

“Your daughter will see to it that Heifeng Stronghold pays its blood debt in full!”

Outside, the night deepened, dew settling cold and heavy. Yet in Wen Changning’s eyes, a fire blazed—brighter and fiercer than the frozen stars above. Her battlefield awaited.

The next morning.

At dawn, the entrance to Qingxi County Offices.

The bronze bell at the eaves chimed in the morning breeze, mingling with the muffled coughs of the conscripted men, lending the air a solemn gravity.

Wen Changning stood among the surging crowd, her eyes bright with resolve.

She reached up to feel the Adam’s apple, rough but sturdy—her mother had fashioned it through the night. It would not betray her.

Her fingers subconsciously brushed the red-tasseled spear upon her back.

A restless excitement, mixed with a ruthless determination, surged within her: The bandits of Heifeng Stronghold who once dared to raise a blade against her mother would pay dearly this time!

Upon the high platform.

Magistrate Wang sat upright in the seat of honor, the tip of his vermillion brush hovering over the registry, a droplet of red ink poised like a bead of blood yet to fall.

Steward Liu sat on a carved wooden stool to his left, holding the register in his hands.

“Third house on the left in Willow Alley—Wang Family. Wang Yaozu!”

His voice, though not loud, rang clear through the morning mist.

“Present!” From the crowd, a dark-skinned man stepped forward.

Steward Liu lifted the vermillion brush, marking a stroke beside “Wang Yaozu.”

He continued, “Tenth house at the east end of Mang Village—eldest grandson of the Sun family, Sun Changzhu!”

“Present!”

Page by page, the registry was read, the red marks growing dense, like drops of blood scattered across the ground.

A breeze stirred, flicking the edge of Steward Liu’s robe as he cleared his throat and recited the last name, “First house on the left of Willow Alley—eldest son of the Wen family, Wen Changkong.”

At the familiar name, Wen Zhenshan’s knuckles tightened abruptly.

The air seemed to freeze; even the wind held its breath.

The sounds below—the breathing of the crowd, a distant cock’s crow, the thud of anxious hearts—all seemed to converge into this one heavy moment.

But the quivering, tearful voice he expected did not ring out.

Instead, a clear, vibrant cry, sharp as a split bolt of silk, cut through the morning haze, rising from the throng to the platform, “Present!”

There was a youthful edge to the voice—an energy and an unyielding fierceness that made Wen Zhenshan’s ears ring.

He looked up sharply, his gaze piercing the crowd to fix upon a figure dressed in black, standing straight-backed and proud—nothing like his delicate son who favored white robes.

Wen Zhenshan’s face blanched to an ashen blue, his grip on the register turning his knuckles pale, his arm trembling.

Yet Steward Liu clapped his hands in delight, marking the name with a flourish.

He squinted, evaluating the upright “young man” before him. “I’d heard the Wen family’s young master drove off two thieves with his bare hands just days ago—quite the hero! Hearing that voice today, you can tell he’s a martial sort!”

“Steward, you flatter us!” Wen Zhenshan forced a stiff smile.

The clamor and tension of the roll call faded from the county office, leaving the Wen family’s modest courtyard shrouded in a heavy silence.

By the flickering light of a candle, Wen Zhenshan’s face was grim, while Yun Tianjiao’s eyes brimmed with anxious tears.

“You… you’re far too bold!” Wen Zhenshan paced the room, fists clenched tight, glaring at Wen Changning, who sat leisurely by the window with a copy of “The Venomous Lady of the Capital” in her hands. “To impersonate your brother in public! What if someone sees through it…”

He dared not imagine the consequences.

Wen Changning did not look up, her fingers trailing lightly across the page, voice calm and unshaken. “Father, did Magistrate Wang give me a second glance at roll call? Did any constable seem suspicious?”

She lifted her gaze, a keen light of insight shining in her phoenix eyes. “All they know is that the Wen boy stood up, and his spear skills look decent. That’s enough. Panic and uncertainty invite suspicion.”

She closed the book, walked to her parents, and spoke with unyielding determination. “A flaw isn’t in one’s appearance, but in the heart. As long as I’m steady, no one will see through me.”

She picked up the false Adam’s apple her mother had crafted, feeling its fine, warm texture. “Mother’s handiwork is flawless. And with this—” she tapped her temple, “as long as I keep a clear head, nothing will go wrong.”

Wen Zhenshan was left speechless. His daughter’s composure far surpassed his son’s. He sank into a chair with a heavy sigh. “So… what next? You really plan to go after the bandits? That’s a den of dragons and tigers!”

“Know yourself and your enemy—a hundred battles, a hundred victories.”

Wen Changning’s eyes sharpened, cold as a winter pond. “I know nothing of Heifeng Stronghold’s layout, defenses, or leaders. How can I attack? Am I to rely on those hastily conscripted men to charge in blindly?”

She tapped an illustration in “The Venomous Lady of the Capital,” lips curving into a cold smile. “If we’re to play this game, it will be by my rules. Tonight, I’ll send Heifeng Stronghold a ‘greeting’.”

