As the first light of dawn washed the sky in a pale, fish-belly white, Pi Yanlin burst into Jishi Hall, clutching his head.
A damp cloth was pressed to his forehead, and morning dew clung to his hair. His footsteps were so unsteady he seemed to be walking on cotton, and he groaned, "Manager Zhang, that headache powder of yours is the best. Give me two packets..." The wound on the back of his neck, scraped while climbing the rafters last night, was still throbbing, but he tugged the cloth down to cover half his face. This sickly, bedraggled appearance was a ruse he had spent half the night perfecting while huddled in a pile of straw.
Behind the counter, Manager Zhang, who had been polishing a copper pot, looked up and put on a smile. "Handyman Pi? Burning the candle at both ends again?" Before the words were even out, his gaze swept over the damp cloth on Pi Yanlin’s head, and his knuckles tightened under the counter. That black shadow he’d seen scaling the rafters last night looked, in every way, like this notoriously lazy handyman.
Pi Yanlin narrowed his eyes, feigning a stumble as he leaned against the counter. A prompt pinged in his mind from the System: [Target Manager Zhang: heart rate 127 bpm (baseline 75), abnormal adrenaline levels.]
He loosened his grip on his head, letting the cloth slide down his nose to reveal a pair of bright, piercing eyes. "Manager Zhang, this Submerged Aloeswood you have on the counter—it smells sweeter than usual today..."
"Nonsense, it’s the same old formula." Manager Zhang’s hand froze on the copper pot; the metal surface reflected his taut jawline. He reached down to the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet and produced a yellow paper parcel. "Your headache powder, wrapped and ready. Three large coins."
Pi Yanlin took the parcel, but his fingertips tapped lightly against the cabinet partition. The row of drawers containing cinnabar and realgar shifted suddenly, and the edge of a dark red sandalwood drawer at the very back revealed a patch of fresh lacquer. His pupils contracted—when he had been perched on the rafters yesterday, he had clearly seen the keyhole of that drawer glinting with a dull, dark sheen. Now, there were thin, mosquito-like scratches around the keyhole, as if it had been picked with a fine wire.
"Oh, Manager Zhang, my head is aching something fierce. Could you take a look and see if it's wind-evil invading my brain?" He stumbled intentionally, slamming into the cabinet with a loud clatter. As Manager Zhang reached out to steady him, Pi Yanlin’s other hand darted toward the dark red drawer—the lock was only loosely latched.
"Don't, don't do that!" Manager Zhang grabbed his wrist with astonishing force. "What are you doing, rummaging through the medicine? Even a Xuan'an Bureau handyman has to follow the rules!"
Pi Yanlin leaned back with the momentum, his cloth hitting the floor with a slap. As he bent down to retrieve it, he caught a glimpse inside the drawer: a half-bag of brownish powder. It was the supplementary ingredient for the "Netherworld Guide." During Granny Sun’s autopsy, the coroner had noted the residue of this very substance in her system.
"Sorry, sorry, my head is spinning," Pi Yanlin said. He stood up and pressed the cloth back to his forehead, his fingertips surreptitiously picking up some incense ash from the floor. When the cloth had fallen, he had deliberately wiped it against the ash near Manager Zhang’s feet. "Manager Zhang, this incense ash on your floor... did you worship somewhere this morning?"
Manager Zhang’s Adam’s apple bobbed. From the back hall came the sound of a mortar and pestle—his foster son, Xiaoliuzi, was preparing medicine for the morning. Pi Yanlin cocked his head, listening. At the third strike of the pestle, a sparrow fluttered its wings outside the window—the signal Gu Qinghuan had set for them.
"Manager Zhang, I just remembered, Granny Sun was saying just the other day that your miscarriage-prevention medicine was the most effective." He spun around and strode toward the back hall. "She still had half a prescription left in her room; I’ve come to ask about it for her..."
"Hey!" Manager Zhang lunged to intercept him, but Pi Yanlin had already shoved open the wooden door to the back hall.
The door to the rear storeroom stood ajar, and the smell of mildew mixed with the scent of aged herbs hit them head-on. Pi Yanlin ducked inside, scanning the floor in the infiltrating daylight. In the corner lay a scrap of burnt yellow paper, and on the windowsill sat a chipped ceramic bowl with brown medicinal dregs stuck to the bottom.
He crouched down, but just as his fingers touched the scrap of paper, he heard a dull thud behind him.
"You’re sneaking through our things!"
