Three days later, at the old residence of rice merchant Wang Cheng in the southern district.
Three months had passed since the fire, and the ruins had long cooled. Charred, broken walls and collapsed beams jutted out like the ribs of a dead beast.
The acrid smell of burnt debris still lingered in the air, mingling with the damp, moldy scent of late autumn, stinging the nostrils.
Coroner Old Fang rubbed his hands together, exhaling a puff of white breath, his brows furrowed into deep creases. “Miss Gu, Lord Mo, everything’s been burned to this state—what more can we possibly see? I examined the scene thoroughly back then and found absolutely no signs of foul play.”
Mo Xingchuan remained silent, his gaze fixed intently on Wen Yan.
Ignoring the surrounding skepticism, Wen Yan pulled on a pair of self-made, fine white lambskin gloves—a rare sight in the Dazhao Dynasty, their very appearance exuding an air of authority.
She stepped directly into the blackened ash.
To others, this was nothing but useless debris; but through Wen Yan’s “forensic lens,” it was a treasure trove of uncollected evidence.
“The fire spread from the inside out. The point of origin was the bedroom.”
Wen Yan’s voice was soft but clear, each word precise. “The wooden window frames were charred from the inside outward, indicating that the doors and windows were tightly shut when the fire started. The lack of oxygen inside created a ‘smoldering burn,’ which is why the flames didn’t immediately burst through the roof and alert the neighbors.”
She walked to the half-collapsed entrance of the bedroom, crouched down, and used tweezers to extract a small, partially melted lump of metal from the ashes.
“The county report stated that the door bolt was latched from the inside, which is correct. But they missed one detail—this bolt was made of cast iron. An ordinary candle fire wouldn’t generate enough heat to melt it like this.”
Old Fang and Mo Xingchuan exchanged a glance, their pupils contracting slightly.
After decades of investigating cases, who would have thought to study “how hot a fire burns”?
Wen Yan didn’t pause. She walked straight to the center of the bedroom, where two charred, curled-up bodies lay, barely recognizable as human forms.
“Victim Wang Cheng, male, thirty-two. His wife, Li Shi, twenty-nine.” As she spoke, Wen Yan gently brushed away the loose ash from the skeletons with a small brush, her movements more delicate than embroidery.
Old Fang quickly handed over the previously simplistic autopsy report, muttering under his breath, “Miss Gu, at the time, the bodies were in a ‘pugilistic posture,’ with limbs curled—a clear sign of struggle from being burned alive…”
“Old Fang, your autopsy handbook needs an update.”
Wen Yan didn’t even look up, her tone as casual as if discussing the weather. “The so-called ‘pugilistic posture’ is merely a natural reaction of muscles dehydrating and contracting under high heat. Even a dead pig thrown into a fire would assume the same shape. It has absolutely nothing to do with whether the victim struggled before death.”
Old Fang’s face flushed with embarrassment. He opened his mouth but couldn’t muster a retort. In front of this young lady, his decades of experience felt as fragile as paper.
“Come here.”
Wen Yan beckoned, pointing a silver needle toward the back of the male skeleton’s skull. “Listen.”
The tip of the needle lightly tapped the bone, producing a crisp sound.
“Occipital bone, depressed and comminuted fracture.”
Mo Xingchuan leaned in, and a chill ran down his spine. Beneath the blackened charcoal layer, the center of the skull was sunken, surrounded by spiderweb-like cracks.
“Blunt force trauma from a surprise attack, fatal with a single strike. The killer gave Wang Cheng no chance to react.”
Wen Yan moved the needle tip to the smaller female skeleton beside it, stopping at the neck area. Only ashes remained there, easily overlooked if one wasn’t careful.
She brushed aside a piece of charcoal, revealing a fragment of bone so slender it was almost invisible.
“This is the hyoid bone. Hidden deep within the throat, it’s virtually impossible to fracture unless someone strangles the victim with both hands, violently crushing it.”
