Morning light leaked through the carved wooden lattice of the east suite on the second floor of Zuihua Pavilion, casting a pale, paper-thin sheen over Li San’s colorless face on the daybed.
Pi Yanlin tossed a melon seed into his mouth. The crisp sound of the shell cracking, mixed with the "Lotus Picking Tune" drifting up from downstairs, felt rather like an absurdly sweet glaze poured over a tense situation.
He reclined lazily on the brocade-covered daybed, the hem of his robe stained with the damp moss of the back alley. Yet his eyelids drooped, making him look precisely like a prodigal son who had not yet slept off his wine.
"They'd never guess we're hiding here." He spat a seed husk into his palm, his peripheral vision catching the white-knuckled grip with which Gu Qinghuan clutched her iron ruler.
The female constable’s embroidered shoe tip pressed against the seams of the blue bricks, each slight movement carrying the precision of a knife carving wood. Yet at the moment, she stood frozen like a sculpture beside Li San's daybed, her brows pressed low like clouds heavy with rain.
"Just who on earth are you?" Gu Qinghuan asked suddenly, her voice like ice-quenched iron.
She squatted down, the tip of her iron ruler gently lifting Li San’s blood-stained collar. The cinnabar mark over his heart was still oozing a faint red, resembling an evil flower blooming deep within flesh. "Yesterday in the back alley of the Xuan'an Bureau, that bowl of tea laced with cardiac poison—you took one glance and declared, 'There are three crushed plum pits floating in the tea foam.'" She raised her head, the faint scar at the corner of her eye twitching with the motion. "How could an ordinary handyman possibly tell poisons apart?"
Pi Yanlin yawned, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the edge of the table.
He could hear the faint, whispering friction of Gu Qinghuan's boot soles against the floorboards, could smell the lingering trace of Submerged Aloeswood on her person—a skill honed from a decade of squatting in teahouses, distilling the mundane hubbub of the mortal world into nourishment for his eyes and ears. "I just got lucky." His hand, pinching a melon seed, paused. "I used to write legal plaints for folks, and I always heard litigation masters say, 'To investigate a poison case, look first to your tea, rice, oil, and salt.' I heard it so often..." He suddenly laughed, the corners of his eyes curving, "that I simply turned into a handyman who knows how to chew on words."
Before his voice had even faded, Li San on the daybed emitted a sudden, muffled groan.
His fingers dug into the brocade quilt, blood seeping from beneath his nails, his pupils dilated like wisps of fog. "Blood Pact... Holy Monarch... Red Phoenix Pattern..." His voice was as hoarse as a punctured flute, every single word reeking of rot. "The sacrificial altar... blood-soaked Karmic Record..."
Pi Yanlin's melon seed shell dropped with a sharp *clack* onto the floor.
He leaned forward slightly, able to see the veins bulging on the back of Li San’s neck like a cluster of writhing earthworms. This was no ordinary startle from a nightmare; it looked precisely as though something had gripped his windpipe with intent to choke the life out of him. "Red Phoenix Pattern?" he repeated under his breath, his memory suddenly ripped wide open: last month at a tea stall, he had heard an old storyteller recount that when the former dynasty's royal family performed grand sacrifices, the design carved into the altar's brick seams was none other than the Sun-Surrounded Red Phoenix Pattern.
Gu Qinghuan’s iron ruler struck the corner of the table with a sharp *clatter*.
She jerked to her feet, her skirt sweeping against the teacups and setting them rattling. "The former dynasty's royal family was slaughtered to the last by the Holy Monarch Cult." She stared at Li San's twitching lips, her Adam's apple moving as she swallowed. "My father..." The thread of her speech snapped abruptly, as if someone had seized her by the throat.
She turned and snatched up the blue cloth bundle from the desk. "I'm going downstairs to check if there's any movement." When the door curtain was lifted and let fall again, it dragged in a gust of wind that whipped the unruly strands of hair across Li San's forehead.
Pi Yanlin gazed at the swaying shadow on the door curtain, waiting until the sound of footsteps vanished completely down the stairwell before turning over to lie flat on his back.
When the System notification chimed in the depths of his mind, he nearly failed to maintain his expression: *"Today's check-in location triggered: Zuihua Pavilion, second floor east suite.*
*Current lying-flat duration: 0:59:30."*
He counted his heartbeats to endure the final ten seconds until, with a soft *ding* of a chime, a rush of heat bloomed behind his ear, feeling precisely as though someone had shoved a ball of burning charcoal directly into his ear canal.
"Lie-Detecting Ears successfully bound." The moment the System voice concluded, Li San’s previous delirious ramblings began to replay directly in his ear.
The sound was far clearer than it had been a moment ago; even the trembling vibrato in the gasps could be heard with absolute distinctness: "Blood Pact... Holy Monarch... Red Phoenix Pattern... sacrificial altar... blood-soaked Karmic Record... The Holy Monarch is not a single person, but a crowd of people..." The final phrase suddenly spiked in pitch like a needle stabbing straight into his eardrum.
Pi Yanlin bolted upright, sending melon seeds scattering all across the floor. He remembered clearly that when Li San had spoken those words just now, his eyelids had been shut tight; he hadn't been awake at all.
