Siheyuan came through and sent Jia Zhang to prison

"No! I didn't say anything!" Jiang Hu waved his hands frantically, his hands trembling violently from the force. He was practically swearing an oath. "After I was captured, I haven't seen a single living creature except for the walls of this dilapidated temple. Who could I tell? Don't worry! As long as you get me out of here quickly, I will never reveal a single word about what I have or what I know to a third person! I, Jiang Hu, keep my word!"

As he spoke, he subconsciously touched his pocket. The little notebook containing the core secrets was wrapped in layers of oiled paper and hidden in his inner pocket; even through the fabric, he could feel the hard, brittle edges. As long as he had it, he had the confidence and the leverage to negotiate with those people.

After listening, the beggar simply nodded blankly, neither saying he believed nor disbelieved, and just squatted there, like a lifeless clay statue, motionless.

Jiang Hu's initial elation slowly cooled, as if doused with cold water, replaced by an increasingly intense unease. Looking at the beggar's unresponsive face, his anxiety grew like wildfire, and he couldn't help but ask, "Then...when are they coming to rescue me? Give me a straight answer! This wretched place is no place for a human to stay; if I stay any longer, I'll go crazy!"

The beggar remained silent, only slowly pulling something from his pocket. In the snow's glow, it was a hard, dry cornbread, frozen solid like a stone, with a speck of dust on it. He handed it to Jiang Hu, his movements as stiff as a puppet.

Jiang Hu had no appetite for this. He shoved the cornbread aside, and it fell to the ground with a thud, rolled twice, and came to rest next to the haystack. "I don't want this!" he growled, his voice filled with suppressed anger. "Go back and tell them that I, Jiang Hu, am not an unrighteous person, and I know the rules! But my family... how are my family? They haven't been implicated, have they?"

"My family is safe and sound, and someone is taking care of them," the beggar finally spoke again, his voice still hoarse as if squeezed from his throat.

Hearing this, Jiang Hu felt a slight sense of relief. His family was alright; that was his last concern. But then he thought about how he was still trapped in this dilapidated temple, which could collapse at any moment, and it was uncertain whether he would even survive until tomorrow. That small sense of relief was replaced by deeper anxiety. Seeing the beggar stand up to leave, he hurriedly called out, "Wait!"

The beggar stopped and slowly turned around; his eyes shone frighteningly bright in the darkness.

Jiang Hu gritted his teeth, steeled his resolve, and his voice carried a barely perceptible threat, as if he had been forced to the edge of a cliff: "Go back and make it clear to them that I, Jiang Hu, can handle things, but there are times when I can't. Give me a definite answer, at most three days. If no one comes within three days, then... I don't even know what I'll say then."

He deliberately emphasized the last few words, his eyes revealing a desperate resolve. He knew these words were risky, and could easily enrage those people, but he had no other choice—he had to force them to act, even if there was only a sliver of hope.

The beggar stared at him intently for a long time, his eyes seemingly able to see through people's hearts. After a while, he slowly nodded, without saying another word, turned and strode away, his figure quickly disappearing into the wind and snow outside the temple gate. The creaking wooden door of the dilapidated temple swayed back and forth in the wind, the cold air it brought in scraping against his face like a knife, making Jiang Hu shiver.

He huddled back into the haystack, curling himself into a ball, clutching the oil paper package tightly to his chest, his fingertips almost digging into the fabric. The wind and snow outside seemed to intensify; the walls of the dilapidated temple creaked and groaned in the cold wind, as if they might collapse at any moment and bury him completely. Jiang Hu closed his eyes, his mind a jumbled mess—would those people believe him? Would they come to rescue him? Or had they already wanted to silence him forever, and this trip was merely to probe his defenses?

Sunlight streamed through the holes in the roof, illuminating his face and revealing a complex expression of fear and struggle. This long night was destined to be sleepless.

The air in the cell was like a damp, musty rag, thick and suffocating. The straw piled in the corner was blackened and moldy, a mixture of urine and sweat emitting a pungent, sour smell. The beggar, huddled on the straw, was dressed in tattered clothes, their original colors unrecognizable. Beneath the filthy rags, his thin, hunched body looked as if a gust of wind could topple him. His cloudy eyes were half-closed, like two pools of stagnant, gray water, yet they were fixed precisely on Jiang Hu, and he didn't look away for a long time.

“Director Jiang is right,” he finally spoke, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded all night, each word sharp and jagged, “There are indeed people outside working hard for you. But you must remember, if you dare to let out even a single word that shouldn’t be said, then…” He paused, a hissing sound like a snake flicking its tongue coming from his throat, “Don’t blame the people outside for abandoning you.”

Jiang Hu leaned against the cold stone wall, the dampness seeping from the cracks seeping into his bones through his thin prison uniform. His clothes were stained with large patches of mud from his struggles when he was captured, and the marks of cold sweat from the night before. In just a few days, his once smooth face was haggard, his eyes dark and swollen, his stubble growing wildly. Hearing the beggar's words, he nodded frantically, his eyes pleading, his voice weak: "Don't worry, I know the rules, I absolutely, absolutely won't say anything wrong. I just beg them... to find a way to get me out as soon as possible." Every second he spent in this dark, dreary cell was torture—the patrolling footsteps outside the iron bars, the coughs from the next cell, the rustling of rats in the corner—each sound was like a whip lashing at his heart. His only hope now lay with those "all-powerful" people outside.

After listening, the beggar didn't reply, but lowered his head even further, his chin almost touching his chest, as if he had reverted to being the indifferent homeless man, even his breathing becoming weak and even. Seeing this, Jiang Hu wisely kept quiet. He knew these people always acted mysteriously, and it was already difficult enough to entrust a message to a beggar like this; asking more questions would only cause trouble. Leaning against the wall, thinking about how the people outside had managed to pull strings to get him out of the police station, his tense nerves relaxed slightly, and weariness washed over him like a tide—since being arrested, he hadn't had a good night's sleep, and now his eyelids felt as heavy as lead, his consciousness gradually fading.

In a daze, Jiang Hu felt a gaze fall on him. That gaze was not as peaceful as before; it was like an icicle in the dead of winter, chilling to the bone and carrying undisguised malice. His heart skipped a beat, as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water. He instantly woke up, abruptly opened his eyes, and met the beggar's face.