Pi Yanlin’s fingernails nearly dug into his palms.
As the wind outside the back hall wafted in, carrying the scent of wild mugwort, he heard the sound of his own Adam's apple bobbing. The red cord on Wang Er's wrist was still stained with brownish-black blood—the same mark he had seen with his own eyes three days ago, when he crouched in a street corner to draft a deposition following the gambling den murder.
The Holy Monarch Cult intended to alter fate; they sought the Karmic Record. These words felt like white-hot iron nails being driven into his ears.
Manager Zhang’s hand was already pressed against the back of Wang Er’s neck.
In the candlelight, that dark red birthmark looked as if it were about to come alive. Pi Yanlin suddenly recalled the "Trace-Seeking Eye" hint from his System sign-in. Staring at Manager Zhang’s rotating wrist, he saw the man’s pinky joint tremble slightly—a telltale sign that he was about to strike hard.
"Qinghuan," he whispered, his voice so strained that his rapid heartbeat almost drowned it out. "Count to three."
Gu Qinghuan gripped her iron ruler behind the mud Buddha statue, her knuckles turning white.
She could hear her own blood roaring in her ears. Pi Yanlin’s voice was like a fine needle piercing through the tension. She stared at the copper lock swinging at Manager Zhang’s waist, tracking the rhythm of his hem swaying—one, two—
When Pi Yanlin’s copper coin flew out, grazing the window frame, wood splinters embedded into the wall with a sharp *clack*.
Almost simultaneously, he pulled out a clump of hay soaked in lamp oil from his sleeve, and a blue flame flared with a *hiss* as he struck his fire starter.
The moment thick smoke billowed up, he saw Manager Zhang spin around, his fleshy face contorted in shock, while Gu Qinghuan lunged into the secret room like a night owl.
"Protect the witness!" Manager Zhang’s roar cracked with strain. Four masked men scattered instantly, two broadswords slashing toward Gu Qinghuan’s heart.
Pi Yanlin’s temples throbbed. The Trace-Seeking Eye automatically activated amidst the smoke. He perceived the force with which the man on the left pushed off his toes, the calluses on the right-hand man’s web of his thumb, and he could even count the accelerated breaths of a third man paralyzed by nerves.
"Qinghuan! To your left!"
He snatched a broken brick from the corner and hurled it at the left-hand masked man’s ankle. Taking advantage of the man’s stagger, he lunged forward, his shards of porcelain grazing the other man's wrist.
The moment fresh blood splashed onto the blue bricks, Gu Qinghuan’s iron ruler had already snapped the hemp rope binding Wang Er.
"It’s Li San!" Gu Qinghuan’s voice was laced with shock and fury.
She hauled the limp man up, and in the flickering light of the fire, she saw the gruesome old scar on his wrist—the one from the dog-fighting pits in the gambling den’s back alley. She had seen identical bite marks on the walls of the pit three months ago while investigating a case.
Li San’s pupils were as unfocused as mist, and white foam clung to the corners of his mouth; he had clearly been dosed with a soul-seducing powder.
"Go!" Pi Yanlin shoved aside a lunging masked man, the Xuan Pattern Chip in his palm burning hot.
He had obtained it after reaching a hundred days of "lying flat" sign-ins, triggering a tenfold return. The System had hinted it could be "forged into a high-level cultivator’s token." The smell of blood drifting through the smoke made his gums ache. If they didn't leave now, once Manager Zhang regained his composure, all three of them would be finished.
"The Holy Monarch Token is here!" He threw the Xuan Pattern Chip into the air.
Moonlight pierced the smoke, and the cloud patterns on the bronze surface suddenly flickered with a ghostly blue hue, mimicking the "Destiny Patterns" described in Holy Monarch Cult scriptures.
The four masked men froze in their tracks; one even dropped to one knee.
Manager Zhang’s face flickered in the firelight. Pi Yanlin saw the birthmark on his neck flush a deep, bruised purple, knowing this ruse would only hold for half a quarter-hour.
"Follow me!" He grabbed Gu Qinghuan’s wrist and hoisted Li San over his shoulder with his other hand.
The blue tiles of the back wall shimmered in the Trace-Seeking Eye. He remembered noticing a loose brick while scouting during the day. As soon as his foot touched the gap, the sharp sound of shattering porcelain erupted behind them.
