Jared nodded once, gaze settling on the token and slip. The confidence in his voice felt almost casual. “They will find no trace. The next move is Quentin…”
“Quentin?” The single name escaped Lyza before she could stop it, tight with instinctive dread. “He… He isn’t like the Turners, Senior… He serves as Grand Chamberlain inside the city lord mansion, buried at the heart of every barrier…”
“His cultivation already stands at High Immortal Realm Level Five, and he weaves formations and wards the way others breathe. Suspicious, shrewd, there will be no opening for the same approach.”
Jared lifted a hand, cutting her protest short. “Precisely because he understands formations, he may also know what Jade Immortal Manor and those celestials are hiding. Sidney’s real cause of death might be locked in his head. Capturing him, and prying out the truth, matters more than killing him.”
Capture?
The word ricocheted around the chamber, as if even the stone walls doubted they had heard correctly. Lyza felt every gaze swing toward her and back to Jared. To steal the Grand Chamberlain from the manor’s core? The thought alone pricked sweat along her spine. The difficulty towered over assassination like a cliff over a ditch; if killing an executioner had been bold, this was lunacy squared and set ablaze.
“Mr. Chance…” the older tactician began, his voice low and thick with caution. “This matter is no small affair. We should plan at length before we move.”
Luther pressed the point before the silence could settle. “Quentin’s routines, the places he favors, every guard who breathes near him… We have to map them in detail… And once we strike, success or failure will roar through Jade Immortal Manor. Even Julian will feel the shock, maybe the celestials themselves.”
Jared knew all of that; the risks sat in his chest like cold iron filings. Yet anger kept sparking against the metal, refusing to cool. Every stolen moment meant the souls of that senior couple remained twisting inside the Soul-Refining Grand Array, and it was only a matter of time before someone realized the Turner brothers had not died by accident.
He turned to Lyza, the calculation already hardening behind his eyes. “You have worked this ground for years. I need the window, within the next three days, when Quentin is likeliest to step outside the core of the city lord mansion. Time, place, usual guard detail. Nothing vague.”
Lyza’s mouth tightened; Jared could see the argument rise and die behind her lashes. His earlier display of power had carved a sliver of hope even into her caution. She drew a slow breath before speaking.
“Quentin is painfully careful,” she said. “Except for official duties, he rarely leaves the inner court… But every fifth night, at the stroke of midnight, he walks alone to the Spirit-Nurturing Pool on the border between inner and outer courts and cultivates for one hour… We lost a brother to uncover that secret. The next session is tomorrow night.”
Jared’s gaze flickered. “Spirit-Nurturing Pool? Where exactly is it, and what kind of watch does he keep?”
“It’s buried deep inside the Hundred Blossom Garden, off every main path, and wrapped in a formation… Each visit he brings only two bodyguards, High Immortal Realm Level Four, sworn to die for him…” Lyza informed him. “While he cultivates, they stand outside the array at the rim of the pool… It’s the sole pattern we have ever found. Even so, the pool sits inside the inner court; one ripple and half the manor will descend in breaths.”
Tomorrow night… Spirit-Nurturing Pool…
The words circled like a blade on a whetstone. Opportunity, yes, yet every variable would belong to Quentin. Jared forced the tremor out of his breathing. A familiar equation filled his mind: danger multiplied by delay equaled suffering. “Does he have any other fault lines? Family, vices, grudges with Julian or rival factions, anything we can pry at?”
The question spilled out sharper than he intended; he needed a psychological seam, something softer than steel.
“Julian lifted him from obscurity, and Quentin worships the hand that fed him. No spouse, no children. He is shamelessly greedy and obsessed with power; that’s why the pool calls to him… But allies are another matter. He runs the manor’s coffers like a tyrant, so the outer-court Elder Enforcers would toast his downfall, though we don’t know the depths of their quarrels.”
Quentin’s greed, his tunnel-vision on cultivation—those flaws hung in Jared’s thoughts like hooks, tugging at every scrap of strategy he owned. Ideas ricocheted through his head, fast enough to leave sparks behind. Maybe he did not have to choose one approach. Maybe he could squeeze him from two angles at once.
“Ms. Lyza, could you slip word to Quentin that the Turner brothers are dead, and hint it might be payback? Do it in a way that never points back to you,” Jared said, each word laid down like a chess piece. “Make the message itch. Let him suspect someone inside the manor has started a private war.”
Lyza’s eyes caught the torchlight. “You want his nerves frayed, so he acts rashly, or at least doubles the guard around whatever he trusts most.”
Jared’s gaze darkened. “He’ll run to check on the Soul-Refining Crystal. He can’t help himself.”
The room went still, everyone’s pulse ticking louder than the lanterns. The Soul-Refining Crystal, heart of the entire Soulfall Slope array, was not a name they spoke lightly.
Luther exhaled. “If his paranoia drags him to the vault personally, that’s our window, isn’t it?”
Jared’s voice cooled. “A makeshift storage room, with fewer loyal guards, is a kinder place to hold a conversation than his sanctum ever will be.”
A chill slid up Lyza’s spine. Strength was one thing, but the man’s patience and precision were another beast entirely. He was baiting a serpent toward its own exposed heart.
“Understood…” she said. Lyza bowed slightly. “We’ll leak the tale through a few unreliable mouths and let rumor do the work. Whether his suspicion bites is up to his nature.”
Jared nodded toward Luther. “Help her… Monkey, Panther, watch the manor’s outer ring, especially any place they stash high-value goods. I want every odd twitch Quentin makes tomorrow on my desk.”
“Yes, sir!” The answer came as one voice; somewhere along the way, they had started following him without question.
