The Seven Apertures Three Autumn Nails have a secret—a secret that, at present, only Samuel Carter knows, and likely not many will ever know in the future. If all seven nails are driven in at once, a person would die on the spot. Even someone as powerful as Samuel Carter might just barely have enough breath left to leave the imperial palace, but would probably collapse into a heap of flesh, unable to speak or move, before even reaching the palace gates.

But if one nail is driven in every three months, letting the nails slowly become part of the body, gradually adapting, then although three years later the person will still die, at least half of their internal energy will remain, and they’ll be able to speak and move like a normal person. The only catch is enduring eighteen months of excruciating, bone-gnawing pain.

It’s said that pain alone is enough to drive a person mad. But Samuel Carter thought, quite cheerfully, that this rumor was untrue—at least he hadn’t gone mad. In fact, not only was he sane, he felt he’d never been so happy and carefree in his life.

Tian Chuang, for those who request to leave, naturally keeps them under surveillance. Who left, when, where they settled, where they died—everything is meticulously recorded. It’s like a vast net: once you’re in, you can never get out.

Pity that after a lifetime of service, he still had a few trusted confidants.

Samuel Carter, once the leader of Tian Chuang handpicked by the former Emperor Rongjia, was highly skilled in martial arts and a master of disguise. Once he stepped into a crowd and turned around, no one could recognize him.

And so, the most terrifying shadow to haunt the palace simply vanished from the world, leaving behind only a down-and-out, wandering man riding a skinny horse, chewing on a blade of grass, humming off-key country tunes.

He became the first person to escape from that terrifying net.

He wore a rather crude human-skin mask, carelessly smeared to give his face a sickly, sallow look, making him seem like a dying invalid. When he looked at his reflection in the river while drinking, he thought it suited his real condition quite well, and the more he looked, the more satisfied he became. He then filched a set of coarse homespun clothes from a farmer’s house by the roadside, burned his old brocade robe, and tied a half-rusted wine flask at his waist, filled with some rough, murky wine.

He remembered that all these years, he’d been hiding in the imperial palace, never once traveling the martial world under his real name—not even needing an alias. So, cheerfully, he set off on his way.

He had nowhere in particular to go. People always said Jiangnan was beautiful, so he decided to head south and see for himself. He wandered, stopping and starting, making a living by robbing the rich to help the poor, passing through Kaifeng and Penglai, taking his time. After more than three months, he finally arrived in Jiangnan, where the grass was green and the lotuses were in bloom.

Upon arrival, he first snuck into the wine cellar of the most famous inn in the land, sampling all the osmanthus sweet wine, indulging in a drunken, dreamlike revelry, feeling that life could get no better.

After more than ten days, he drank a bit too much and was nearly discovered. He realized that, good as the wine was, it was too mild and had lost its charm. So, leaving behind a couple of taels of silver, he left the cellar.

After those ten-odd days, his appearance had grown even worse. With his sickly face and shrunken, shifty features, he looked every bit the genuine article—a man with a complexion as pale as a vegetable. His clothes, soaked in wine for over ten days, were practically pickled, his hair hung down in messy strands, and he looked just like a beggar.

So, as he sat by the roadside with his eyes closed, basking in the sun, a chubby little child skipped past him, then skipped back, looked him over, fished a copper coin from his pocket, and, not knowing where to put it, searched for a while before asking, “Uncle, where’s your bowl?”

He was immediately scooped up by his parents, leaving Samuel Carter both amused and exasperated.

So many years had passed. Old friends and loved ones were either dead or had gone far away. Samuel Carter leaned against a wall, stretching out his limbs, basking in the warm sun with a faint smile on his lips, and began to wonder—after all these years, what had it all been for?

When he was young, he always thought he was someone extraordinary, piling every compliment onto himself: supremely intelligent, sharp-witted, highly skilled in martial arts, well-traveled and knowledgeable. It was as if not achieving something great would make his life meaningless. Now, looking back, what was it all for?

And what had he gained?

He’d given up his freedom, become a shadowy servant of the royal family, and after all the twists and turns, everything he once had was gone. Now, with nothing left, all alone, he’d risked his life to buy back his freedom, and still thought himself clever.

Suddenly, a wave of sorrow washed over him. He felt that, no matter how foolish others might be, none could be more foolish than himself.

How many years had it been since he’d sat by the roadside, mind empty, just basking in the sun? How funny, he thought, that the passersby all hurried along as if rushing to their deaths, even more anxious than he, who was counting the days until his own end.

Just then, from the restaurant nearby, a young woman’s clear voice rang out: “Young master, look at that man. If he’s a beggar, why doesn’t he even have a broken bowl? But if he’s not, why has he been sitting there all morning, doing nothing but grinning like a fool? Could he be an idiot?”