NOVEL WEB Chapter 271: The Underworld Stirs
The city did not sleep that night.
Not because the bells tolled or the streets had been stirred awake by soldiers, but because fear had a scent—and men like Yao Luo were the first to catch it.
He sat in a backroom of a teahouse that pretended not to serve wine, silk sleeves loose, a fan half-opened in his hand though no one believed the gesture anymore.
His informants bled into the room one by one: gamblers smelling of smoke, courtesans with rouge still wet on their lips, boys who played dice and never lost unless he told them to.
The first whisper came from the riverfront. A eunuch had run through the streets like a man chased by his own shadow. Too frantic to hide. Too desperate not to be noticed.
The second came from a gambling den near the south gate. A drunk guard had spat words into his wine about "the young lord" and how "the palace would tear itself apart before morning."
And the third—well, that was the one that made Yao Luo put aside the fan entirely.
A child. Missing. A boy they called The Young Lord. The adoptive son of the Crown Prince and Princess—no, of the Emperor and Empress now. Her son. The boy she had allowed close enough to breathe her air, close enough to call her mother.
For a heartbeat, Yao Luo's breath stilled. Then he smiled.
It was not the smile that charmed the silk-robed clients of his gambling houses, nor the one that disarmed men into thinking him frivolous. It was the smile of a fox that had scented blood.
"Find him," he said, his voice soft, and the room shifted. No one asked who. No one dared. They knew when Yan Luo spoke in that tone, the city itself would obey.
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By midnight, the entire underworld was awake.
Smugglers at the wharf were told to count every boat twice. Brothel keepers turned their painted girls into spies, each whisper carried back to him on trembling feet. Even the beggars who slept beneath bridges were ordered to keep their eyes open, the promise of bread heavy enough to hold them upright through the night.
Yao Luo himself did not sit idle.
He moved through his city without fan or mask, the lantern light catching the edge of his jaw as he walked into a gambling hall with no announcement.
Men scrambled to bow, their dice scattering across the floor, but he ignored them all. His gaze found the one face he sought—a servant who had once scrubbed chamber pots in a palace courtyard before slipping into the gutters of Daiyu with the refugees.
Dragged into a cellar by two of Yao Luo's men, the servant stank of fear before Yao Luo had even spoken.
"You went through a hole in the wall," Yao Luo said, calm, conversational, as if they were discussing weather. He leaned against the table, fingers tapping once against the wood. "A dog hole. Old enough that only someone desperate would think to use it. Now, tell me I'm wrong."
The servant's eyes widened. He swallowed, throat bobbing like a fish on a hook. "I—I don't know what you—"
The first strike of Yao Luo's hand broke two of the man's teeth. The servant coughed blood, eyes rolling, but Yao Luo did not raise his voice.
"I am not the Empress," he said, crouching so their faces were level. His words were silk laid over steel. "She would make it quick. She would make it final. I am Yan Luo, The King of Hell. I don't mind taking my time and enjoying the process."
The servant whimpered. Yao Luo's men held him steady as the fox plucked a slender knife from his sleeve, turning it over in his fingers as though he were considering what kind of cut he preferred.
"You know what I care about?" he asked, voice quiet. The blade traced a slow line along the servant's cheek, pressing just hard enough for blood to bloom. "That boy's laughter. That boy's smile. And the way she looked at him as if the world could finally give her something worth keeping. You took that. So now you will give me everything else."
The torture was not loud. It never was with Yao Luo. Pain did not need noise to be felt. By the time the man broke, his body was trembling so violently he could barely hold himself upright.
"He's—" the words choked out of him, wet with blood. "The prince—he's gone. Out. Through the wall. I took him." His eyes flicked upward, wild. "Baiguang's blood for Baiguang's blood. The witch slaughtered my country. I wanted her to feel it. I wanted her to scream."
Yao Luo's expression did not change. He tilted his head slightly, like a scholar considering a poor answer to a question.
"And where is he now?"
The servant laughed, high and broken. And then, before Yao Luo could stop him, he bit down hard on his own tongue. The snap of flesh tearing filled the cellar, blood gushing down his chin. His eyes rolled back, his body convulsing as he choked on himself.
Yao Luo rose to his feet slowly. The knife in his hand dripped crimson. His men looked to him, waiting for an order. The servant twitched once, twice, and then stilled—slumped in the chair, nothing more than ruined meat.
Yao Luo wiped the blade clean on the man's tunic. His face was unreadable. Only his eyes gleamed in the lantern's light.
"Burn him," he ordered softly. "Scatter the ashes where no one will bother to look. He's not worth a grave."
The men obeyed immediately.
Yao Luo stepped out into the cold night, the streets slick with mist. His city stirred restlessly around him, whispers darting like rats between alleys. He could almost feel her fury bleeding through the palace walls, the Empress who would not sleep until her son was found.
He tilted his face upward, breathing in the smoke and damp, and allowed himself a single vow, spoken into the empty air.
"No one takes what is hers," he murmured. "Not while I breathe."
And with that, Yan Luo vanished into the night, his network already spreading wider, hungrier, sharper.
Because if the palace hunted like soldiers, the underworld hunted like wolves.
And wolves always fed.