Chapter 1547 - The Escape Route

Zhuo Yifan spent the remainder of that day amid a chorus of astonishment from his fellow martial artists. In Guangzhou, they had deliberately avoided any inn affiliated with the Qiwei Group to prevent arousing suspicion, so this was their first true encounter with the Australian style of hospitality—and they found it overwhelming.

Consider the bathroom: so immaculately clean that one hesitated to set foot inside. Those brand-new copper-fitted wooden bathing tubs, still fragrant with the scent of fresh lumber, seemed utterly contemptible beside this great white porcelain vessel, its surface gleaming and adorned with delicate patterns. There was a world of difference between tottering atop a stool to clamber awkwardly in and out versus elegantly lifting one leg to step inside. And even the finest wooden tub, after a few uses, would inevitably accumulate grime in the seams between its staves; in time, it would turn black with mold—no amount of sun-drying or scrubbing could ever fully restore it.

A twist of the bronze faucet—and an endless stream of hot water poured forth. The junior disciples of the Hengshan Sect breathed a collective sigh of relief. Otherwise, filling that enormous bathtub would have required hauling countless buckets—one group tending the fire, another carrying the pails, then gingerly climbing onto stools to pour the steaming water in.

A more sophisticated arrangement might feature a stove beneath the tub, allowing for the "boiling a live person" method, which at least reduced the labor of carrying and pouring. But when it came time to bathe, the elders naturally washed first. Replacing the water after each person was entirely out of the question—there simply wasn't time to draw fresh cold water, let alone heat it. In larger sects with many members, bathing was a queued affair: seniors bathed first, then juniors. A disciple of low rank, unless particularly favored, had no choice but to bathe in the water already used by their master or senior martial siblings. By the time the final bucket was poured out, the dregs would have been rich enough to fertilize a field.

Now, each person could enjoy a thoroughly satisfying bath. For people who had traveled many days on the road, barely managing a proper face-wash more than a handful of times, this was an immense luxury.

After bathing and returning to their rooms, they donned the robes provided by the inn. A gentle breeze drifted through the windows—utterly refreshing. Previously, when staying at inns, most of them had squeezed together several to a room, or even slept on cramped, foul-smelling communal bunks. Now they all occupied double rooms—comfortable, free of fleas and bedbugs—with sheets and blankets so pristine one scarcely dared sit on them. Their own bedding, hauled all the way from their journey, suddenly looked rather dingy by comparison. The Usage Instructions revealed that all bedding here was changed between every guest. Even worldly-wise jianghu veterans were astonished: never mind the inconveniences of traveling—even at their own sects, with water and fire to manage, washing blankets and sheets could only be done once every few months at best. At most, one might hang them in the sun to air out when weather permitted.

Before arriving, they had heard tales of the "extravagant luxury" of the Shorthairs. They had imagined wasteful displays of wealth—gold spittoons, sugar water for rinsing pots. What they had not expected was this kind of luxury: one that dramatically elevated the quality of life. Zhuo Yifan and the others were men of experience—they understood full well that merely twisting a faucet to summon endlessly flowing hot water already far surpassed any ordinary notion of extravagance.

The great sects might have fearsome reputations, and not a few maintained connections to high officials and nobility—they were hardly country backwater tyrants. Yet dwelling among famous mountains and scenic landscapes did not mean an entirely idyllic existence. As the saying went: "Water comes from carrying, vegetables come from planting, meat comes from hunting, and fire comes from gathering fuel."

True, most sects—unless their fortunes had fallen so low that their founding deeds were pawned off—kept a handful of bondservants and menials, and perhaps a few tenant families who could be put to work. But a great deal of heavy day-to-day labor still fell upon the disciples themselves. Even Zhuo Yifan, the sect leader's beloved disciple and a son of an official's household, spent his ordinary days doing scribal work. When it came to comfort, except for a few particularly wealthy sects, even their leaders rarely lived better than moderately prosperous gentry. The disciples, of course, had it even worse—those from wealthy families excepted.

At dusk, Li Xiaoliu wheeled over supper on a four-wheeled service cart laden with tin food containers—two per person, one for rice, one for dishes—and two large pots brimming with soup. The "Old Madam" and "Young Master" each received a separate banquet of exquisite fare. Zhuo Yifan naturally could not eat alone; he invited Wan Lifeng, Sha Guangtian, and Meng Bofei to join him. Over dinner, they discussed their plans for the coming days and their initial impressions of Lingao.

The wine was Lingao's locally produced rum. Wan Lifeng had hoped to sample a bottle of the famous Guoshi Wushuang, but was told it was unavailable. Fortunately, the rum packed quite a punch and carried a peculiar, pleasing aroma—something of an exotic novelty.

Since they had important tasks at hand, they did not drink much, merely tasting before setting down their cups. Then, lowering their voices, they turned to the upcoming mission.

Though Zhuo Yifan was the nominal leader of this operation, he did not know the specifics. Before departing, the White Stone Daoist had only instructed him to make contact with Sima Qiudao; the concrete details of what they were to do in Lingao would be conveyed through him.