Wen Yan looked up, her gaze sweeping across the scene, her voice icy cold: “In forensic medicine, this is called ‘mechanical asphyxiation.'”
The scene fell deathly silent.
Several officers instinctively touched their own necks, feeling a chill run down their spines. This wasn’t just an autopsy—it was like making the dead speak and testify!
Mo Xingchuan felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine. He finally understood the weight behind Wen Yan’s words about “making the bones speak.”
This charcoal corpse, burned for three months, was now, under Wen Yan’s hands, pointing out the murderer word by word!
“The case is clear now.”
Wen Yan stood up, removed her gloves, and dusted them off—a gesture within her “absolute domain.”
“It was someone they knew. The murderer entered the house, struck the husband from behind, killing him. The wife witnessed the horror, screamed, and was strangled to death. To cover up the injuries, the murderer locked the door, set the fire, and staged it as an accident.”
Mo Xingchuan breathed rapidly: “Who is the murderer? Where’s the evidence?”
“The evidence is right here.” Wen Yan pointed to the ashes near the threshold. “To fake a locked room, the murderer must have used a slender tool to slide the latch through the door crack. But he used too much force, and the tool broke.”
As soon as she finished speaking, a sharp-eyed officer exclaimed, picking up a rusted iron hook tip from the ashes!
“And,” Wen Yan pointed to the charred roof beam overhead, which had miraculously not collapsed, “to ensure the fire burned thoroughly, the murderer used an accelerant, such as tung oil. Check the carbonized layer on that beam. If it was burned with oil, the carbon layer will be dense and shiny, like glass.”
“The iron hook fragment, the unique carbonized layer. Then investigate which blacksmith forged this type of hook and who recently lost such an item. The murderer won’t escape.”
…
The speed of solving the case felt like it was on fast-forward.
Two days later, the true culprit was apprehended.
Wang Er, the cousin of the deceased Wang Cheng, had committed the murder out of greed for his brother’s property. The iron hook fragment matched exactly the broken tip of an iron hook found in his woodshed.
Faced with the conclusive report filled with terms like “carbonized layer analysis” and “mechanical asphyxiation,” Wang Er broke down in court and confessed everything.
A death case that had remained unsolved for three months was handed over to Wen Yan and perfectly resolved in less than three days.
Inside the Dali Temple.
Mo Xingchuan stared at the closing statement he had personally recorded, remaining silent for a long time.
Depressed fractures, mechanical asphyxiation, fire scene reconstruction… These unheard-of terms were like keys, unlocking new doors in his understanding.
From today onward, the criminal justice system of Dazhao was about to change.
He took a deep breath, stood up, and bowed deeply to Wen Yan, who was seated as a guest sipping tea.
This was the highest respect the Deputy Minister of the Dali Temple could offer to a pioneer capable of revolutionizing the entire field of criminal investigation in Dazhao.
“Miss Wen.”
Mo Xingchuan’s voice carried a barely perceptible tremor—not from fear, but excitement.
“I have learned much from you.”
“From today onward, the Criminal Investigation Department of the Dali Temple is willing to honor you as our teacher.
Whatever you wish to investigate, I, Mo, will go through fire and water.
But what I truly wish to know is whether this ‘forensic medicine’ can become a ‘standard’ that everyone in the Dali Temple can learn.”
He looked up, his eyes blazing with astonishing intensity:
“If these methods could be compiled into manuals and widely promoted, how many unresolved cases in the world could be brought to justice!”
Wen Yan set down her teacup and helped him up, the laziness in her eyes fading away to reveal the sharpness hidden beneath.
For the first time, she truly looked at the man before her.
What he saw was not merely the “technique” of solving cases, but the “way” to change the world.
“Good.”
The corners of her lips lifted slightly, but her voice was even colder than when she had been examining the corpse.
“Then now, I ask Lord Mo to officially open a case for me.”
“Let’s investigate just who it is that wants my life.”