“Tonight? Absolutely not!” Yun Tianjiao cried out, clutching her daughter’s arm. “It’s too dangerous! Those bandits are ruthless. You’re just a girl—”

“Mother,” Wen Changning gently took her mother’s trembling, icy hand, her voice soft, yet resolute as stone. “I won’t barge in headlong. The book says it plainly: ‘In darkness we prevail.’ I’ll scout, get the lay of the land. Rest assured, I remember every drop of blood Heifeng owes you. I won’t let them discover me easily.”

Hatred burned in her eyes, yet it was leashed by icy composure. “This ‘greeting’ will strike them where it hurts most.”

Midnight, Heifeng Stronghold.

The torrential rain had ceased, but the mountain air was heavy with damp, mist shrouding the stronghold in an eerie silence.

Only a few torches flickered in the night wind, their shadows ghostly and distorted.

A figure clad in dark robes, nearly one with the night, clung to the sheer cliff behind the stronghold like a lizard. It was Wen Changning.

The jagged stone bit into her palms, the moss slippery and reeking of damp decay.

She held her breath, every muscle taut as a drawn bow, each movement calculated to perfection.

Below her yawned a bottomless darkness; above, the hazy outline of the bandit lair. She was the arrow, suspended on the edge of life and death.

Fragments from “The Venomous Lady of the Capital” flashed through her mind—how to use the terrain, how to sow chaos.

She had bypassed the usual pass, instead scaling an unguarded precipice.

With the aid of jutting rocks and hanging vines, she moved as nimbly as an ape, every leap and shift as silent as falling leaves.

Closer now.

The silhouette of the watchtower loomed above, shrouded in mist. Two bandits huddled atop, shivering and grumbling.

“Damn this weather—cold and wet! The third chief’s off having fun with the new women they snatched…”

“Yeah! I heard there’s a fresh batch in the lair. Shame we never get our turn…”

Wen Changning pressed herself against a boulder, still as stone, watching and waiting.

When a stronger gust of wind swept the tower, making the torchlight dance, she seized her moment.

Her toes pushed off the slick rock, and she shot upward like a black feather caught in the gale, her robe snapping in the wind—its sound masked by the storm’s howl.

She landed precisely in a blind spot beneath the watchtower, back against the cold wood, her heart steady and strong, not a tremor in her pulse.

A sentry peered down, startled by the wind. “Hey? Thought I saw a shadow…”

“Hallucinating. In this forsaken place, even ghosts won’t bother with us!” The other dismissed him, spitting in the dark.

Wen Changning’s lips curled in a cold smile. Opportunity! As the two relaxed, she melted into the shadows, slipping silently into the stronghold with agile ease.

Inside, Heifeng Stronghold was even larger and more chaotic than she’d imagined. Ramshackle wooden huts sprawled haphazardly, the earth was a muddy mess, and the air reeked of cheap liquor, sweat, and a faint trace of blood.

Moving like a phantom through the darkness, Wen Changning darted past the sporadic patrols, her objective clear—the grain storehouse.

From her mother’s memories, her father’s offhand remarks, and the Venomous Lady’s lessons about crippling enemy supply lines, she knew this was Heifeng’s lifeblood. Burn it, and the wolves would be dealt a crippling blow.

At last, she reached a massive wooden shed, heavily guarded. Inside, sacks of grain were piled high, their musty odor heavy in the air. A handful of armed bandits dozed in the corner, snoring thunderously.

Wen Changning hid behind a stack of junk, observing calmly. A frontal assault? Even with lazy guards, she’d never escape if discovered. Her mind raced through the Venomous Lady’s bag of tricks.

Then a gust of wind stirred the scattered hay. Her eyes caught sight of rain-soaked shards of wine jars lying nearby.

Perfect.

With a glint in her eye, she reached into a hidden pouch at her waist, drawing out several black pebbles—practice tools she’d brought for finger strength.

She held her breath and concentrated.

Her wrist flicked sharply.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The stones sliced through the air, striking the wine jar fragments with deadly accuracy.

Crack! Crash!

The sharp sound of shattering clay burst through the night, loud and jarring near the sleeping guards.

“Who’s there?!”

“What was that?!”

The bandits leapt up, alarmed, looking around in confusion.

Their attention was fixed on the shattered jars.

Now!

Wen Changning moved like lightning. In the split-second chaos and distraction, she darted from the shadows, a black flash skimming the muddy ground, slipping through the open door of the grain storehouse without a trace.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, the sacks stacked to the ceiling. She ducked behind a high pile, the musty smell filling her nose. In her mind, her mother’s tale replayed—the snowy night, the cold blade, the bitter wind, the desperate cries. It was these villains—these men who had nearly robbed her mother of her life.

A cold fire of vengeance and resolve burned in her chest. She drew a deep, steadying breath, stifling her tumultuous emotions, and took out her fire striker.

“Mother, this is only the beginning,” she whispered, her voice as cold as ice.

“For all you suffered then, I’ll make Heifeng Stronghold repay—with interest, many times over.”

The fire striker flared, throwing a faint glow over her eyes—chilled, yet burning with murder. Without hesitation, she pressed the flame to the dry seam in the sacks.

This was only the beginning.