That said, even without knowing the precise objectives, Zhuo Yifan and the others understood well enough: coming to Lingao, they would most likely be assassinating or kidnapping a high-ranking Shorthair leader. If the goal were to steal Shorthair secrets, only a handful of master thieves proficient in burglary would have been dispatched—there would be no need for such elaborate arrangements to bring so many people to Lingao.

"Brother Zhuo, as for why we've come to Lingao, that's obvious enough," Wan Lifeng remarked leisurely between mouthfuls. "It can only be an affair of killing and arson. But I'm rather worried—once we make our move, this is the Shorthairs' lair. Escaping unscathed might prove no easy feat."

Walking the jianghu, dispensing swift vengeance, and upholding righteousness were all very fine, but one must also plan one's escape. If, at the first sign of danger, one left one's own life behind, then all reputation and profit became smoke—dead men had no use for either.

Zhuo Yifan, however, appeared confident. "Uncle Wan, rest assured. The Seventh Lord has already arranged our means of escape."

Since they had reached Lingao, and since everyone present was a core member, certain matters could now be discussed. Otherwise, hearts would be uneasy and things might go awry.

Once they made their move—success or failure aside—the Shorthairs would certainly conduct a city-wide manhunt. Lingao was their stronghold, with their forces everywhere. Whether they tried to escape to the coast and flee by sea or make for a neighboring county, they would face massed troops in pursuit.

Fleeing to the coast was clearly out of the question. The Qiongzhou Strait was now effectively the Shorthairs' inner lake. The road from East Gate Market to Bopu was under the tightest security; the notion of fighting through thousands of soldiers to reach the coast, seizing a ship, and sailing away was pure fantasy.

Even if they somehow managed to cross the strait from Bopu, the Shorthairs held tremendous power on the Leizhou side. To escape there would be walking straight into the trap.

Only by first fleeing to a neighboring county and then finding passage across the sea was there any chance. True, the Shorthairs now occupied all of Hainan Island, but once outside Lingao, their presence was limited. There were many wild and desolate places where escape was quite feasible.

The problem was, the Shorthairs would foresee this. When the time came, they would certainly station heavy forces at the checkpoints on roads leading to neighboring counties.

"…So our plan is to do the opposite." Zhuo Yifan dipped his chopsticks in wine and sketched on the table. "Not north, not east, not west—but straight south!"

"South?" Sha Guangtian was taken aback. He had studied maps of Lingao closely and knew the county's terrain well. "That's Li territory!"

The heart of Hainan Island had always been the Li region—mysterious and unknown even to the Han settlers of maritime Hainan. Apart from a few traders and garrison soldiers, most people kept their distance from that forested, miasma-filled land.

"Precisely!" Zhuo Yifan nodded. "The Shorthairs will assume we won't head south. Even if they post guards on the southern roads, the defenses won't be strong. That's where we'll have our chance to escape."

"But we know nothing about the Li region!" Meng Bofei interjected. "We have no guides—never mind the savages, even catching the local miasma could be fatal!"

"The Stone Elder has already arranged for this." According to his instructions, Zhuo Yifan could now reveal all this. "He has positioned local righteous men familiar with the Li terrain. They will guide us from the Li region into a neighboring county, then across the strait to the mainland."

"I see!" Meng Bofei nodded. "That puts my mind at ease."

Wan Lifeng still seemed uneasy. "Brother Zhuo, can we really trust these local informants? From the moment we entered Lingao, our heads have been hanging by a thread. The slightest misstep could mean eternal doom."

Zhuo Yifan knew Wan Lifeng feared he might be glossing over details and wanted a clear answer. "Before the operation, the guides will come to rendezvous with us."

"The Shorthairs' so-called police are coming tomorrow to register our households. Should we make any preparations?" Wan Lifeng asked. "How much should we bribe them?"

"Nothing at all," Zhuo Yifan replied. "The Seventh Lord says that here among the Shorthairs, everything is handled strictly by the book. Offering money would only arouse suspicion. Simply answer whatever questions they ask without resistance. Make sure all weapons and equipment are well hidden. The Shorthairs won't come to search, but we must guard against any slips."

"Understood."

"The household registration is only the first matter." Zhuo Yifan continued patiently. "Afterward, we must go view houses—and also exchange the silver remitted through Delong for Shorthair paper currency. Though all this is unnecessary for our true purpose, if we fail to do it, the Shorthairs will grow suspicious. Uncle Wan, you must take it seriously."

Wan Lifeng nodded, then smiled wryly. "The houses are one thing, but as for the exchange—I can't help feeling it's a waste. Several thousand taels of gleaming silver, turned into a pile of paper slips! When we return to the Great Ming, they'll be useless…"

Zhuo Yifan laughed as well. "Why lament? This is a very lucrative undertaking. The Stone Elder has already spent so much silver—what's a few thousand more?"

Wan Lifeng shook his head. "What puzzles me is who this Stone Elder truly is—spending such fortunes to move against the Shorthairs. The Shorthairs, after all, are notoriously difficult to deal with…"

(End of Chapter)