HLnovel Chapter 270 The Shocking Change at the Wei River: The Mystery of the Silver Swapping
Chapter 270 The Shocking Change at the Wei River: The Mystery of the Silver Swapping
In the Jokhang Temple square, four towering pagodas stand like loyal guardians, adorned with prayer flags. When the wind blows, the prayer flags flutter and rustle, accompanied by the chanting of ancient scriptures.
Here, crowds throng, devout believers prostrate themselves every three steps, chanting prayers, their eyes filled with unwavering faith; tourists from all over the world also wander among them, curiously experiencing everything around them... The blazing sun shines unreservedly on this snowy plateau, washing away every speck of dust from the world and soothing every restless heart...
There are also overt and covert conflicts on the pilgrimage route. This square and Barkhor Street, which are solemn because of piety, also harbor hidden dangers because of human nature...
Here are long-distance pilgrims, carrying meager packs, setting off from thousands of miles away, enduring wind and rain, their robes covered in dust and mud, their journeys lasting months or even years, long since exhausting them... As night falls, when they collapse wearily by the roadside to rest, the trio of thieves quietly approach... The leader, Celery, with his sharp eyes, locks onto the savings wrapped in a rough burlap sack at an old man's waist. He skillfully opens the sack, while Leek and Cabbage stand guard on either side, giving a signal at the slightest movement. In a few breaths, the valuables are in the thieves' hands.
Pilgrims making short pilgrimages circled the temples and sacred mountains, the crowds dense and shoulder to shoulder. Thieves mingled among them, nimbly weaving through the gaps in the crowd during moments of prostration. As the pilgrims rose and reached the marked areas, these thieves had already reached into their bags, quickly stealing wallets, phones, and other valuables with ghostly speed. By the time the pilgrims noticed, the thieves had vanished into the sea of people.
The worshippers, focused on their immediate surroundings, clasped their hands together and repeatedly performed the full-body prostration, their awareness of the outside world gradually diminishing. The trio of thieves split up. Bai Cai, posing as a pilgrim, slowly approached an elderly woman with white hair. In the instant she bent down, the scissors in her fingers flashed like lightning towards the pure gold amulet hanging around her neck. With a gentle tug, the precious item was snatched away. The old woman remained oblivious, still immersed in her devout worship, while the thieves, having succeeded, blended into the crowd and continued their search for their next target…
Back in the Zhenguan era, the golden roof of the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, Tibet, shone brightly under the same sun. The gilded prayer flags lining the streets fluttered in the wind, carrying the sound of chanting towards the clouds.
The carved blue bricks of the Kagyu temple are inscribed with the legend of Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava) subduing demons and monsters. However, amidst the rising and falling sounds of prostration in the prayer wheel corridor, three pairs of thieves' eyes are darting among the pilgrims.
“That Han man’s belt is inlaid with Hetian jade.” Celery, one of the bandits, brushed his right hand against the specially made short blade at his waist. The three mingled among the believers who prostrated themselves every three steps. The hem of Cabbage’s robe brushed against the copper plate for offering butter lamps, deliberately letting oil splatter onto the mottled murals.
A thousand miles away in Chang'an, Zhuque Avenue was bustling with traffic. Just after the morning drum had sounded, Du Laozao was already standing with his hands behind his back at the entrance to the West Market. This Jinwu Guard anti-theft squad leader was over fifty years old, his blue cloth shirt starched and perfectly crisp.
These past few days, however, he's been appearing in the streets near the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, Tibet, the sandalwood prayer beads hanging from his right ear swaying gently with his breath. Suddenly, his nostrils flared slightly, and a muffled sneeze, like thunder, rumbled from his throat—"Achoo!"
In the northwest corner of the market, three furtive figures seemed unconcerned. However, at that moment, Old Du suddenly flicked three ebony nails from his sleeve, which pierced the blue bricks at the thieves' feet, startling them into a panic. Before the onlookers could even see what was happening, the three thieves were already handcuffed and pinned to the threshold of the tavern.
"Master! What's the secret to identifying thieves by sneezing?" Niwan Zi caught up with him, carrying freshly made tsampa with ghee. In the rough earthenware bowl, dark brown barley flour and melted ghee were stirred together to create an enticing sheen. The bits of milk curd sprinkled on the surface trembled gently as he ran, and a rich aroma of milk mixed with the smoky scent of roasted grass ash wafted over.
