Night wrapped the dew on the grass blades, washing over the napes of two figures. Pi Yanlin crouched in the wild weeds, his gaze sweeping across the mottled red paint on the temple doors—that curling, flame-like pattern was identical to the carvings on the stone walls of the Zhao Estate's cellar.
His Adam's apple bobbed, his voice as thin as a spider silk shredded by the wind: "Last month, I was writing a legal petition for a tenant of the Zhao Estate. I slipped into the back courtyard when nobody was looking, and this Red Phoenix Pattern was carved right between the brick seams of the tunnel."
Gu Qinghuan's fingertips ground a faint mark into the cord wrapped around her iron ruler, the moonlight falling into the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
She said nothing, merely nodding, the silver hairpin in her hair flashing a cold gleam in the breeze—this was the tacit understanding they had cultivated in the Xuan'an Bureau: at critical moments, fewer words meant fewer flaws.
When the two hugged the crumbling wall and vaulted into the courtyard, the peeling plaster showered down over half of Gu Qinghuan's shoulder.
She pressed her back against Pi Yanlin's, steering him into the shadow of the side hall's eaves.
The bronze bell at the corner of the hall chimed softly in the wind, mingling with the human voices drifting from the main hall like a fine needle piercing Pi Yanlin's ear.
"The matchmaker has been eliminated, the ledgers burned, and the Sun family's adopted son will take the blame."
Manager Zhang's duck voice leaked out wrapped in phlegm, causing Pi Yanlin's back molars to grind hard—he knew this voice all too well.
Three days ago during the apothecary poisoning case, he had squatted at the street corner for half an hour, and that manager had used this exact lowered tone, brimming with irrepressible smugness, when slipping silver to the clerks.
Gu Qinghuan's iron ruler had already cleared its scabbard by three inches, the cold light grazing the back of Pi Yanlin's hand.
He suddenly grabbed her wrist, pressing his other hand against his own lower dantian—the surging heat of the second tier of the Lazy Immortal Formula was rushing upward along his meridians. Once the mist before his eyes was cleared away, even the flickering candlelight inside the hall became crystal clear.
Even better was the lingering, fishy sweetness in the air, smelling of blood-soaked sandalwood, drifting past the hall toward the back of the side hall.
"Netherworld Guide." He leaned close to Gu Qinghuan's ear, his breath brushing against the tip of her ear. "I saw it at the mortuary the other day, the nether-fire used for cremations."
Gu Qinghuan's brow ridges twitched.
Back when she was in the Northern Suppression General's Estate, she had seen death squads use this substance to destroy bodies and wipe away traces—that fire burned exclusively flesh and bone, scorching even souls until they smelled of char.
The two exchanged a glance. Gu Qinghuan pointed to the old locust tree in the corner of the rear hall and gestured with a circling motion.
Pi Yanlin nodded, fishing half a broken porcelain piece from his sleeve to grip in his palm—he had picked it up while scaling the wall just now, and it could serve as a flying dart if necessary.
Wild mugwort grew to half a person's height between the blue stone slabs of the rear hall. Gu Qinghuan's soft boots crushed the grass blades, the dew soaking through the soles of her socks.
Pi Yanlin followed three steps behind her, his spiritual sense spreading out like a net. That fishy sweetness grew increasingly dense, finally lingering around the headless mud Buddha in the corner of the wall.
He pushed forward, the base of the mud Buddha emitting a soft "click," and Gu Qinghuan's iron ruler immediately pressed against his lower back—not as a defense, but as a warning to watch out for mechanisms.
The moment the corner of the yellow silk in the hidden compartment was exposed, Pi Yanlin was forced to squint against the stench of decay.
Gu Qinghuan sniffed, her iron ruler hooking the edge of the silk to unfold it. The words "Blood Pact" written in cinnabar looked like two fresh drops of blood, emitting an eerie red glow under the moonlight.
"By order of the Holy Monarch, sworn allegiance through generations, violators will have their entire clan exterminated." When Gu Qinghuan read the final line, her iron ruler almost dropped to the ground.
Her fingertips brushed over the cinnabar thumbprint on the silk, the ridges deeply embedded in the fabric. "This thumbprint... it's just like the secret letter in my father's study compartment, pressed with finger blood mixed with cinnabar."
Pi Yanlin's fingernails dug deeply into his palms.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from the front gate of the rear hall, mingled with heavy breathing—it was Manager Zhang.
"Tie him tight!" Manager Zhang's voice drew closer. "If this idiot dares to make a sound, cut out his tongue and feed it to the dogs."
Gu Qinghuan shoved the Blood Pact back into Pi Yanlin's arms with a backhanded motion and slipped behind the mud Buddha.
Pi Yanlin crouched against the base of the wall, peering through the crack in the broken window—Manager Zhang was dressed in moon-white short garments with the apothecary's bronze lock hanging from his waist, followed by four masked men. In the very center, being pushed along, a pair of blue-grey trouser legs peeked out from beneath a cloth covering.
"I can't talk... if I talk, you'll all die..." That person spoke abruptly, his voice as hoarse as a broken bellows. "What the Holy Monarch wants is the Karmic Record... he wants to alter fates..."
Pi Yanlin's pupils contracted sharply.
He had heard this voice at the gambling den murder scene—that night, squatting at the street corner writing a legal petition, he had witnessed with his own eyes the dealer Wang Er being hauled away by three men in black. To this day, Wang Er still had the gambling den's red cord tied around his wrist, stained with brownish-black blood.
"Wang Er?" Pi Yanlin murmured softly, his Adam's apple moving.
Gu Qinghuan poked half her face out from behind the mud Buddha, her gaze sweeping over Wang Er before instantly withdrawing—she was waiting, waiting for Manager Zhang to reveal an opening.
With his back to the broken window, Manager Zhang was pulling out a fire starter to light a candle.
The candlelight made the fat on his face shine. When he turned around, the bronze lock at his waist struck the blue bricks with a "clang."
Pi Yanlin's fingers rubbed against the Blood Pact, and the wisp of fishy sweetness from the Netherworld Guide within his spiritual sense suddenly turned blazing hot.
He stared at Manager Zhang's nape—there was a dark red birthmark there, resembling an unopened Red Phoenix.
The wind carrying the scent of wild mugwort poured into the rear hall, and Pi Yanlin heard his own heart drumming like a drum.
He touched the bronze whistle inside his tunic, then felt the piece of broken porcelain in his sleeve.
Gu Qinghuan's iron ruler gleamed coldly behind the mud Buddha, reflecting her tightly pressed lips.
Manager Zhang's hand had already pressed down on Wang Er's nape, the candlelight stretching his shadow long like a monstrous bird spreading its wings.
Pi Yanlin took a deep breath, his muscles tensing like a drawn bowstring.
His gaze locked onto the exact moment Manager Zhang turned around—
The opportunity was about to arrive.