Manager Zhang’s medicine bottle had smashed against the wall. The moment a cloud of green powder puffed into the air, cold sweat broke out on Pi Yanlin’s back—that was "Crane’s Red," a poison that killed on contact with blood.
By the time the trio tumbled into the back alley of Zuihua Pavilion, the horizon was already tinged with the pale light of dawn.
Li San suddenly began to convulse violently, a rattling sound gurgling in his throat.
Gu Qinghuan laid him flat on the flagstones and pressed her iron ruler against the *Dazhui* point at the base of his neck. "Wake up!"
"Sacri... sacrifice..." Li San’s eyes rolled back until only a sliver of darkness remained. "The former dynasty... royal blood... they want to open... open the Karmic Record..." Before he could finish, he collapsed into unconsciousness, black blood seeping from his lips.
Gu Qinghuan tore open his collar to reveal a fresh cinnabar mark on his chest—it was an exact match for the patterns on the Blood Pact.
Pi Yanlin leaned against the courtyard wall, gasping for air. The Xuan Pattern Chip was still clutched in his hand, thin sweat clinging to its metallic surface.
From inside Zuihua Pavilion came the *yiya* sound of a *pipa*, mixed with the soft laughter of women, clashing with the metallic stench of blood in the alley in a way that felt indescribably eerie.
He looked at Gu Qinghuan’s blood-stained sleeve, then down at the cinnabar mark on Li San’s chest. Suddenly, he remembered the System’s sign-in prompt for today: *“Available sign-in location: Zuihua Pavilion, East Room, Second Floor.”*
"Let's get him to safety first." Pi Yanlin bent down and hoisted Li San up. The moss in the cracks of the blue bricks brushed against the back of his hand, icy and piercing.
Gu Qinghuan drew her iron ruler for protection, her gaze sweeping over the vermillion-lacquered door at the end of the alley. The three gold-leafed characters for "Zuihua Pavilion" shimmered with a ghostly, artificial light in the morning sun, as if they were a facade painted on with deliberate intent.
The carved window of the second-floor private room was half-open, and the sound of strings and bamboo flutes, mingled with the scent of cosmetics, spilled out.
As Pi Yanlin laid Li San onto the velvet couch, he noticed that the bed curtains were embroidered with twin lotus flowers, the edges of the petals singed as if by intense heat.
Gu Qinghuan returned after checking the doors and windows, holding a celadon bottle. "This is the antidote I carry. Feed him half a cup first."
Li San’s Adam's apple bobbed as the medicinal broth trickled down his chin and into his collar.
Pi Yanlin checked his pulse; it was racing and erratic, like beans drumming on a taut skin.
From outside the window came the laughter of the Pavilion’s Madame: "This way, dear guest! We have a new girl, Qinge, who sings the 'Lotus Picking Song'—it’s truly enchanting."
Pi Yanlin’s fingers tapped unconsciously against the edge of the table.
He stared at the cinnabar mark on Li San’s chest, then recalled Gu Qinghuan’s mention of the "Holy Monarch Token." He suddenly felt that hidden within the music of Zuihua Pavilion was a thread—so thin it was almost imperceptible—with Li San’s life tied to one end, and his and Gu Qinghuan’s future to the other.
"Qinghuan," he turned, and the morning light caught the ridge of her brow, making the faint scar at the corner of her eye stand out sharply. "Once Li San wakes up, we must find out what the blood of the former dynasty's royalty has to do with the Karmic Record."
Gu Qinghuan spun her iron ruler in her palm. The metallic friction, mixed with the *pipa* melody downstairs, felt like a needle gently parting the pre-dawn fog.
She looked at Li San’s pale face, suddenly remembering a secret letter hidden in her father’s study, and that bloody night ten years ago. Perhaps the Holy Monarch Cult’s conspiracy had begun back then.
Li San, lying on the couch, suddenly muttered in his sleep, his voice as light as a feather: "The Karmic Record... is... is..."
Pi Yanlin tightened his grip on the copper whistle at his waist.
The sunlight outside the window grew brighter. The carved wooden windows of Zuihua Pavilion cast dappled shadows on the floor, looking exactly like the patterns in the Karmic Record at the Yin-Yang Bureau.
He watched Gu Qinghuan’s tense jawline and suddenly felt that this escape, which had begun in the back hall, was merely the tip of the iceberg.
And hidden beneath that iceberg was the blood of a century ago, and the tidal wave about to be unleashed.