The white lanterns at the Western Market’s funeral home swayed in the breeze, with paper ash swirling and settling onto the bluestone floor.
Pi Yanlin, wrapped in a threadbare, washed-out blue cotton robe, clutched half a piece of osmanthus cake he had swiped from a street corner stall, shuffling toward the mourning hall among the crowd of mourners.
His peripheral vision swept over the memorial tablet on the altar: "Spirit Tablet of the Wang Family, née Sun." The candlelight made the final vertical stroke of the character "Wang" flicker, appearing like an unfinished bloodstain.
"Sir, would you like to offer some incense?" The old man guarding the hall approached, his wrinkles stained with the tea of yesteryear.
Pi Yanlin pulled out a small piece of silver and slapped it onto the altar, dipped his fingertips into the incense ash, and smeared it at the corners of his eyes. "I’m from the same village as the old lady. She once gave my mother half a bowl of rice." Before the words were out, tears actually rolled down his cheeks—not out of genuine grief, but because he had calculated that someone wailing at a funeral is the easiest person to overlook.
Once the mourners had dispersed until only two dozing attendants remained, Pi Yanlin stumbled and grabbed the side of the coffin, his shoe sole crushing a withered chrysanthemum. "Oof," he groaned, collapsing, landing just right on the straw mat beside the coffin.
As soon as the back of his head touched the straw, a familiar burning sensation flared behind his ear—a System notification.
He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the moonlight draw grid patterns on his face through the window paper, counting silently in his heart: one breath, two breaths...
"Ding—daily check-in complete."
This prompt was lighter than usual, like a feather brushing against his eardrum.
Pi Yanlin’s eyelashes trembled. Suddenly, he heard a faint, shallow breathing sound, as if someone were speaking right against his ear: "Do not let the Red Phoenix reappear... that child must not die..." He snapped his eyes open. The hall was filled only with swaying white spirit banners; the long-burning lamp on the altar flickered, stretching the coffin's shadow into a twisted snake.
"Trace-Seeking Eye," he whispered internally. The scene before him suddenly sharpened.
The red lacquer at the base of the coffin was peeling slightly, revealing dense, intricate markings underneath—carved with fingernails, varying in depth but arranged with meticulous precision.
He leaned in closer. The scratches spelled out a fragment of ancient text: "The Blood Pact is no oath; it is a key."
"Before Li San fell into a coma, he kept saying 'Blood Pact locks the soul'..." Pi Yanlin rested his chin on his fingertips, gnashing his molars lightly.
Li San, the old beggar he had saved from a ruined temple last month, had been hexed by the Holy Monarch Cult. On his deathbed, he had repeated only those four words.
So, the Blood Pact wasn't a curse—it was a key?
But what kind of door did it open?
"Pi Yanlin!"
A cold voice cut through the air from outside.
Gu Qinghuan strode into the room, wrapped in black martial attire, her Xiuchun Saber clattering against the copper bells at her waist.
She clutched half a tea-stained account book, her brows knitted tightly. "The accountant at the gambling den held out for three days, but this morning I spiked his wine with a bit of arsenic—well, fake arsenic. He confessed: on the 15th of last month, a sum of 5,000 taels passed through his hands to the Soul-Suppressing Temple west of the city."
"The Soul-Suppressing Temple?" Pi Yanlin sat up straight, straw debris falling from his back.
He knew that temple. It had been used for imperial sacrifices in the previous dynasty, but after reports of hauntings, it had been razed by fire ten years ago, leaving only half a wall standing. "The Holy Monarch Cult certainly knows how to pick a spot."
Gu Qinghuan slapped the account book onto the altar. The candlelight jumped, casting the vermilion mole at the corner of her eye like a drop of blood. "What’s more, there’s a tunnel beneath the temple that leads directly to the ruins of the Northern Suppression General's Estate."
Pi Yanlin tapped his fingers against the coffin, making a light sound.
The Northern Suppression General's Estate?
Gu Qinghuan’s home?
He looked up at her, meeting her icy gaze. Neither spoke; the only sound in the hall was the rustling of the spirit banners.
"Take this to the Ministry of Justice first." Pi Yanlin pulled out the rubbing he had made—the markings from the bottom of the coffin, captured with Dark Iron Sand. "Have them find some old scholars to piece together the rest of the text."
Gu Qinghuan took the rubbing. As she turned, her robes stirred a gust of wind that made the yellow paper talismans on the altar rustle. "I'm going." She paused at the door. "Xiaoliuzi has been making a scene in the prison for half the night, saying he wants to see you."
When the damp, sour-smelling air of the jail hit him, Pi Yanlin was using a blade of grass to tease a cricket in the corner.
