“Someone—!”
An iron arm locked around her waist, firm and unyielding, yet Huo Weilou immediately called out in a deep voice for attendants.
The embroidered-uniform guards stationed before the Yaoyue Pavilion had already been startled by the crash. Hearing his command, they rushed over—only to halt in stunned silence at the sight before them. Their lord and the coroner girl were in an embrace?
Huo Weilou pointed upward to the third floor. “A beam fell without warning, nearly injuring someone. Go up and investigate.”
So that was the heavy crash just now—a beam had dropped. From the height of the third floor, thick as a man’s arms joined, had it struck a person, even steel and bone would have been shattered, blood spilled on the spot. Though they guessed Huo Weilou had acted only to save her, the guards could not help but glance back again as they withdrew.
It was simply too rare a sight! Their Marquis, who kept not even a maidservant at his side, now held a beauty in his arms—unheard of.
When the footsteps faded into the building, Huo Weilou lowered his gaze once more. Bo Ruoyou lay rigid against his chest, her face still pale with fright, her delicate features drained of color. Her clear eyes, usually calm, now flickered with dazed terror, like a startled fawn. Already lovely, her expression lent her a fragile, heart-stirring grace.
Huo Weilou’s phoenix eyes darkened. “Frightened?”
His tone was ordinary, stripped of the crushing authority and coldness he usually carried. To Bo Ruoyou, it felt like a gentle rain. Her mind steadied slightly, but when she glanced again at the red-lacquered beam, cold sweat drenched her back. Had Huo Weilou not intervened, her skull and spine would have been smashed, her ribs shattered—splintered bone piercing her heart. Not even immortals could have saved her. She swallowed hard, still shaken.
When Huo Weilou loosened his hold, her body swayed, unable to stand firm. He steadied her again, retreating a few steps as footsteps echoed above. If someone had been on the upper floor, it might have been deliberate sabotage; if not, another beam could yet fall.
As he drew back, he shifted Bo Ruoyou to his side, shielding her. Should debris fall again, his tall frame and broad shoulders would block it entirely. The chill wind seemed to vanish. Enveloped in his shadow, she looked up and saw his chiseled features, cold and formidable—yet strangely reassuring.
Her frozen breath eased, blood flowing once more through her limbs. Realizing she still leaned against him, she quickly stepped back, forcing herself upright. Exhaling, she said, “Many thanks, Marquis, for your rescue.”
Huo Weilou’s gaze remained fixed on the upper floors, silent. Soon, figures leaned over the railing and called down: “Reporting to the Marquis, no one is above. The fallen beam must have rotted with age.”
Only then did Huo Weilou look back at her.
Bo Ruoyou clasped her hands tightly before her, head bowed, the curve of her slender neck exposed at her collar. He saw her lingering fear and asked, “So early—what brings you here?”
She drew a deep breath, lifted her head, and pointed toward the eaves of the second floor. Following her gaze, his eyes darkened. Even beneath the snow, it was clear—two gray tiles were missing from the edge.
The Yaoyue Pavilion stood in the northeast of the Marquis’s estate, surrounded by flowering groves, with white jade steps, grand design, and exquisite carvings. In spring and autumn, one could climb high to overlook the entire estate. But now, in the deep winter months, few came here.
All the eaves of the second floor were intact — except this spot, where two tiles were gone. Huo Weilou’s narrow eyes shifted back to where Bo Ruoyou had been standing. “You were searching for those tiles?”
By now, Bo Ruoyou had steadied herself. “Yes. In the past month, Qingzhou has had three or four snowfalls, each lasting several days. The snow does not melt quickly. If we can find the tiles in the layers of snow, we might know roughly when they fell.”
She sighed, glancing at the fallen beam. Snow was already difficult to read, and now the crash had scattered it further. It would be hard to distinguish anything. Her brows furrowed in frustration. Huo Weilou’s gaze deepened as he watched her.
Soon, the Embroidered Guards came down from the upper floor. Huo Weilou pointed to the fallen beam on the ground. “Move it aside. See if there are any tiles beneath.”
The guards stepped forward, lifted the beam, and searched the pit in the snow. Sure enough, they found several broken tiles. Bo Ruoyou looked at the disturbed snow and realized her timing method was now useless. Her expression showed frustration. Meanwhile, Huo Weilou picked up a few fragments and examined them. “They fell five or six days ago.”
