Wen Yan toyed with the black oilpaper package named “Falling Feathers,” her fingertips icy cold.
This thing was both her trophy and her death warrant.
Last night’s interception had been clean and efficient, but it didn’t solve the fundamental problem. She had merely cut off one of the enemy’s attacks without destroying their source. As long as the mastermind behind it all remained, such “deadly deliveries” would keep arriving endlessly.
To break this deadlock, relying solely on defense and counterattacks wasn’t enough.
She needed to shift from defense to offense.
She needed an airtight chain of evidence that could send the other party directly to the executioner’s block.
But last night’s operation was merely an appetizer—it couldn’t serve as courtroom evidence. She couldn’t very well tell the Chief Minister of the Dali Temple that she had broken into an abandoned temple at night and snatched a package of poison from a man in black, could she? That wouldn’t be reporting a crime; that would be turning herself in.
Therefore, she needed a “reverse investigation” that could be recorded and traced, conducted in broad daylight.
She had to drag Qiu Chan and the Jishi Tang connection completely out of the shadows and into the light.
Wen Yan’s gaze fell on Chun’er, who was clumsily sweeping the floor outside the door.
This little maid, so clean that she was ignored by the “plot,” was currently the only “zero-contamination” piece she could move.
“Chun’er, come in.”
Chun’er put down her broom and trotted into the room, a hint of an ingratiating smile on her face. “Miss, what do you need?”
Without wasting words, Wen Yan spread out a simple map of the capital she had drawn from memory, pointing to two locations: the Guogongfu and the “Jishi Tang” in the western part of the city.
“Starting today, you have a new task,” Wen Yan said, her voice devoid of emotion, as if assigning work to a subordinate.
“What… task?” Chun’er asked nervously.
“Surveillance on Qiu Chan. I want to know every single movement she makes when she leaves the mansion, down to the minute, who she meets, and what she says.”
Chun’er’s face instantly fell. “Miss, I… I can’t do that. I haven’t trained in martial arts. If I’m caught, I’ll be beaten to death.”
“Who said you need martial arts?” Wen Yan tapped the table, her eyes sharp. “Tracking relies on brains, not fists. Now, I’m going to give you a three-minute pre-assignment training. Listen carefully.”
Wen Yan picked up a red cord and quickly tied a knot on her finger.
“This is a ‘single dead knot,’ representing the target entering a building. The length of the cord you pull out corresponds to how long she stays inside. One inch represents one quarter of an hour.”
She then tied a “single slip knot.”
“This is a ‘single slip knot,’ representing the target conversing with someone. The number of slip knots you tie corresponds to the number of people she talks to.”
Next, she demonstrated a “cross knot,” a “chain knot”…
“A cross knot represents hearing a preset keyword, such as ‘Wangfu’ or ‘silver.'”
“A chain knot represents the target exchanging items. Paper packages, wooden boxes, porcelain bottles—use different knots to distinguish them.”
In less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, Wen Yan had forcefully drilled a simplified information recording method, used in modern criminal investigations for field operations, into Chun’er’s mind, adapting it to an ancient context.
Chun’er went from looking utterly confused at first, to her eyes lighting up, and finally to complete admiration.
She looked at Wen Yan as if gazing upon an omnipotent deity.
“Do you understand?” Wen Yan asked.
Chun’er nodded like a chick pecking at rice: “Understood! Miss, you’re simply… simply amazing!”
“This isn’t amazing, it’s just a little game between us.” Wen Yan handed her a roll of red string and a cloth pouch filled with miscellaneous items. “Go now. Your identity is that of a little maid out shopping. Remember, you’re not tailing her—you’re just strolling through the streets. Your task isn’t to get close to her, but to record her movements.”
Chun’er nodded emphatically, tucking the red string and cloth pouch into her bosom as if they were precious treasures, her eyes brimming with the excitement and sense of mission that came with being entrusted with an important task.
…
The opportunity didn’t take long to arrive.
Three days later, in the afternoon, Qiu Chan indeed changed into an inconspicuous set of gray cloth clothes and slipped out through the side gate in a hurry.
Following Wen Yan’s instructions, Chun’er had left the mansion half an hour earlier, blending into the crowd like any ordinary shopping maid.
Wen Yan sat alone in her room, the map spread out before her.
Her fingers moved slowly across the map, her fingertip pausing on several predicted routes between Guogongfu and Jishi Tang.
“Based on psychological profiling, as the executor, Qiu Chan is nervous and purposeful, and will subconsciously choose routes that are less crowded and shorter in distance.”
Wen Yan’s fingertip tapped on a few narrow alleys.
“The three alleys in the western part of the city are the most likely.
But the smell from the bun shop in the middle section will create olfactory interference, and the second floor of the teahouse is the best spot for reverse observation…
I hope Chun’er remembers the key points from my training.”
She didn’t engage in any more unnecessary deductions, but simply waited quietly.
The real battlefield was on Chun’er’s side.
And what she had to do was trust her “soldier.”
She picked up a black chess piece and placed it firmly on the location of Jishi Tang, as if everything was already under her control.
She placed a black chess piece on the map, as if everything was already under her control.
At three forty-five in the afternoon.
Chun’er came running back, panting heavily, her little face flushed red with excitement and nervousness. Without saying a word, she pulled out the red string from her bosom and handed it to Wen Yan.
