The night wind in the capital was chilly, like the perpetual cold air in an operating room, seeping straight into one’s collar.
Wen Yan led Chun’er, the two of them like shadows lurking in the darkness, closely tailing Qiu Chan.
“Miss, slow down! Taking such big strides will harm your health!” Chun’er whispered urgently, wanting to support her.
Wen Yan gestured sharply, freezing her in place. Her complexion was indeed pale, but her eyes were as cold as tempered ice.
She wasn’t tracking by relying on physical strength.
She was playing with logic.
“Chun’er, there’s a fork ahead. The left leads to the South Market—crowded with stalls and messy footprints, perfect for disappearing. The right is the official road—flat and open, with no cover, but it cuts the distance by a quarter. Which way do you think she’ll take?” Wen Yan’s voice was unnervingly calm.
Chun’er hesitated. “Definitely the left, for better hiding.”
“Wrong.” Wen Yan’s gaze pierced through the darkness, locking onto the distant ground. “Qiu Chan is now an NPC executing a program. Her logic is purely ‘efficiency.’ She’ll choose the shortest route—the right.”
With that, Wen Yan took a shortcut, heading straight for the front of the official road.
Chun’er stared at her mistress’s agile back, her mouth agape enough to fit an egg. Was this the frail young lady? This was clearly a general with a full map hack!
The two of them had just hidden behind a stone lion by the roadside.
Within minutes, Qiu Chan appeared as expected. She walked swiftly, eyes fixed ahead, like a puppet programmed for a destination.
“Follow. Keep fifty paces back. She checks behind frequently—stay covered.” Wen Yan issued instructions, precise to the second.
This kind of counter-surveillance awareness was ingrained in her bones. Ancient times, with no surveillance and relying solely on legs, were practically her professional stage.
Qiu Chan didn’t head to a pharmacy. Instead, she went north, finally stopping before a long-abandoned, dilapidated temple.
“Lanruo Temple.”
Wen Yan glanced at the crumbling plaque and sneered inwardly. A place like this—where bodies could be dumped into a well and no one would care—was indeed prime real estate for murder and robbery.
Wen Yan made a “silence” gesture, pointing to a gap in the back wall. The two slipped inside like agile cats.
Inside the temple, beneath a headless Buddha statue, stood a figure in a black robe, exuding a musty odor.
Qiu Chan stepped forward, bowing stiffly.
“Where is it?” The black-robed figure’s voice grated like sand on glass, unbearably unpleasant.
“Failed.” Qiu Chan spoke without emotion. “She took the medicine as usual for five consecutive days, but there were no signs of organ failure.”
In the shadows, Wen Yan rolled her eyes.
Of course not. I’ve been feeding the medicine to the flowerpot every day. That plant might be failing by now.
The black-robed figure was clearly furious, his aura turning violent. “Useless! Ninety days of slow-acting poison, plus the dose of ‘Hong Luocha’ Prince Jing personally delivered—even an ox should have dissolved into blood by now! Why isn’t she dead?”
“The higher-ups are running out of patience!” the black-robed figure said anxiously. “The ‘Betrothal Banquet’ is approaching. She must disappear before then! We cannot let the grand plan be ruined!”
Betrothal Banquet. Grand plan.
Wen Yan frowned. These were the same words Bai Wanyin had mentioned before her death. It seemed that banquet was the ultimate harvest ground for these people.
The black-robed man pulled a small black oilpaper packet from his robe and shoved it into Qiu Chan’s hands, his tone as venomous as a snake’s: “If slow doesn’t work, then go fast. This is ‘Fallen Feather’—colorless, odorless, and can cause a fatal heart condition within half an hour. The old men at the Imperial Hospital won’t be able to detect it. Tonight at the hour of Zi, make her drink it!”
“Fallen Feather”?
Wen Yan’s mind raced through her toxicology database. This was a purified extract of the Soul-Severing Grass from the southern borderlands. In modern times, it would require a mass spectrometer for detection. Here, it truly was an unsolvable, lethal poison.
Her eyes sharpened. Wen Yan knew this packet absolutely could not enter the Guogongfu.
Once it crossed the threshold, it would be a death sentence.
She had to intercept it right here, on the spot.
Qiu Chan took the poison and was about to leave.
Now!
Wen Yan mouthed to Chun’er: “Smash the Buddha’s head.”
