Chapter 8: Whispers of the Four-Square Lock
The seventh floor of the Star-Plucking Tower was serene. The Dark Hall spared no expense, coating floors and ceilings with tin whale oil to block sound, ensuring the zither melodies from below didn’t disturb those above.
The desk overflowed with dossiers. The black-haired man sat amidst a sea of jade slips, starting with the dullest Earth-grade ones, scanning them swiftly with his divine sense.
A nearby guard, noting Zong Ji’s furrowed brow, held their breath.
Lately, the devil race showed signs of stirring trouble, casting a strange tension over the northern lands. Coincidentally, the demon race, ever keen, seemed poised to follow, sensing an opportunity.
These undercurrents grew stronger after Zong Ji claimed the title of number one, shrouded in mystery. It seemed both races were plotting again.
“Contact Eternal Night Valley.”
Condensing his divine sense into a fine thread at his fingertip, Zong Ji wrote a few characters on a jade slip, handing it to a silent subordinate.
Though the Dark Hall was ambiguously aligned, labeled demonic, it was saintly compared to Eternal Night Valley, the devil race’s official organization led by six city lords.
Six city lords—quite the alluring title.
Due to business, Zong Ji often dealt with the devil race, occasionally gathering under the guise of bonding but really probing each other over drinks. Over time, he knew their quirks well—not from drunken confessions but because, as the author, he had their childhood secrets, like bedwetting ages, neatly recorded. A hint of this knowledge made them wary, never daring to slight the Dark Hall.
But it seemed the devil race needed a periodic thrashing—classic case of forgetting pain once healed.
Zong Ji snorted, diving back into the jade slips, picking out key leads and issuing orders. Under his command, the Dark Hall operated like a precise machine.
Countless directives flowed from the tower, relayed instantly via the Dark Hall’s unique channels to its members across Xuanshu. From a fallen prince sipping tunes in a palace to a beggar in a street corner, unimaginable agents launched the Hall’s biggest operation in five years.
The Dark Hall was Xuanshu’s most inclusive group. Regardless of race or origin, passing its rigorous tests and swearing oaths like “I wish for a peaceful world” and “End racial prejudice, starting with me” granted entry. Lowly devils and disreputable demons, long at the bottom of the hierarchy, flocked to join.
Zong Ji applied his nearly forgotten college management knowledge, blending it with his ideals, making the organization thrive. With millennia-ahead thinking and as the world’s creator, it was child’s play—albeit laborious.
Outside, the sun sank, Shengyang City’s floating spirit pearls glowing softly for passersby. Pale yellow lanterns hung from the tower’s eaves, casting a warm halo on red-brown beams, dreamy and regal.
As Zong Ji worked, guards dutifully lit a floating lamp. By the time he finished, rubbing his temples, the night was deep, moonlight spilling outside.
“Hall Master, your documents.”
Lifting his head, his slightly weary black hair slipped from his shoulder. His sharp phoenix eyes gleamed, golden and flawless.
The guard knelt, presenting an item overhead with reverence.
It was a yellowed paper, so fragile it seemed it might crumble.
Zong Ji’s heart stirred. With a nod, his slender hand summoned the paper to the desk.
Small, it bore three scrawled vermilion characters.
His mind reeled.
Four-Square Lock.
The words were hauntingly familiar, yet searching his Carefree memories yielded nothing about it.
But the familiarity was undeniable.
He tucked the paper into his Qiankun bag, intending to continue, but his focus waned.
“Enough.”
Sighing, he pushed the desk aside, rising and strolling to the seventh-floor balcony.
The view was unmatched—Shengyang’s highest point, dwarfing other buildings.
At night, the city buzzed. Streets teemed with lantern-carrying crowds, illuminating the city like day. Teahouses and taverns roared with laughter, storytelling, and music, while vendors in the trade district haggled on makeshift stalls.
Southern Zhongzhou’s Jiayue breeze was refreshing, softened from the icy northern mountains into a gentle caress.
On the seventh floor, stars sparkled, moonlight and breeze embracing Zong Ji, lifting his gold-edged robes in a dance.
“Fetch some Autumn Dew White.”
His mood was too complex; he needed something to unwind.
When the wine arrived, he grabbed a jar, stepped into the air, and landed atop the tower’s smooth jade tiles. Unsealing the jar, he drank deeply.
Leaning on the tower, drinking alone under the moon.
His silhouette was striking, treading the evening breeze like an immortal bound for the heavens to pluck stars. His sleeve caught moonlight, blending it into the translucent wine, flowing from the jar to his lips.
Below, a sea of lights, bustling crowds, and a vast abyss.
A white-robed swordsman, carrying a longsword, looked up, the scene etching into his cool, clear eyes.