When the night was at its deepest, Lord Jingyuan lay wide awake, his eyes dazedly watching the sliver of moonlight illuminating the scabs on his hands through the narrow opening of the coffin lid.
The growling in his stomach didn't stop, but the primal instinct to claw and hunt dulled to a blunt ache. He couldn't fathom why the man hadn't yet sealed the coffin, letting the breath of rot mingle with the living.
Pity or reckless bravery? he wondered.
His Majesty's command had been absolute: "Better not to water the weed lest it choke the crop." But here he was, nurturing the weed that would only outgrow the crop and occupy the field it stands.
If the news reached the court, the man's head would be under the guillotine.
Jingyuan frowned at the possibility.
The stillness of the ruin was suddenly shattered by the faint scuff of leather against stone, reaching Jingyuan's ears. His eyes narrowed into predatory slits. With a glance at the ceiling, he knew they were in the dilapidated temple at the border of Jinhe. With a plague as cargo, the officials of Jinhe might have offered this temple for the man to rest—a place of rot reserved for a man of rot.
It was a calculated isolation. This place had long been abandoned by the people, and no living soul would wander near; thus, the intrusion suggested a planned hunt rather than a stray wanderer's presence.
A dark fire lingered in his eyes, his muscles coiling within the narrow confines of the casket.
His lips quirked into a sly, deathly smirk. Slowly, he raised his pale, rot-marred hand and let it dangle over the coffin's edge.
He closed his eyes and waited patiently, the smile on his lips never wavering.
Five silhouettes clad in black entered the ruins. Their faces were completely masked, leaving only their eyes to scan the surroundings.
The leader, a man with a bulky frame, stepped forward, his gaze drifting from the sleeping Yase to the unsealed coffin placed on the altar.
"Daring to disobey His Majesty's order" his deathly glare fell on the sleeping figure.
His fellow lackeys behind him shuddered. The rotting skin and sheen covering the scabs on the hand dangling outside the wood were enough to stop them from approaching the unholy coffin on the altar.
They didn't know why they had to eliminate Lord Yue. The imperial decree had already sealed him in a coffin and ordered him to be carried far away from the living—which was good, considering the contagious nature of the plague.
"Do we really have to do that? There is a possibility the gravekeeper has already caught the plague from the Lord. What if we get the disease too?" one of the black-clothed figures asked worriedly.
Much to his disappointment, his boss didn't utter a word. Instead, his constant glare fixed on the sleeping gravekeeper, the gaze turning more suspicious with every passing second.
Yase, exhausted from the tiring journey, slept peacefully, leaning against the broken pillar of the old temple. The liquor gourd in his hand had long been emptied and now lay abandoned by his side. His head drooped low, his chest rising and falling slowly with each alcoholic breath.
"Boss…"
"Shut up! Do what you are instructed. It's not your place to utter nonsense," the leader hissed and approached the coffin on the altar.
The lackeys obediently nodded at their leader, all the while trying to hold their breath lest they be coffined after the Lord.
The group of five men approached the altar, their steps light on the ground.
A startled gasp left one of the men's mouths, which was immediately silenced by a fellow assassin who quickly slapped his hand over it. The leader turned around to glare at his men, signaling them to be quiet.
But the leader knew his men couldn't be blamed.
Because it was a terrible sight!
One look at Lord Yue in the coffin—even as someone who had come to kill him, couldn't help but feel pity for the man inside.
But the look vanished in a second, as the leader quickly shook his head, remembering the purpose he came for. The sharp edge of the knife glinted under the moonlight as he raised it in the air, aiming for the Lord's chest.
The tip of the pointed knife tore through the air as it descended, the hand holding it showing no mercy. Inches away from Lord Yue's chest, the hand was swiftly caught by another pale one.
The grip was so strong that even a man like him couldn't help but swallow the scream trying to escape his mouth. Inside the coffin, Lord Yue's eyes snapped open, looking at the people dressed in black.
Fear rooted itself in the assassins' hearts. Those eyes staring at them were not sickly…but deathly. Their bodies froze to the ground as they felt like sinners before the judging eyes of King Yama.
Lord Yue smiled, his lips curling into a smile that was anything but kind.
"Not afraid of touching the rot, I see," his voice carried a note of amusement.