Quinn Shepherd heard the news and frowned slightly, glancing at the Imperial Preceptor beside him. The Preceptor’s face showed sorrow. “I ought to go pay my respects at the Prince of the North’s manor.”
Quinn asked in a low voice, "Preceptor, why did the Prince of the North rebel?"
"He did not rebel against the emperor, but against me—for the sake of his Ling clan’s rule."
The Imperial Preceptor spoke softly, "My power grew too great, and it unsettled him—he feared I would overthrow the Ling family. You were right; I should start a family. One must uphold heavenly principle, but human desires matter too."
Quinn’s expression turned odd.
The idea of someone like the Imperial Preceptor settling down and starting a family felt a bit absurd—yet it seemed that was exactly what was about to happen.
“I should return home first and change into mourning clothes. The Prince of the North served the nation well. Though he disagreed with my methods, he was a man worthy of respect—I must pay my respects.”
The Imperial Preceptor parted from him, saying, “Now that we’re in the capital, you needn’t worry about my injuries.”
Quinn nodded. The Preceptor had once been gravely wounded in a sneak attack, but those wounds had long since healed, which meant he must have another divine physician at his side. Now that they were back in the capital, Quinn’s help was no longer needed.
The Imperial Preceptor returned to his manor. Suddenly, a sense of caution struck him; instead of entering through the main gate, he leapt directly inside. Looking around, he saw all the seals and wards in place.
Still on guard, he called out in a low voice, “Steward Foster? Warren?”
No answer came. The manor was eerily silent.
The Preceptor walked further inside. When he reached the main hall, he saw several servants and guards bound tightly together, stacked like logs.
The Preceptor frowned, then spotted Warren Foyne—the Poison Prince—stripped naked, trussed up and hanging from the ceiling. His tongue was pulled out, tied to a golden cord, with a heavy iron weight dangling beneath. Who knew how much it weighed.
The Preceptor’s frown deepened. With a flicker of sword-light at his fingertips, he sliced through the golden cord and the ropes binding Warren. Warren crashed to the floor, hard. Only then did the Preceptor realize Warren’s cultivation had been sealed—even his divine treasury was locked, leaving him powerless.
The Preceptor undid Warren’s seals, then released the servants and guards as well. His face grew stern. “What happened here?”
"I don’t know."
Warren shook his head, ashamed. “I didn’t see anything—just got sealed up, then strung up. I didn’t see who did it. My tongue was yanked out and tied to that iron weight; I couldn’t even call for help!”
“Master, is our manor haunted?”
The other servants looked terrified as well. “I didn’t see anything either—just got stacked up and couldn’t move!”
"Haunted?"
The Imperial Preceptor shook his head. “Not a ghost. It’s just that the intruder was so fast, none of you could see him. I know who it was—he broke in while I was away to reclaim his leg. If I’m not mistaken, our treasure vault should be empty by now.”
He led the others to the vault. The seal on the vault door was still intact, untouched.
Warren Foyne let out a sigh of relief and laughed, “Preceptor, you were mistaken. The seal’s still there—clearly the thief couldn’t break it, so nothing in the vault was touched.”
The Imperial Preceptor sighed. “Phantom without form, stealing heaven and earth—why bother breaking the seal? He can pass straight through without touching it. The vault really is empty.”
No one believed him.
The Preceptor broke the seal and pushed open the door. The room that once held countless treasures was now bare, cleaned out completely.
On the wall facing the door, there should have been a painting—a Sword-God with a sword on his back, painted by the Heavenly Diagram Crown Prince. But the painting was gone.
In its place was a crooked, hideous scrawl: "Preceptor, I took my leg back, and I’ve gladly accepted your treasures. Your servants—I looked after them well, don’t worry. Oh, and your bed—I slept in it, and after I woke up, I left a pile of poop on it. I brewed a fragrant pot of tea in your study too. Our debts are settled—no need to thank me!"
The Preceptor’s face darkened. He rushed to the bedroom, threw back the covers, and a wave of stench hit him. He quickly covered his nose and waved, "Steward Foster, toss it out—now!"
Steward Foster hurried to wrap up the bedding and mattress, but the whole bed still reeked. "Master, should I throw out the bed too?"
"Throw it out!"
The Preceptor waved and strode to the study. The room stank, and the teapot held a yellowish brew—clearly not tea.
With a sweep of his sleeve, the Preceptor sent the teapot and cups flying out the window, his face livid. “Damn it—taking back his leg is one thing, but eating, drinking, sleeping, and defiling my house? Ruining my peace! Steward Foster, prepare new tea sets and bedding.”
Steward Foster hesitated. “Master, we’re running low on money…”
The Preceptor paused, thinking aloud, “The emperor’s reward won’t arrive for a few days. My salary is paid at the start of each month—does that mean this month’s pay is gone?”
Steward Foster replied, “You took most of it on your journey, Master. The rest was used for gifts—birthdays, new children, and just a few days ago, the Empress Dowager’s birthday. I prepared gifts, but the palace thought them too shabby.”
The Preceptor groaned, “Now the Prince of the North has died, and we’ll need more gifts. Are we really out of money? Is there anything left to pawn?”
"Well…"
Steward Foster hesitated, not replying. The Preceptor looked around—though the house was large, it was almost empty, with hardly any furniture or valuables left to pawn.
