Zishi had just passed, and Zhaoyang City was shrouded in silence.
Under the cover of night, the City Lord's Mansion, spanning three square miles, had only three or four lamps still lit. Most areas were enveloped in darkness, thick enough to lose sight of one's own fingers.
At the entrance of the City Lord's Mansion, Zhao Si emerged with a jar of wine in hand and saw Wang Wu leaning against the doorpost, feigning sleep. He immediately shook his head.
"Falling asleep already, aren't you afraid someone will come and slit your throat in the middle of the night?"
"Old Zhao, can't you wish me some good fortune?"
"The little Daoist nun and monk that came today are no simpletons."
"Those two are wise, well-experienced, and wouldn't be blinded by greed over five hundred crossbows capable of shooting ten-stone bolts. I reckon, only those two fools would harbor ulterior motives."
