On the third day, as promised, Wen Yan arrived punctually.
The moment she stepped into the tea room of the Mo residence, she subtly adjusted her breath.
This was the only opportunity she had fought for herself—one misstep, and all would be lost.
A cold, rigid scent of aged case files and bitter tea greeted her, much like the master of this tea room.
There were no superfluous decorations; even the lines of the tables and chairs exuded a sharpness that kept others at a distance.
Mo Xingchuan sat upright behind the table, not even lifting his eyelids, his voice as cold as ice:
“Miss Gu, I have searched through all the records of the Dali Temple and have never encountered the method of ‘fingerprint comparison.’
Where does this technique come from?”
As expected.
Wen Yan had long prepared for this.
This was the first test in her high-stakes gamble.
Wen Yan picked up the teacup but did not drink. Instead, she gently skimmed the foam with the lid.
Steadying her slightly trembling fingertips, she concealed her nervousness in the motion of skimming the foam and spoke calmly:
“Sir, do you know that there are no two identical leaves in the world?
Similarly, there are no two completely identical fingerprints.”
She retrieved a roll of white silk she had prepared earlier from her sleeve and slowly unfolded it on the table.
Wen Yan noticed that Mo Xingchuan’s gaze was fixed intently on the diagram, unmoving.
Success. The first step—piquing his curiosity.
What she unfolded was not a landscape or a painting of flowers and birds but a meticulously drawn “fingerprint atlas,” filled with rigorous logic.
The diagram, drawn clearly with charcoal, depicted over a dozen fingerprint patterns, each labeled with small characters.
“Fingerprints can generally be divided into three basic types: whorls, loops, and arches.” Wen Yan’s fingertip lightly traced the atlas, as if teaching a beginner. “Based on detailed characteristics, they can be further subdivided into dozens of subtypes. These details—such as bifurcations, short lines, small eyes, and small dots—are unique to each individual. We call this the ‘detailed characteristic comparison method.'”
Mo Xingchuan’s expression grew solemn.
He extended his hand, carefully examining the patterns on his fingertips, realizing for the first time that these marks, which had accompanied him for thirty years, held such profound secrets.
Wen Yan continued, her voice soft but each word striking Mo Xingchuan’s heart.
“Sir, you rely on confessions to solve cases. But confessions can lie. People lie out of fear, temptation, or even under torture. Fingerprints, however, do not.”
“As long as a fingerprint is found at the crime scene, and it can be proven to belong to the suspect, it becomes irrefutable evidence, leaving no room for excuses. If this method could be implemented, how many wrongful convictions could be avoided in Dazhao each year? And how many true criminals could be brought to justice?”
After speaking, Wen Yan paused, carefully observing Mo Xingchuan’s reaction.
She saw his fingers resting on the table unconsciously tighten, and a flicker of struggle appeared in his eyes.
She knew her words, like a needle, had precisely pierced the softest yet most stubborn part of a judicial officer’s heart—the ultimate longing for “truth” and “justice.”
Mo Xingchuan remained silent for a long time, so long that the tea had nearly cooled.
He looked up, his gaze sharp as a blade: “If this method is truly as you say, it could be considered a divine skill. Why, then, has no legal expert throughout history discovered and recorded it in the law?”
Wen Yan smiled.
“Because discovering it doesn’t require the wisdom of sages—it requires doubt. Doubt experience, doubt tradition, doubt ‘the way things have always been.’ And even more so… because no one dares to be the first to eat the crab.”
She leaned forward, her gaze locking directly into Mo Xingchuan’s eyes, her presence commanding: “Lord Mo, do you dare to be the first in Dazhao?”
The knuckles of Mo Xingchuan’s hand resting on the desk tightened abruptly.
This was no frail, orphaned girl—she was clearly a madwoman.
A madwoman who wanted to turn Dazhao’s legal system upside down.
But Mo Xingchuan, as it happened, was also a madman.
“Miss Gu, what do you want?” His voice grew slightly hoarse. Heaven doesn’t drop pies from the sky—such a dragon-slaying skill must come with a price.
“Three things.” Wen Yan held up three fingers, crisp and clear.
“First, I want the highest authority. All case files in the Dali Temple, no matter how long they’ve been sealed, whether they involve royalty or commoners—if I want to see them, you must provide them.”
“Second, I want people. That old man, Old Fang, is good—knowledgeable and obedient. He’s mine now.”
