Chapter Seventy: Flames Rise, Chaos Boils

There was no chance for them to open their eyes again.

With the swiftest motion, Zhao San and Liu Liu’s blades slashed across their throats.

Xu Si darted forward in time, raising a hand to catch the iron cage.

The rescue continued.

But the time left for the guards was growing even shorter.

Peng Liang could only hope that, in the interval between the appearance of the two cages, the squat man on stage would indulge in as much pointless chatter as possible.

Outside the courtyard wall, Di Shun, who shared Peng Liang’s hope, led the men from the carriage house. They caught the children being lowered over the wall by Shi Shi and the others, then passed them along, one after another, into the waiting carriages in the back alley.

As soon as one carriage was full, it would speed off into the night, leaving the scene behind.

This area belonged to the eastern city’s market district. The deputy commander of the Five Cities Constabulary responsible for this area was from the Wu family.

At that moment, not far from either end of the back alley, mounted patrol soldiers of the Five Cities Constabulary were drawing closer.

Their superiors had ordered them to be extra vigilant in the eastern city tonight.

But they had also been told: there would be an unusual number of carriages and horses in this market tonight, and they were to avoid clashing with the nobility.

So, when the patrols saw the frequent comings and goings of finely dressed coachmen driving tightly curtained carriages, they didn’t spare them a second glance.

In fact, they made a point of keeping their distance.

Now, the patrol was stationed not far from “Kexin Auction House.”

One of the constables glanced at the auction house, clicked his tongue, and motioned for the men to detour around these streets.

A soldier ventured a careful reminder, “Captain, if we keep circling around and something happens over there, what then?”

The constable shot him a look and jerked his chin toward the direction in question.

“Then you go.”

The soldier recoiled, chastened into silence.

Still, his words made the constable think twice. After all, the order from their superiors was to stay alert for trouble. They’d already made several detours; if they circled again, and so far out of the way, and something happened…

If anything went wrong, he’d be in serious trouble.

After considering, the constable waved his hand, signaling the team to head straight forward.

They advanced directly toward the auction house.

But just as their horses had taken several steps in that direction, a sudden commotion erupted from both sides of the street and the back alleys.

A horde of beggars poured out—some limping, some missing hands, some with one blind eye, some howling incoherently.

A swarm of filthy, foul-smelling beggars, clutching cracked bowls, dressed in rags, leaning on mismatched sticks, surged into the street.

The constable was just about to shout for the men to be on guard—

When the beggars began brawling among themselves.

Yes, the beggars fought each other.

One yanked a fistful of hair, another tore a strip of filthy cloth; one kicked, another bit. The scuffle grew more chaotic by the moment. Soon, broken bowls and sticks were flying through the air—some even toward the patrol soldiers.

The patrol squad numbered ten, but the beggars vastly outnumbered them.

They couldn’t block or arrest them all.

As for shouting? How could they out-shout a mob of beggars?

Intimidate them? These beggars had lived their lives on fear.

The constable dodged another flying bowl, clicked his tongue in annoyance, waved his hand, and led the squad in another detour.

One of the beggars, seeing this, banged his stick hard against a battered bowl.

The clangs echoed through the night.

Those moving under cover of darkness heard the signal, their spirits lifting, and redoubled their efforts.

But even so, time was still too tight.

Hearing the squat man on stage urge the honored guests to look forward to the next rare item, Peng Liang glanced at the twenty-some children who had yet to be smuggled out—standing motionless after their cages were opened, unmoved without someone to push them.

Starlit eyes flashed, steel teeth clenched, he gave a low order: “Set the fire.”

...

Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside the small building was still heated.

The honored guests waited with avid interest, discussing which item might tempt them to bid.

The squat man, seeing the goods had yet to be brought out, began to pace anxiously on stage.

To keep the mood lively, his beady eyes spun, and he performed a somersault on stage, drawing raucous laughter from the assembled guests.

Suddenly.

A cry rang out: “Fire!”

The shout echoed inside and out of the auction house.

Before anyone inside could react, thick smoke poured in from behind the high platform.

In just two breaths, the hall was choked with smoke, vision blurred.

Panic erupted.

People screamed, shoved, jostled, trampled one another, all scrambling for the doors in a desperate rush.

The noble guests had brought guards and attendants, varying in number.

Now these attendants drew their blades, slashing at anyone who blocked their way, intent only on protecting their masters’ escape.

Men were cut down; others turned on each other in the chaos.

The auction house became a seething cauldron of confusion.

Even the manager, who tried to lead an orderly retreat, was felled by a blade—no one knew whose.

Amid the screams, the squat man’s voice was lost.

The fire spread quickly and fiercely, erupting in several places throughout the two-story building at once.

Some clever attendants shielded their masters as they leapt from the second floor, others broke through windows, some carried their lords through holes in the roof…

No one fled toward the rear courtyard.

That was where the thick smoke had first billowed in, marking the source of the blaze.

By the time Song Wen, assistant magistrate of the Capital Prefecture, arrived, the fire had already begun to sputter and die.

The small building had collapsed, leaving only a heap of charred, sodden, broken timbers.

Fortunately, the flames had not spread to the neighboring shops and homes.

A great crowd of beggars, blackened with soot from fighting the fire, eagerly gathered to claim their reward.

When the soldiers and yamen runners shooed them away, they took no offense, but left laughing, helping and supporting one another.

Song Wen wiped his face heavily.

He felt more than just gratitude toward the beggars; above all, he felt fear.

He had not been invited to Kexin Auction House’s “bidding game,” but an event of this magnitude, drawing together high officials and wealthy merchants, had certainly been reported to him by his superiors.

The Five Cities Constabulary had been ordered to guard the place closely, while Song Wen’s instructions had been explicit: “Do not interfere.”

Auctions were legal, but the “goods” were a notorious issue.

And for his superiors to make a special point? Was it just to prevent the gentry from fighting over the merchandise?

Song Wen had no desire to get involved—he wished he could stay far away.

But who could have predicted things would get so out of hand?

Watching the soldiers and yamen runners rummage through the ashes, dragging out scorched corpses, Song Wen’s eyelid twitched uncontrollably.

Twitching, twitching—until he spotted Di Ying.

Song Wen, a man in his thirties, shot over as if fired from a bow.

Grabbing Di Ying’s sleeve, he wailed, “Lord Di, you—”