From outside the building came the sound of the night watchman's clapper—a single *thud* that startled the brass bells at the eaves into a chaotic jangle.
Pi Yanlin’s fingers dug into the rim of the daybed, his knuckles turning white.
The Holy Monarch Cult had been setting up incense halls all across Dajin over the past few years; he had long since heard talk of them from the people at the Xuan'an Bureau. But "the Holy Monarch is not a single person"... Could it be that beneath that statue of the Holy Monarch, before which tens of thousands kowtowed, lay buried a pile of living corpses?
*Creak—*
The sound of the door hinges turning made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Pi Yanlin instantly rolled off the daybed, caught Li San by the lower back, and shoved the man straight into the concealed compartment beneath the bed. This secret space was something he had discovered while pretending to be drunk, rubbing his shoe tip against the foot of the bedstead; even now, wood ash still lingered within the cracks, as though it had been deliberately left behind for a fleeing criminal.
No sooner had he laid himself back down in his original spot than the door was pushed open.
"Well, well, if it isn't Handyman Pi?"
The visitor was Zhang Qi, a subordinate of Judge Wei, with a Xuan'an Bureau bronze tally hanging at his waist, his boot soles caked in mud, and a reek of alcohol accompanying every word.
Pi Yanlin narrowed his eyes, catching a glimpse of a length of red cord—the "blessing cord" worn exclusively by devout followers of the Holy Monarch Cult—protruding from the man's cuff. "Constable Zhang?" He squeezed out a drunken smile, his finger gesturing vaguely toward the other man's waist. "Out early—are you investigating a case or investigating wine?"
Zhang Qi’s gaze swept once around the daybed, finally coming to rest upon the heap of melon seed shells at Pi Yanlin’s feet. "Lord Wei says a bloodshed occurred in the back alley, and ordered us to search the buildings one by one for the fugitive." He kicked at the leg of the table. "Handyman Pi certainly knows how to pick his spots. The lasses of Zuihua Pavilion must still be waiting to help you sober up."
Pi Yanlin let out a boozy burp, reached into his bosom, and fished out half a string of copper coins, slapping them down on the table. "I'd never dare trouble the young ladies; isn't that why I'm just waiting for Sister Qinghuan to bring the money?" He deliberately stumbled as he reached out to hook his arm around Zhang Qi's shoulder. "If Constable Zhang has time to spare, how about joining me for a couple of cups?"
Zhang Qi’s expression chilled instantly.
He shook off Pi Yanlin’s arm, his gaze lingering once more in the direction of the concealed compartment before turning to head toward the door. "Stop playing the fool." As the curtain fell behind him, his voice drifted back in: "Lord Wei said it—even handymen at the Xuan'an Bureau need to keep to the rules. Don't go imitating those blind fools—" He paused. "Take Li San for example."
Pi Yanlin’s fingernails bit deep into his palms.
When the sound of footsteps had faded entirely away, he scrambled up and yanked open the secret compartment.
Li San was still unconscious, sweat beading on his temples, his chin bruised from when he had been shoved inside the compartment.
Pi Yanlin felt for the man's pulse; it was beating even more frantically than before, as if struggling to burst his blood vessels.
"The Holy Monarch is not a single person..." he muttered repeatedly, the back of his ear still burning hot.
Sunlight outside the window had already climbed up to the rafters, casting a blinding glare upon the gold-leaf sign of Zuihua Pavilion.
From downstairs came Gu Qinghuan’s voice, carrying the cold, hard edge of a drawn blade: "Zhang Qi? What is he doing here?"
The curtain lifted, and Gu Qinghuan walked in, morning dew clinging to the ends of her hair.
She glanced briefly at the hidden compartment, then looked back at Pi Yanlin’s pale complexion, and suddenly reached out to press a hand down upon his shoulder. "I heard downstairs—Judge Wei's men are calling Li San a 'rebel fugitive.'" Her grip was as heavy as a pair of iron pliers. "Just now, when Zhang Qi was here, did he..."
"He knows Li San is here." Pi Yanlin interrupted her, tapping his own ear with a knuckle. "He said, 'Don't go imitating those blind fools, take Li San for example.'" Gazing into Gu Qinghuan’s suddenly contracted pupils, he abruptly smiled. "Qinghuan, what do you say if we take Li San to Jishi Hall right now?"
Gu Qinghuan’s hand relaxed slightly.
She stared out the window at the brightening sky, where the brass eaves bells were still chiming as though tolling some secret code. "Doctor Sun at Jishi Hall is the most reliable when it comes to treating external injuries." She fished out a blue cloth handkerchief. "We'll just have to disguise him as a patient's family member..."
Pi Yanlin bent down, picked up the scattered melon seeds from the floor, and dropped them back into his pocket one by one.
As he watched the stray wisps of hair curling near Gu Qinghuan's temples, he suddenly felt that this fog-draped Zuihua Pavilion was merely the first barrier they would have to break through.
And the real game was only just beginning.
From downstairs came the shrill laughter of Madame Zuihua: "Come right in, esteemed guests! Lady Qingge's rendition of the 'Lotus Picking Tune' is about to begin—"
Pi Yanlin popped the very last melon seed into his mouth. Its crisp crunch, mingling with the rising clamor of voices from outside, felt like a thread quietly drilling its way deeper into the encroaching darkness.