“Third, I want money and land. I want an independent autopsy room, with all tools crafted according to my designs. I want to turn this ‘divine skill’ into a standard practice that everyone in the Dali Temple can use.”
Mo Xingchuan’s brows furrowed into a deep crease.
Any one of these three conditions, if made public, could cause an uproar in the imperial court. Accessing forbidden cases? Reforming the Dali Temple? This wasn’t just about challenging authority—it was about shaking the very foundations of Dazhao’s officialdom.
“Miss Gu, do you know what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do.” Wen Yan met his gaze calmly. “And I also know that you don’t want to see the real culprits go free anymore, nor do you want to see unsolved cases piling up like mountains. We’re cut from the same cloth.”
Cut from the same cloth.
These three words eased some of the wariness in Mo Xingchuan’s eyes.
Seeing the timing was about right, Wen Yan decided to add the final push.
“If you still think I’m just talking theory, why not—take a gamble?”
She took a sip of the now-cold tea, her tone light but laced with unmistakable provocation:
“Bring me an unsolved case. Half an incense stick’s time—if I can’t find the flaw, I’ll hand over this ‘Western rare manuscript’ with both hands, and I, Gu Xiewei, will disappear from your sight forever.
If I win, these three conditions—you’ll give them whether you want to or not.”
A challenge.
A blatant, open scheme.
Mo Xingchuan stared at her for a long moment, then suddenly pulled a yellowed case file from his official bag and slapped it onto the table.
“Fine, as you wish.”
His gaze sharpened, as if he had returned to the interrogation stand: “Three months ago, Wang Cheng, a rice merchant in the southern city, and his wife died in a fire. The county office and the Dali Temple investigated repeatedly, concluding it was an accidental fire caused by drunkenly knocking over a candle stand. But his brother, Wang Wu, has been crying injustice for three months, even threatening to roll on nail boards to appeal to the emperor. This case remains unsolved to this day.”
He pushed the file toward Wen Yan.
“Miss Gu, proceed. Half an incense stick—I’ll light it for you myself.”
A wisp of blue smoke rose.
Without wasting words, Wen Yan opened the file. She read quickly, not as if following a story, but as if searching for loopholes.
Time ticked by, the incense ash falling in sections.
Mo Xingchuan watched coldly, arms crossed. The reason this case remained unsolved was because it was too perfect—an airtight “sealed-room accident.” He didn’t believe a sheltered young woman could uncover anything just by reading a few pages…
Snap.
The sound of the file closing.
The incense had only burned halfway.
Wen Yan looked up, her expression as calm as if discussing what to have for dinner. “This case is murder.”
Mo Xingchuan’s eyelids twitched. “Evidence?”
“The evidence is right here.”
Wen Yan spread open the case file, her fingertip resting on an inconspicuous line of autopsy notes: The body is curled up, mouth and nostrils clean, no traces of soot found.
“Please look here, sir.”
Her voice instantly turned professional and cold—this was the moment of a forensic examiner.
“A living person in a fire would instinctively struggle and gasp, inhaling large amounts of smoke and plant ash into their trachea, which settles in the lungs after death. Even if the body is charred, cutting open the trachea would reveal it filled with black soot.”
“But this case file clearly states—mouth and nostrils clean, no soot.”
She raised her eyes, her gaze sharp as a blade. “What does this mean? It means they were no longer breathing when the fire started.”
“They were killed first, then set on fire to burn the bodies!”
As Wen Yan’s words fell, the tearoom fell into dead silence.
She saw Mo Xingchuan’s pupils contract sharply, the color draining from his face as if he had been struck hard over the head.
Wen Yan waited quietly for him to process this earth-shattering revelation.
She knew that these few words were enough to tear a massive crack in his ten years of investigative experience.
“No soot… in the lungs…” he murmured to himself, as if savoring the bloody truth behind these five words.
The incense burned out, the last wisp of smoke dissipating.
Victory was decided, without a doubt.
Mo Xingchuan stood up, straightened his robes, and bowed deeply to the seemingly delicate woman before him.
This bow was a tribute to her brilliance and a plea for the truth.
“I have learned much.”
When he looked up again, the doubt in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a fervor reserved for a kindred spirit.
“In three days, I ask Miss Gu to accompany me to the scene. I wish to see with my own eyes how you make those silent bones point to the killer.”
Wen Yan gathered the diagrams on the table, a composed smile curling at the corner of her lips.
“It would be my pleasure.”