As Pi Yanlin carried the bamboo basket toward the yamen, the back of his neck burned under the sun.
Li San’s head lolled inside the basket, his warm, shallow breath brushing against Pi’s wrist through the coarse fabric. Mixed with the lingering scent of bitter almonds from the apothecary, it prickled his nerves like a fine needle.
He touched the secret letter hidden in his tunic; the corner of the paper dug painfully into his ribs. On that blood-stained scrap, the words "July 15th, Xuan’an Bureau" seemed to pulse against his heart with every step he took.
"Handyman Pi!" The voice of Old Zhou, the gatekeeper, boomed from behind the vermilion gates. "Constable Gu just sent word—you are to take him directly to the medical examiner’s office in the rear yamen!"
Pi Yanlin acknowledged him with a shout, but instead, he veered toward the western courtyard.
The bluestone beneath the old scholar tree was warmed by the sun. He set the basket gently against the trunk, straightened his crumpled servant’s uniform, and lay down on the ground.
As the System notification chimed in his mind, he was busy counting ants in a patch of light filtering through the branches: "Daily check-in complete. Skill acquired: [Light and Shadow Record]. Allows extraction of light-shadow impressions left on object surfaces. Duration depends on the intensity of the fixation of those who recently touched the object."
He tapped his fingertips against his chest, a lazy, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He waited until the sun had shifted past the third branch before slowly climbing to his feet. He brushed the dust from his trouser legs and pulled the secret letter from his tunic.
The moment his fingertips touched the blood-stained page, a white mist swirled before his eyes. Within the fog, he caught a glimpse of a young boy kneeling on a prayer mat, his forehead pressed against a bluestone slab. "Disciple Xiaoliuzi swears by a Blood Pact to serve the Holy Monarch for the rest of my life. Should I harbor a treacherous heart, may heaven strike me down."
"Xiaoliuzi?" Pi Yanlin’s grip tightened on the letter.
In the "foster son murders mother" case the Xuan’an Bureau had taken up two days ago, that was the name of Granny Sun’s foster son.
He stared at the fading image on the paper, suddenly recalling the contorted face of Granny Sun in the morgue. The coroner had said she died of sheer terror, but when he had used his "Lie-Detecting Ears" to listen to Xiaoliuzi’s wailing, he had clearly heard a faint tremor in the boy’s throat—like cat claws scraping over lute strings.
"I need to check the old house." He tucked the letter away. As he turned to leave, he spotted a shard of porcelain in the shadow of the old tree. He picked it up and held it to the light; the glaze shimmered with a dark purple hue—it looked strikingly like the gold-leaf paint on the "Benevolent Hands and Kind Heart" plaque at Jishi Hall.
Granny Sun’s old house stood at the end of a lane in the south of the city. The "Fortune" character on the lintel had not yet faded, but the yellow paper talisman stuffed into the door crack was soaked through and rotting from the rain.
When Pi Yanlin pushed the door open, the groan of the hinges startled the sparrows under the eaves, showering him in dust.
Squinting, he swept the ground with his "Trace-Seeking Eye." Besides the imprints of Xiaoliuzi’s hemp shoes, there was a set of tiny embroidered shoe prints, likely left by a girl of fourteen or fifteen.
"Interesting." He followed the prints to the east wing. As he walked, a bluestone under the eaves suddenly pressed into the toe of his shoe.
He squatted down and felt the surface; there was an incredibly fine line carved into the stone. Under the "Trace-Seeking Eye," it glowed a deep red—it was a phoenix in flight.
As soon as his finger touched the seam, with a sharp *click*, half the brick shifted, and a cloth bundle wrapped in oilpaper fell out from within the wall.
Inside was an unsent letter, the ink already brittle: "...When the Zhenbei Army escorted the little prince out of the Capital City all those years ago, I was guarding the porridge stall at the city gate. The 'Imperial Bloodline' that the Holy Monarch Cult craves—I would rather die than surrender it—"
"Pi Yanlin!"
Gu Qinghuan’s voice, accompanied by the clatter of iron chains, cut through the air from outside the courtyard.