Wen Yan took the string and quickly scanned it with her eyes.
“A dead knot, stretched three inches… means she stayed at Jishi Tang for three quarters of an hour.”
“After the dead knot, there are two slip knots… she spoke with two people.”
“There’s a cross knot in the slip knots… the conversation mentioned ‘the Prince’s mansion.'”
“Finally, there’s a chain knot, double-looped… she took a paper package.”
Wen Yan’s fingertip slowly traced along the red string, as if reading the most precise intelligence report.
She looked up at Chun’er: “What did the other person she spoke with look like?”
Chun’er tried hard to recall: “It was Shopkeeper Qian from Jishi Tang. And another one… very thin, like a bamboo pole, wearing green clothes. I was too far away to see his face clearly.”
Wen Yan didn’t press further, but instead took a sheet of white paper and a charcoal pencil.
“No need to see the face clearly. Tell me, was his face square or round? Did he have a high or flat nose bridge? Did he have a beard? Was it a goatee or a full beard?”
As she asked, her charcoal pencil swiftly sketched on the paper.
Based on Chun’er’s fragmented descriptions, the image of a thin, shrewd-looking middle-aged man with a goatee on his chin vividly appeared on the paper.
“That’s him!” Chun’er pointed at the portrait, exclaiming in astonishment, “Miss, how did you… how did you see it as if you were there yourself?”
Wen Yan set down the charcoal pencil. This “suspect sketch” drawn based on eyewitness descriptions was yet another instance of overwhelming advantage.
She picked up the red cord that had been fully deciphered, along with the portrait on the table, her gaze growing profound.
Chun’er had also brought back another piece of information.
“This servant heard Shopkeeper Qian say to Sister Qiu Chan, ‘…just as we agreed before, wait another ten days. Once it’s done…'”
Ten days.
Another “ten days.”
In an instant, the information Wen Yan had obtained from Bai Wanyin a few days earlier flashed through her mind.
The palace was preparing to host the “Thousand Elders Banquet” for the Empress Dowager, inviting all civil and military officials along with their families. The timing was exactly ten days later.
And this “Thousand Elders Banquet” was likely the “Imperial Marriage Banquet” that had been moved forward.
That would be the moment when the entire conspiracy would finally reveal its true nature.
All the evidence and clues pointed to that day.
And Qiu Chan’s current actions were preparations for the final act of “poisoning.”
The evidence was already conclusive.
The poisoner: Qiu Chan.
Source of the poison: Jishi Tang.
Contacts: Shopkeeper Qian and this “Goatee.”
The timeline and motive could already be linked to the ultimate goal of the “Imperial Marriage Banquet.”
But as Wen Yan looked at the red cord and the portrait on the table, she slowly shook her head.
Not enough.
In a modern courtroom, this would be sufficient to file a case.
But in this world where personal connections outweighed the law and imperial authority surpassed legal statutes, this was far from enough.
She was merely a woman confined to the inner chambers, and Chun’er was just a lowly maid.
Their testimonies would be as light as a feather in the face of power.
She needed an “official certification.”
She needed an ally who could represent the “law,” who could legitimately raid Jishi Tang, and who could legally summon Shopkeeper Qian and that “Goatee.”
Wen Yan’s gaze pierced through the window, looking far toward the due south of the capital.
There stood the highest judicial institution of the entire Dazhao Dynasty.
The Dali Temple.
A daring plan took shape in her mind.
Since she couldn’t report the case herself, she would find a way to make the officials of the Dali Temple come and “invite” her, the “expert,” to step forward.
She needed an opportunity. An opportunity that would allow her to display her “case-solving” abilities before them in an indisputable manner.
This opportunity had to be sensational enough, challenging enough, to leave the officials of the Dali Temple utterly overwhelmed.
She would personally create the scene of a “perfect crime.”
Then, she would leave behind a “signature” that only she could decipher.
A cold smile curled at the corner of Wen Yan’s lips.
“Chun’er.”
“This servant is here.”
“Bring me brush and ink.”
Wen Yan picked up the packet of poison named “Falling Feather,” carefully poured out a small amount of powder, and ground it into the ink.
She lifted the brush and, using an extremely bizarre and twisted handwriting, wrote a line on the blank rice paper:
“Within ten days, Guogongfu will see bloodshed. — The Faceless One”
After finishing this, she folded the letter and handed it to Chun’er.
“Tonight at the hour of Zi, shoot this onto the grievance drum of the Dali Temple.”
Chun’er was stunned.
Threatening… the Dali Temple?
And using poisoned ink to write the letter?
If this were discovered…
This was madness!
But she didn’t ask, because she knew that every step her young lady took held a deeper meaning she couldn’t comprehend.
Wen Yan’s gaze remained as calm as still water, settling on the portrait of the “Goatee.”
By fabricating a sensational case out of thin air, she drew everyone’s attention.
Then, under the watchful eyes of all, she “solved” this self-created case using methods even the Dali Temple could not comprehend, conveniently throwing the real clue figure “Goatee” to the authorities as “evidence.”
This was called “borrowing momentum”—borrowing the Dali Temple’s influence to investigate the case she wanted to solve.
The explosives were already planted.
Now, she was about to personally light the fuse.