Though utterly confused, Chun’er moved with lightning speed. She grabbed a half-broken brick, mustered all her strength, and hurled it with everything she had at the already cracked head of the Buddha statue!
“Boom—!”
A deafening crash echoed as shattered stone and decades-old dust rained down in a thick cloud.
“Who’s there?!”
The black-robed man reacted instantly, lunging toward the source of the sound like a giant flapping moth.
But he grasped at air. Chun’er, having thrown the brick, immediately rolled aside and hid in a nearby haystack.
The real strike came from behind.
Seizing the moment while the black-robed man was distracted, Wen Yan moved. Her movements were feather-light, like a cold gleam skimming the ground, as she instantly slipped into the spot the black-robed man had just occupied.
There lay a pile of incense ash accumulated over decades.
Wen Yan scooped up a handful and swept it sideways in a wide arc!
“Whoosh—!”
The cloud of dust instantly became the perfect smoke screen, throwing the hall into chaos.
“Cough! Damn it!” The black-robed man choked and stumbled backward.
As for Qiu Chan, the fool simply froze in place during the sudden commotion.
That one second was all Wen Yan needed.
Using the dust cloud as cover, she ghosted around to Qiu Chan’s back. Instead of trying to snatch the packet by force, her right hand precisely gripped Qiu Chan’s wrist. Her fingers, sharp as a scalpel, pressed hard on a specific acupoint in the center of Qiu Chan’s palm!
Qiu Chan’s hand went numb, her fingers involuntarily splaying open.
The small black oilpaper packet dropped neatly into Wen Yan’s hand.
Success!
Without a moment’s hesitation, Wen Yan grabbed Chun’er and slipped out through a gap in the rear wall. Her movements were clean and decisive, leaving not a trace behind.
By the time the black-robed man burst out of the dust cloud, Qiu Chan was still standing there dumbly, her hands now empty.
“Where is it?!” The black-robed man roared with a beast-like fury.
The only reply was a cold, mocking voice drifting through the night:
“Your delivery—I signed for it on your behalf. No need to thank me.”
The voice wasn’t loud, but it struck the black-robed man’s face like a resounding slap.
When he rushed out of the ruined temple, only the pitch-black forest lay in the distance, not a single trace left behind.
“Ah—!”
The black-robed man’s furious roar startled a flock of old crows into flight.
…
Back at the Guogongfu, Wen Yan locked the door behind her.
She spread the packet of poison powder on the table, her gaze calm.
Chun’er entered with a cup of hot tea, her hands still trembling. “Miss… that was too close just now. This servant’s soul nearly flew out of her body.”
Looking at the poison powder on the table, she paled with lingering fear, but more than that, she burned with anger:
“Those damned beasts! How can they not tolerate your existence?!”
Wen Yan glanced up at her. In the original owner’s memories, this little maid was always timid and fearful.
Yet now, for her sake, she had dared to swing a brick in the face of a vicious assailant.
That genuine protectiveness caused the tightly strung strings in Wen Yan’s heart to loosen imperceptibly for a moment.
She reached out and gently patted Chun’er’s still trembling hand, her voice unusually carrying a trace of warmth:
“Don’t be afraid, I’m here.”
These simple four words instantly made Chun’er’s eyes redden, but she bit her lip hard and nodded vigorously.
Only then did Wen Yan turn her gaze back to the poisonous powder.
“Truth-Seeking Eye, open.”
In her vision, a glaring blood-red prompt appeared above the pile of powder:
[Lethal Poison: Falling Feather]
[Effect: Causes myocardial necrosis within thirty minutes, mimicking acute myocardial infarction.]
[Antidote: None.]
A thin layer of cold sweat broke out on Wen Yan’s back.
That was close.
If she had been half a step later, this thing would already be in her teacup.
Chun’er held the hot tea, her hands still trembling: “Miss… that was too close just now, this servant’s soul almost flew away.”
“Was it really that close?”
Wen Yan carefully stored away “Falling Feather”—this thing, if used well, could be a trump card.
She turned her head, looking toward the direction of Prince Jing’s residence shrouded in darkness outside the window, the corner of her mouth curling upward.
No longer the cold smile of someone playing games with the world, but a truly predatory, chilling curve.
“No, Chun’er.”
“This isn’t a game leveling up.”
“This is my operating table being set up. They are merely… patients waiting in line to go under the knife.”