Old Du tapped the rim of the boy's purple bowl with the Soul-Chasing Nail, picked up a bit of tsampa and put it in his mouth, and said with a muffled smile, "Once you've thoroughly experienced the atmosphere of the 108 wards of Chang'an, you'll have attained enlightenment."
After that, Niwanzi spent his days in the East Market acrobatic theater and the West Market taverns. He learned from his master, Du Laozhao, to immerse himself in the noisy crowd and distinguish the smell of money in sweat and the panic under the makeup... When he was finally able to smell the thieves through the crowd, he found that the name "Niwanzi the Killer" had spread among the thieves in Chang'an. Those habitual thieves were even more cunning than Jerry the Mouse when they saw him.
That day, the canal wharf was teeming with people. Niwanzi stared at the passengers crowded around the ship's railing and suddenly let out a wolf-like scream. The panicked crowd all looked at him, but a few men in gray still stared intently at the bundle in the woman's arms. They took out their faded tools and were about to strike when their clothes were grabbed tightly—it was a child with pigtails.
"Uncle, your purse has a hole in it," the child said in a clear voice, clutching the purse that the thief had just thrown away, now cut open.
Looking into the child's clear eyes, Niwan Zi realized for the first time: the way to catch thieves is not just about listening.
Five years later, on the Lantern Festival, Zhuque Street was adorned with thousands of palace lanterns. Cong Xiaoye, Niwan Zi's apprentice, stood before the decorated tower and suddenly smashed the Hu Ji wine cup in his hand into the air. As the wine spilled, two dark figures sprang up from the crowd. The young man lightly touched the ground with his toes, and the soft sword at his waist transformed into a silver dragon as it was drawn from its sheath.
"Watch out for the slicked-back egg!" Niwan Zi's warning came a fraction too late. In the commotion, an egg someone had dropped had rolled right to his feet. With a sharp "smack," the renowned constable tumbled to the ground, watching his apprentice chase after the thief, both amused and exasperated, as he pounded his numb knee. A street vendor, seeing this, chuckled and offered him a bamboo stool: "Constable Du, someone's finally made up for the fall you took back then!"
The morning mist at the Wei River wharf had not yet dissipated when the grain transport boats from Yizhou arrived at the shore. As the gunwales creaked, two merchants dressed very differently stepped ashore on the gangplank—the man in the gray cloth shirt carried a heavy rattan chest, the bamboo tally at his waist jingling with each step; the young man in the blue silk round-necked robe waved a gold-flecked folding fan, but his brocade boots were covered in mud, making him look like a wealthy young master deliberately dressed up.
"The magistrate of Chang'an is cracking down on private merchants again!" Bai Cai, pinching her willow-leaf eyebrows, shouted in a shrill voice as she squeezed through the crowd at the tea stalls. Before she finished speaking, the vendors selling sesame cakes and Persian carpets scattered like birds, some pushing wheelbarrows, others carrying bamboo baskets, scrambling into the depths of the alleys. The two merchants exchanged a glance and had no choice but to turn into the winding Yongchongfang alley.
In the alley with its blue tiles and white walls, a sharp "crash" was suddenly heard. A pot of blooming pomegranate flowers fell from the second floor, hitting a stone mortar on the corner of the street square. The splashing mud mixed with petals drenched the two men. The man hurriedly protected his wicker basket, while the young man, clumsy, jumped up and down cursing. They saw only the tinkling of the copper bells on the eaves, and no sign of the person who threw the object.
Turning the corner of the alley, a silk shop embroidered with lotus patterns came into view. The man stepped inside, while the young man browsed among the brocade fabrics, finally choosing a slightly worn brown shirt and carrying his rattan trunk into a side room. By the time the two stepped out of the shop again, dusk had already fallen on the alley walls.
The sound of hooves thundered as three black horses galloped down Suzaku Avenue. The lead knight wore a veiled hat, his black cloak fluttering in the wind, and his scimitar flashed coldly as he drew it.
Before the young man could react, a sharp blade was pressed against his neck, and a gilded scabbard was held against his waist, causing him to groan in pain. Seeing this, the man grabbed his rattan box, turned, and ran through the half-open gate, heading straight for the East Market.
Just as the market drum in the East Market finished its third strike at dusk, the man, panting heavily, lifted the rattan trunk—there was no longer a single ounce of gold inside, only a few neatly bundled bundles of cheap Shu brocade, the edges still wrapped with fragments of stones and tiles…
He stood frozen beneath the plaque reading "Persian Residence," gazing at the setting sun, the young man's cries for help as he was dragged away still echoing in his ears, veins throbbing on his forehead...