He’d always believed that amusements sapped ambition, so he kept food, clothing, and daily life simple, never collecting antiques. The few things he did keep were always odd—like Crippled Joe’s divine leg or a painting by the Heavenly Diagram Crown Prince—and wouldn’t you know it, those exact strange treasures were stolen by that master thief who slipped in without a sound.
"Is it possible to get an advance on my salary?"
[Irrelevant webnovel site instruction skipped.]
Steward Foster said, "Master, are you ready to throw away your dignity?"
The Imperial Preceptor hesitated. "Could I borrow some, then?"
Steward Foster shook his head. "With the war going on, all your close friends are off fighting and not at home. Besides, you've borrowed plenty of times and never paid it back—people are starting to talk. Their masters are away, so if I go asking, who’s going to lend? Unless you go in person."
The Imperial Preceptor thought aloud, "My painting skills aren’t bad. Maybe I could sell a few paintings to raise some money."
Steward Foster asked, "Would you sign them?"
The Imperial Preceptor shook his head. "If I put my name on them, anyone buying my paintings would just be bribing me. So, no signature."
Steward Foster shook his head. "Then no one will buy your paintings."
The Imperial Preceptor was getting frustrated. "How do you know they won’t sell? I’ve collected paintings by the Heavenly Diagram Crown Prince and copied them countless times. I won’t claim I’m a painting sage, but I’m not terrible, am I?"
"Master, do you know what kind of place the capital is? Famous scholars are as common as fish in the river, but how many actually make a living off their art? Most are skin and bones from hunger. How do you think your skills stack up?"
Steward Foster said, "Your disciples could lend you money, though."
"Borrow money from my disciples? I can't bring myself to do that."
Suddenly, the Imperial Preceptor remembered Quinn and smiled. "I know who’s got money—I can borrow from him. He’s always generous; when I needed medicine, he paid for it out of his own pocket, or else my salary would’ve run dry ages ago. He’s not in the court, so borrowing from him isn’t shameful. I’ll go ask him. You all wait here."
Quinn returned to the Scholars’ Quarters at the Imperial Academy. As soon as he walked in, he caught a whiff of spirit medicine drifting from his own courtyard, making him pause in surprise.
The Scholars’ Quarters were managed by dedicated attendants. Though called attendants, each would often attend lectures in the halls, so their cultivation was actually quite strong. Some were even stronger than the scholars themselves. In the Academy’s history, plenty of attendants had mastered extraordinary arts, leaping from attendant to scholar, then rising through the ranks to become generals of renown.
With attendants guarding the Scholars’ Quarters, it was nearly impossible for outsiders to sneak in.
Quinn led the Dragon-Qilin and Lina the Spirit Fox into his courtyard, only to find piles of herbs, medicine furnaces, and cauldrons stacked everywhere.
The cauldrons and furnaces were exceptional, with intricate markings etched on their surfaces—clearly treasures, no less impressive than the loot Quinn had hauled out of the Loulan Golden Palace!
In one cauldron lay a leg; in another furnace, an arm.
Quinn stared at the leg and arm for a moment, then turned to Lina and the Dragon-Qilin. "Wait outside—and don’t let anyone in."
Lina and the Dragon-Qilin got up and left the yard. As Quinn glanced back, he saw the Dragon-Qilin squeeze through the doorframe with a loud creak. Quinn shook his head, thinking, "That guy’s been eating too well lately. At this rate, he’ll bust my door soon and I’ll have to get a new one."
He pushed open the main room’s door and saw two men, neither young nor old, sitting inside. Crippled Joe was immaculately groomed, his hair slicked back and his beard tied with a flashy golden cord, his clothes ostentatious and expensive.
Grandpa Mark sat opposite, dressed in plain blue—not nearly as flashy as Crippled Joe. One sleeve hung empty, and he looked a bit road-worn, his temples graying and his hair a little tousled.
When the two saw Quinn come in, Crippled Joe gave a guileless smile, and Grandpa Mark’s cold face softened with the hint of a smile.
"Grandpa Mark, Grandpa Cripple..."
Quinn felt a surge of emotion, his eyes going red. "Did you come to see me?"
"No," Grandpa Mark replied.
Quinn’s chest tightened. Crippled Joe grinned, "You’ve got it easier than us—why would we come see you? We picked you up off the street, you think we’d travel thousands of miles just for you? Don’t flatter yourself."
Quinn protested, "You did come to see me!"
Crippled Joe shook his head. "I’m just here for you to reattach my leg. Can you check if it’s still alive?"
"Not helping," Quinn said stubbornly.
Crippled Joe snapped, "Getting tough, are we? See, we’re not here just to see you!"
Grandpa Mark coughed and said slowly, "If you weren’t here to see him, why bring your own leg instead of going to a regular healer? Quit teasing him—look, he’s about to cry."
"I am not about to cry," Quinn retorted, stiff-necked.
"Alright, alright, stop with the red eyes. I did come to see you. I just got back from the Preceptor’s manor, stayed there a while, and picked up a few things on the way out. See that leg in the cauldron?"
The old man puffed up with pride. "My leg! I took it back from the Preceptor’s manor. He couldn’t do a thing about it—just watched as I walked off with my own leg!"
Quinn paused, then gave a guileless smile. "Grandpa Cripple, the Preceptor and I just got back from out of town. Which Preceptor was at the manor?"
Crippled Joe stared at him; Quinn stared right back, neither giving an inch. Their smiles were almost identical—so guileless you’d trust them with your life, even if they stabbed you in the back.