usatvline Chapter 73 Arson
Chapter 73 Arson
Fuquan's pupils contracted slightly, then he nodded quickly, clutched the note in his hand, and stuffed it into his sleeve.
He stood up, walked to the door, quickly slipped out, and disappeared down the corridor.
Old Nine stuffed the last piece of osmanthus cake into his mouth, chewed it twice, and mumbled, "Old Ten, what are you doing? Why are you being so mysterious?"
One minute he's standing by the window lost in thought, the next he's sending the servants away. What on earth is he up to?
Yin'e turned around, picked up his wine cup, took a sip, and gave a nonchalant smile.
"Ninth Brother, I've sent Fuquan down to inform my men to get ready; we're about to move out."
Lao Ba paused for a moment while holding the wine glass.
His gaze shifted from the wine glass to Yin'e's face.
"How do you know it's about to happen? Didn't you say there wouldn't be any activity until late at night? What time is it now?"
Yin'e's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't show any sign of it on his face.
He put down his wine glass, stood up, walked to the window, and lifted a corner of the gauze curtain to reveal the brightly lit outline of Juxianju across the street.
"Myna, I arranged a signal with them. That's why I've been watching from the window."
Lao Ba nodded and didn't ask any further questions.
Batu walked through the corridor, turned two corners, and came to a door on the west side.
The door was made of wood, very thick, with a layer of iron sheet covering the door panel and copper nails nailed to the corners.
A small wooden sign hangs above the door, with the words "Accounting Room" written on it.
He reached out and pushed the door, but it didn't budge. He pushed it again, but it still wouldn't move.
It's locked.
Batu took a step back and took a deep breath.
His gaze fell on the door lock, a brass lock about the size of a palm, with a thick shank.
The padlock was hanging on the door latch, locked tight.
He lowered his head, braced his shoulder against the door, gripped the doorknob with both hands, and pulled hard. With a "click," the screw on the door latch was loosened, but the lock remained hanging there, unmoved.
He didn't have time.
Footsteps came from the distance down the corridor. It wasn't just one person, but several. The footsteps were hurried, as if they were chasing something.
Batu's back was soaked again; he knew the footsteps weren't coming towards him.
He gritted his teeth, swung his Mongolian knife, and slammed it hard against the lock.
"Bang!" The sound of metal colliding exploded in the quiet corridor.
The noise was loud, but he didn't care anymore. He slammed it again, and the lock finally loosened, sliding off the door latch and falling to the ground with a "thud".
Batu pushed open the door and rushed inside.
The accounting room was small, with three walls made of floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, which were piled high with account books, densely packed from the ground to the ceiling.
Some of the account books were bound in thread, while others were bound into thick volumes, with red labels on the spine indicating the year and number.
Several ledgers lay open on the table, the ink already dry, and a pen lay aside.
Bundles of paper were piled up in the corner, I couldn't tell if they were waste paper or new paper, and they were piled up higher than a person.
Several oil lamps sat on the windowsill, the oil already mostly burned out, and the wicks were covered with charred lumps.
Batu stood in the middle of the tent, turning around helplessly.
There were too many account books; he didn't know which one to pick up.
He recalled what the Tenth Prince had said: "Find those accounts related to the Crown Prince. You don't need to take them all; take as much as you can."
But he was almost illiterate. He spoke fluent Mandarin, and after living in Beijing for so many years, he could chat, drink, and even swear without any problem.
Being able to recognize characters is another matter.
He grew up on the grasslands and was proficient in everything from horseback riding and archery to wrestling, but he lacked the patience for reading and writing.
His father hired a tutor for him, and he taught him for three years, but he still couldn't memorize the entire Three Character Classic.
Later, the gentleman got so angry that he quit his job, and his father stopped caring about him.
Now, he stood before a mountain of paper, like a blind man in a maze.
He pulled a slip of paper from his sleeve. It was written to him in advance by the Tenth Master. There were only a few words on the paper, written neatly and carefully, as if afraid that he would not be able to recognize them.
The note reads:
"Huangtiren"
Xiao Guoxing
Juxianju
Batu clutched the note in his hand, walked to the shelf, and began flipping through the books one by one.
His fingers clumsily turned the pages; some of the ledgers were new, their paper smooth as satin.
Some of the account books are old, with yellowed and brittle pages, curled edges, and will tear easily with the slightest force.
His eyes swept over the dense numbers and words, but the words looked like a swarm of ants to him, dark and indistinct, and he couldn't make out their shapes at all.
"Is this the one? No...and this isn't either..."
He tossed one ledger back onto the shelf and picked up the next one.
I flipped through two pages, but I still didn't recognize it.
He wanted to find the three characters "Huang Tiren", but all the characters looked the same, with horizontal, vertical, left-falling and right-falling strokes, and were crooked and twisted, so he couldn't tell which one was which.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples and dripping onto the ledger, leaving a small, dark stain.
"Fine, I'll take whatever I can!" He gritted his teeth, grabbed a few account books from the shelf, and stuffed them into his pocket.
He then ran to the corner and started rummaging through the pile of papers to find what looked like important documents.
There were several pieces of paper stamped with a red seal. The seal was round with a square in the middle and words written inside the square. He didn't know what the words were, but he thought they were important, so he rolled them up and stuffed them into his sleeve.
The footsteps in the corridor grew closer.
It wasn't just one person's footsteps; it was several people's, their footsteps muffled on the carpet.
Batu heard voices, but they were muffled and unclear, and the voices were getting closer.
Just then, a scream came from the other end of the corridor.
"Someone's dead! Someone's dead! It's Manager Sun! Someone come quick!"
Batu's hand suddenly trembled.
He turned around, took out the small porcelain bottle from the hidden compartment, uncorked it, and poured out the kerosene inside.
The kerosene arced through the air, spilling onto the piles of paper and the wooden shelves.
After he poured out the last drop, he smashed the porcelain bottle on the ground with a "crack," shards of porcelain scattering everywhere.
He took out a tinderbox from his sleeve, opened the lid, and blew hard at it.
The tinderbox lit up briefly, and sparks flew everywhere.
The footsteps in the corridor grew closer.
Some people are running, some are shouting, and some are giving directions.
Batu took a deep breath and threw the tinderbox deep into the tent.
The tinderbox somersaulted in the air and landed on the pile of kerosene-soaked papers.
With a "boom," flames shot up instantly.
The entire tent was transformed into a furnace in an instant.
A wave of heat hit him, making Batu's face burn.
He turned around, rushed out of the tent, and ran towards the other end of the corridor.
As he ran, he kept shouting, "Fire! Fire! Help put out the fire!"