Xiaoliuzi huddled in a pile of straw, the iron chain on his wrist dragging a wet track.
Seeing Pi Yanlin, his throat moved. "My mother... has the incense at the mourning hall burned out?"
"It’s finished," Pi Yanlin crouched down, poking at the scratch marks on the back of Xiaoliuzi's hand—already scabbed over. "You said the Holy Monarch wanted to blood-sacrifice the young prince, but Granny Sun wrote 'do not offer as a sacrifice,' which means she wanted to resist from the start. Was that Blood Pact the key she hid away?"
Xiaoliuzi’s fingernails dug deep into his palms. "My mother said the Blood Pact was signed by the Northern Suppression General and the Holy Monarch Cult back when he was protecting the young prince..." He choked up suddenly. "But I really didn't know it was a key! The Holy Monarch said that if I handed over the Blood Pact, he would ensure my safety..."
"Safety?" Pi Yanlin sneered. "Your mother spent half the night scraping her fingernails against the coffin just to carve 'Blood Pact is no oath,' terrified that those who followed would misunderstand. And you? You sold her out completely just to save your own skin." He pulled a crumpled map from his robe—snatched from under Xiaoliuzi's pillow while Gu Qinghuan wasn't looking. "What is this?"
Xiaoliuzi’s face went deathly pale. "I... I don't know!"
"The deserted cemetery outside the Xizhi Gate, the tombstone engraved with 'Seven Daughters of the Zhu Gate'." Pi Yanlin snapped the map open with a loud rustle. "You went there on the 15th of last month; your heels were covered in the red soil unique to that graveyard." He leaned in closer, his voice softening like he was coaxing a child. "Your mother visited me in a dream at the funeral hall and told me to make you say everything you were supposed to say."
Xiaoliuzi burst into tears, his shoulders shaking like a sieve. "It’s the Red Phoenix Blood Casket! My mother said it held... held the secrets of the Holy Monarch Cult!"
The moon at three-quarters past midnight hung like a block of ice from an old locust tree in the abandoned cemetery.
Gu Qinghuan’s Xiuchun Saber parted the waist-high weeds, the tip striking a broken monument—"Tomb of the Seven Daughters of the Zhu Gate," the characters eroded by wind and rain until only half remained.
"Dig here." Pi Yanlin squatted before the monument, tapping the ground with an iron shovel.
He could hear his own heartbeat, three times faster than usual—the System was overheating for the second time today, burning a red patch at the nape of his neck.
The sound of the shovel hitting something hard startled the crows from the tree.
Gu Qinghuan brushed away the topsoil, revealing a red-lacquered wooden box half a foot square. A phoenix with outstretched wings was carved onto the lid, its feather patterns filled with gold dust, shimmering coldly in the moonlight.
"Red Phoenix," Gu Qinghuan whispered. Her hand hovered over the lid, hesitating.
Pi Yanlin pulled out the Dark Iron Sand from his robe and sprinkled it over the seam of the box. "No traps," he said. "Open it."
The moment the lid was lifted, the golden light slashed through the night like a blade.
Both of them narrowed their eyes. Lying at the bottom of the box was a translucent Jade Talisman, wrapped in red thread, inscribed with eight characters: "Red Phoenix appears, the causal cycle is rewritten."
From far away, a bell began to toll, long and dull, as if the entire Capital City were responding to the awakening of this century-old pact.
"The 15th of July..." Pi Yanlin gripped the Jade Talisman, the sharp edges digging painfully into his palm.
He looked up at Gu Qinghuan and saw her eyes glowing with alarming intensity, as if hiding a flame.
"Back to the bureau." Gu Qinghuan sheathed her saber. "We must have the Ministry of Justice send more men to guard the young prince."
Pi Yanlin nodded, bending down to pick up the shovel.
As the moonlight fell into his sleeve, it illuminated the rubbing he had made earlier. Without his knowledge, a new line of small text had appeared: "Red Phoenix emerges, the Holy Monarch falls."
His fingertips trembled. Suddenly, he heard the rapid sound of horse hooves from the distance, mingled with a woman's wailing: "Murder! The bridegroom is gone in the bridal chamber..."
Morning rain fell onto the roof tiles of the Xuan'an Bureau, splashing into tiny droplets.
The duty officer had just finished wiping down his desk when a matchmaker in red silk stumbled in, clutching half a golden hairpin, her voice trembling with tears. "Officer! The young master of a wealthy merchant west of the city was getting married today. The bridal sedan chair had just been carried into the courtyard, and the groom... the groom just stopped breathing!"