Bo Ruoyou turned at once, surprised. Seeing her doubt, Huo Weilou explained with rare patience: “Moss grows on these tiles. Once separated from soil, it can survive at most six or seven days.”
The eaves were old, with dust and mud between the tiles where moss had taken root. Now, the moss was mostly dried, proving the tiles had fallen six or seven days earlier — the very time Zheng Wenchen was pushed from the pavilion.
Bo Ruoyou’s eyes lit up, but when her gaze swept over the red-lacquered beam, her brows furrowed. She stepped closer to examine it. The lacquer had been reapplied about a year ago; it had faded but not peeled. Yet at the center of the beam was a strip where the paint had worn away. She touched it. “This beam may not have fallen simply from decay…”
One side of the joint was indeed rotted, but the other was intact. The strip of missing lacquer looked as though it had been rubbed. “This shape… it looks like—”
“A rope,” Huo Weilou concluded firmly. He lifted his eyes to the third-floor railing. “If a rope were looped over the beam, someone with a little skill could slip down unseen. That explains the fallen tiles as well.”
Bo Ruoyou nodded in agreement. The surrounding groves were dense; if someone escaped in the confusion, no one would notice.
Thus, the illusion of a ghostly murder was created.
After inspecting the beam, Huo Weilou turned toward the main entrance. Bo Ruoyou knew he intended to go upstairs and quickly followed. Seeing her come along, Huo Weilou did not object. She was not only skilled in autopsy but also sharp in observation — useful indeed.
The first floor was a hall hung with landscape paintings. Dust lay on the tables and chairs, showing they had long been unused. The staircase stood to the right. Huo Weilou ascended first, Bo Ruoyou behind. Looking up, she saw his tall back, and strangely, his figure seemed even more imposing, inspiring trust and reassurance.
Bo Ruoyou pressed her lips together. Until this morning, she had only hoped to solve the case without fault. Whatever power or coldness Huo Weilou possessed had nothing to do with her, for they would likely never meet again. But his rescue just now had truly left her grateful.
As soon as she reached the second floor, Bo Ruoyou stopped. Her breath stirred faintly; instead of continuing upward, she turned toward the warm chamber partitioned off by a *duobao* cabinet.
duobao cabinet.
The first floor was a spacious hall, but the second resembled a study. The cabinet blocked the view from the stairway. Inside, bookshelves lined two walls, filled with ancient texts. A desk and a qin table stood ready, with a long couch beneath the west window. In the corner by that window sat an inconspicuous incense burner.
Bo Ruoyou walked over. The burner was bronze, small and finely made. She picked it up, sniffed lightly, and her expression confirmed her suspicion. Looking around, she carried the burner to the south side of the cabinet and placed it in an empty compartment.
Dust lay thick there, except for three lighter patches — exactly where the burner’s feet fit.
Huo Weilou approached slowly. Bo Ruoyou held the burner and said: “Marquis, the drugged incense was here. The killer lit it in this burner and hid it in the corner. When Second Master Zheng came, he likely fainted without realizing.”
She set the burner down and examined the stairs leading to the third floor. “The body bore strip-like bruises and abrasions. They must have been left when he was dragged upstairs. Though a grown man, Second Master Zheng was not tall, and his build was thin — barely a hundred pounds. Anyone could have dragged him.”
Zheng Wenchen was under six feet, slender, weighing little more than a hundred jin.
The furnishings here were numerous yet perfectly orderly, none overturned — proof there had been no struggle. Why had Zheng Wenchen come here? Was he drugged before seeing the killer, or after?
Questions crowded Bo Ruoyou’s mind. Seven days had passed since his death; much evidence might already be gone. As she pondered, Huo Weilou ascended to the third floor, and she hurried after him.
The third floor was a small hall with windows on all sides. On the north wall hung a portrait of the late Marquis Anqing. Along the way, the traces on the floor matched Bo Ruoyou’s deductions — marks of someone being dragged.
Through an open door, she stepped onto the terrace where Zheng Wenchen had fallen.
The view was broad. From here, one could see both the mourning hall of the old madam and the courtyard where Bo Ruoyou had stayed the night before. The only flaw was the low eaves. Even with moonlight, it was easy to imagine the killer hiding behind Zheng Wenchen, unseen by those below. Drag him up, prop him against the railing, wait for people to arrive — then push him down, and escape around the back.