Pi Yanlin quickly shoved the letter into his tunic and turned to see her holding her Goose-Feather Saber, the scabbard pressed against the back of a boy.
The boy was dressed in simple blue cloth—it was Xiaoliuzi. Though his neck was still covered in grass debris, he wore a sneering cold smile. "Since when does a lackey of the Xuan’an Bureau have the right to interrogate me?"
"Constable Gu, what is this…"
"I ran into him at the mouth of the alley while chasing Manager Zhang." Gu Qinghuan hooked the chain onto the door ring. "They found half a bottle of Crane’s Heart poison on him—the exact same toxin found in Granny Sun’s stomach."
The cold smile froze on Xiaoliuzi’s face.
He stared at the cloth pouch at Pi Yanlin’s waist—inside was the Dark Iron Sand from Jishi Hall, which rattled softly with Pi’s movements.
"How could you know my mother was a traitor!" Xiaoliuzi suddenly roared, the chains clanging harshly against the door ring. "When she hid the letter, she clearly..."
"If she were truly a believer in the Holy Monarch Cult, why would she write 'Do not offer as sacrifice' in her letter?" Pi Yanlin leaned against the doorframe, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the letter inside his tunic. "You spiked her calming tea with sedatives every day, didn't you? That’s why the character for 'sacrifice' she tried to write before she died was left half-finished."
Xiaoliuzi’s pupils contracted violently.
He suddenly crouched down, burying his face in his knees. His voice sounded like it was coming from beneath the earth. "She took me in when I was eight. She taught me to read, she sewed my winter clothes... but the Holy Monarch said if she didn't hand over the bloodline, he would turn me into a blood-effigy. On the fifteenth of last month, when she dug out that old letter, I was hiding in the rafters..."
"So you poisoned her medicinal tea, and then forced her face into an expression of terror so people would think she was possessed by a spirit?" Pi Yanlin’s voice turned icy. "But you forgot—she spent her life sewing; there was always blue thread under her fingernails. When you twisted her face, she scratched the back of your hand, didn't she?"
Xiaoliuzi snapped his head up. On the back of his right hand was indeed a fresh scratch, still oozing beads of blood.
"What exactly is that bloodline?" Gu Qinghuan’s saber pressed down on his shoulder.
"It’s... it’s the little prince the Zhenbei Army protected!" Xiaoliuzi broke down, sobbing. "The Holy Monarch said the child is still alive and that he must use his blood to sacrifice to the heavens on the fifteenth of July..."
The skin behind Pi Yanlin’s ears began to burn again.
He looked at the setting sun outside the courtyard; their shadows stretched long and thin.
Gu Qinghuan unhooked the wineskin at her waist and took a swig, the scent of alcohol mixing with the metallic tang of blood in the air.
"Take him back to the yamen." Pi Yanlin touched the letter in his tunic. "Tell the coroner to examine Granny Sun’s body one more time. Pay close attention to the skin flakes under her fingernails."
Gu Qinghuan acknowledged him and began dragging the boy away by the chain.
As Xiaoliuzi stumbled over the threshold, he suddenly looked back and shouted, "Tonight is my mother’s seventh-day funeral! Her memorial hall is at the West Market’s charitable cemetery..."
Pi Yanlin watched the boy’s retreating back, then touched the letter in his pocket again.
The night wind caught the edge of his tunic, making the "Fortune" character on the lintel rattle.
He looked up at the moon. It had just climbed above the eaves, appearing like a copper coin soaked in blood.
"July 15th, Imperial bloodline..." he murmured. As he turned, he kicked a broken brick. Underneath it lay half a yellow paper talisman; the cinnabar characters were worn and blurred, but the words "Blood Sacrifice" were still legible.
From the direction of the West Market’s cemetery, the night watchman’s clapper sounded: "The weather is dry, watch for fire—"
Pi Yanlin patted the letter in his sleeve and a faint smile appeared on his lips.
He tapped the pouch of Dark Iron Sand at his waist, which rattled in response to his movement, as if echoing some storm that was about to break.