Xiaoliuzi charged in, his eyes bloodshot, brandishing a short blade used for cutting herbs. This twenty-year-old, who usually wore the mask of a devoted son, now had veins pulsing on his temples. The blade’s glint turned half his face a sickly blue. "My mother has only just passed, and you’re already here rummaging through her belongings?"
Pi Yanlin didn’t flinch, his eyes locked on the hand gripping the knife. Stained in the crevices of the boy's fingernails was a dark brownish grime—the exact color mentioned in the autopsy report as characteristic of "aconitine poisoning."
With a sudden flick of his toe, Pi Yanlin hooked the stone mortar nearby and sent it crashing into Xiaoliuzi’s foot. As the boy stumbled in pain, Pi Yanlin lunged forward, driving his knee into the wrist holding the knife. The blade clattered to the ground.
"The crime of kin-slaying," Pi Yanlin muttered, bending to pick up the scrap of paper. The fragmented handwriting became clear in the morning light: *“The Red Phoenix shall appear, the Holy Monarch descends.”* At the end, the two characters "Sun Clan" were written in the distinct style Granny Sun used when writing petitions for others.
Xiaoliuzi collapsed to the floor, letting out a wheezing, mirthless laugh. "She was no longer my mother! The Holy Monarch said she had hidden the secret scriptures and betrayed the faith..."
"Take him." Gu Qinghuan’s voice rang out from the doorway. She was dressed in the black uniform of a bailiff, her iron ruler gleaming coldly at her waist, two armed guards trailing behind her. When Pi Yanlin had burst into the back hall, she had already led her team to surround the building from the side entrance.
In the interrogation room, the charcoal brazier burned fiercely. Xiaoliuzi huddled in a wooden chair, still defiant. "I didn't kill anyone! My mother fell and died on her own!"
Gu Qinghuan slapped a bundle onto the table—Granny Sun’s green cloth jacket, the cuffs stained with unwashed medicinal residue. "We found this under your bed." She tapped a piece of aconite root on the table. "The mud under your mother’s fingernails is the same composition as the soil in your backyard herb garden."
Xiaoliuzi’s shoulders shook.
Pi Yanlin leaned against the doorframe and spoke. "No need for torture. I can hear that he’s lying." He closed his eyes, the System prompt buzzing in his ears: [Lie-Detecting Ears activated, target’s physiological signals abnormal.]
When he opened his eyes again, Xiaoliuzi’s frantic heartbeat sounded like a drum, and his breathing was ragged, like a wheezing bellows.
"You added aconite to the calming soup you brewed for her, didn't you?" Pi Yanlin stepped forward. "She started vomiting when she reached the third bowl, and you told her it was a reaction to the purging of evil..."
"Stop it!" Xiaoliuzi wailed. "The messenger of the Holy Monarch said my mother had stolen the sect's elixir formulas. Only by sending her home with the 'Netherworld Guide' could her sins be cleansed... I... I only wanted to save her..."
Gu Qinghuan’s iron ruler slammed onto the table, making the teacup jump. She turned to order the guards to record the confession, but she noticed Pi Yanlin staring out the window. Through the morning mist, the wooden door of Jishi Hall stood slightly ajar. The hem of Manager Zhang’s green jacket flickered around the street corner, like a fallen leaf swept away by the wind.
"Where is Manager Zhang?" she frowned.
"Probably off to send a message." Pi Yanlin touched the tattered slip of paper in his sleeve, his thumb brushing over the words "The Holy Monarch descends." "This play has only just begun."
By the time the sun climbed to its zenith, Pi Yanlin was squatting on the bluestone steps in front of Jishi Hall, basking in the light. He chewed on a piece of roasted sweet potato, replaying Xiaoliuzi’s confession in his mind: *Holy Monarch Cult, Netherworld Guide, Red Phoenix shall appear...* The image of Manager Zhang disappearing into the mist was like a thorn, making the wound on the back of his neck itch again.
The System panel suddenly popped up a sign-in notification: [Today’s "slacking off" sign-in location: Stone bench in front of Jishi Hall. Time remaining: 58 minutes.]
He brushed the dust off his trousers, moved sluggishly to the stone bench, and lay down. The wind carried the scent of herbs past his nose, and in the distance, the gongs of the Xuan'an Bureau echoed—it was time to report for duty.
But he didn't move.
The stone bench was baking hot. He squinted as he watched a crow take flight from the eaves, wondering to himself: that scrap of yellow paper—there seemed to be half a line of writing on the back that hadn't been fully burned away...