As she thought, Bo Ruoyou rounded the terrace — and saw Huo Weilou standing beneath the eaves where the beam had fallen.
The beam was heavy, yet its joints were supported on both sides. Even if one joint had rotted and broken, the other could still bear weight. But if someone had looped a rope over the beam to climb up and down, the strain of a person’s weight could have caused the joint to snap. By coincidence, the beam had fallen just moments ago. Though a quarter hour had passed, the memory of it still chilled Bo Ruoyou’s spine.
She was about to step forward when Huo Weilou turned back and said: “Stay there.”
She stopped at once. Huo Weilou then instructed the guard beside him: “Tell Zheng Wenyàn it would be best to repair and inspect the entire third floor. The joints here are loose. If more people go up, accidents may happen.”
The guard acknowledged. Huo Weilou turned and said as he walked: “Let’s go down.”
Bo Ruoyou followed him downstairs. Behind him, she found herself studying him. She did not know his exact age, but everyone knew he was ennobled at eighteen, and his fame spread across the realm for four or five years. By that count, he was only twenty-three now. Yet he carried himself with the gravity of one far older, as if already past thirty. At their first meeting, he had even called her a “young girl.” He habitually wore a stern face, as though burdened by some deep, unspoken weight.
Bo Ruoyou sighed inwardly. He was one man beneath the Emperor, above ten thousand others — bearing heavy responsibilities, standing like a solitary tower, cold and unyielding.
As they stepped out of the pavilion, they saw Eunuch Fu and Prefect He waiting outside.
Prefect He, startled to see the Marquis investigating so early, felt uneasy. “Marquis, for you to examine the scene so soon truly shames this humble official. With you here…”
“I was not the earliest,” Huo Weilou cut off his flattery, striding westward.
At that moment, Prefect He noticed Bo Ruoyou behind him. “Xiao Bo, you…”
Bo Ruoyou blinked, lips curving slightly. “Good morning, sir.” Then, seeing Huo Weilou walking on, she asked: “Where is the Marquis going?”
Prefect He did not know. Eunuch Fu smiled. “To the Buddha Hall. Miss Bo, why not follow Prefect He?”
Prefect He quickly followed. Bo Ruoyou bowed to Eunuch Fu and went along too. Eunuch Fu was about to leave when a guard whispered something in his ear.
Eunuch Fu’s eyes widened. He exclaimed with delight: “Heavens, has our Marquis’s iron heart finally blossomed?”
The guard added another remark. Eunuch Fu frowned, his face falling. “I knew it… impossible. That iron tree of his — who knows when it will ever bloom?”
The Buddha Hall lay west of the Marquis’s estate. Though secluded and quiet, when Huo Weilou — the “iron tree” — stepped inside, he felt no trace of serenity, only the austerity of self-denial.
The hall was large, standing alone in its own courtyard. Yet the main chamber was starkly bare: a desk for copying scriptures on the left, a low couch on the right, and nothing else. It resembled the retreat of a true ascetic. Only the central shrine was ornate, carved with ancient skill, housing the Western Three Saints, their visages solemn and majestic.
Bo Ruoyou and Prefect He entered, surprised. Noble households often had Buddha halls, elegantly arranged with calligraphy, scripture banners, or tea sets for lectures — both spiritual and refined. But this hall was harshly austere. Prefect He could hardly imagine the old madam, past fifty, spending nights here in worship.
The emptiness revealed nothing unusual. Yet Bo Ruoyou walked to the shrine. She examined the incense burner before it, lifted some ash between her fingers. Just then, a furious shout rang out.
“Stop! That is sacred — how dare you touch it?” Zheng Wenyàn had rushed in. At first sight of Bo Ruoyou handling the burner, he cried out.
His agitation drew Huo Weilou and Prefect He’s attention.
Zheng Wenyàn quickly composed himself, bowing: “Marquis, these Western Three Saints were invited from Xiangguo Temple in the capital, blessed by eminent monks. Beneath the Amitayus Buddha sits a relic left at a master’s passing — priceless beyond measure!”
As he spoke anxiously, Bo Ruoyou’s expression shifted to shock. She checked again, then turned: “Marquis — there is *datura* mixed in the incense ash.”
Huo Weilou’s brows furrowed. “Datura — again?”