Wang Er’s case was like a depth charge, detonating a massive wave within the Dali Temple.
That closing statement was locked away by Mo Xingchuan in the deepest secret compartment.
He knew full well that if this document were to leak out, those old diehards in the imperial court would tear him to shreds.
Terms like “depressed skull fracture” and “fire scene carbonization layer analysis”—every single word seemed to challenge the very foundations of the Dazhao Code.
He looked at Wen Yan sitting leisurely in the guest seat, sipping tea, his feelings complex.
This girl wasn’t just solving a case; she was redefining “truth” in an almost domineering manner.
“The Wang family murder case is closed. Miss Gu, it’s time to discuss your matter.”
Mo Xingchuan personally refilled her teacup, his posture humble.
This wasn’t a superior addressing a subordinate, but a seeker of knowledge appealing to one who could enlighten him. “You want to investigate your own poisoning case. What can the Dali Temple do to assist you?”
Wen Yan set down her teacup; the porcelain made a crisp tap as it met the table.
“Three things.”
She spoke calmly, yet left no room for negotiation.
“First, personnel. Old Fang has experience, but his mind is too rigid—needs retraining. I want him as my assistant, just a pair of absolutely obedient hands.”
“Second, authority. I need to investigate Jishi Tang in the west of the city, including all their inventory records for the past year. I require a search warrant that will make the shopkeeper shut up and cooperate willingly.”
Mo Xingchuan nodded; both requests were within the rules.
Wen Yan extended a third finger, her gaze blazing.
“Third, a venue. I need a room. Off-limits to idlers, absolutely private.”
As she spoke, she pulled several folded diagrams from her sleeve, spreading them out one by one on the table.
Mo Xingchuan leaned over to look, and his eyelids twitched violently.
What in the world were these drawings?
Strange contraptions with clay pots and bamboo tubes connected together, shelves with grids, and a “monster” that looked like an alchemy furnace but had several extra pipes.
It was neither medical nor mechanical; instead, it carried an air of the sinister.
Mo Xingchuan’s brows furrowed so tightly they could crush a fly. Finally, he couldn’t help but speak up:
“Miss Gu, the Dali Temple is the most rule-abiding place under the emperor’s feet.
If I let you set up these things in the backyard… and if the Censorate officials see it, they’ll submit a memorial accusing us of ‘practicing sorcery.’ Forget my official hat—even your head would be at risk.”
In Dazhao, “sorcery” was a capital crime punishable by extermination of the entire clan.
Wen Yan laughed, as if she had heard a joke.
“Minister Mo, when farmers read the clouds to predict the weather, is that sorcery?”
Mo Xingchuan was taken aback. “That’s experience.”
“When doctors observe, listen, inquire, and feel the pulse, is that sorcery?”
“That’s medical theory.”
“Then when I determine the murder weapon from bone fractures or deduce the ignition point from ashes, how does that become sorcery?”
Wen Yan stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the square patch of sky.
“Everything in this world follows rules.
Water flows downward, fire rises upward, poison leaves traces in the stomach.
These rules never lie.
All I do is uncover these rules and let the dead speak.”
She turned around, her gaze sharp as a blade, piercing straight into Mo Xingchuan’s heart.
“You, Minister, are well-read in poetry and literature. Must you also, like ignorant commoners, attribute everything you don’t understand to ghosts and gods?
Do you want to cling to old rules and be a mediocre official maintaining peace, or do you want to be the pioneer who clears away the fog and makes the Dazhao Code truly indisputable?”
Mo Xingchuan’s breath hitched.
Mediocre official?
Pioneer?
He glanced at the mountain of old case files piled on his desk—the injustices forced to be shelved due to “insufficient evidence” had weighed on him like stones for half his life.
After a long pause, he exhaled a heavy breath, the hesitation in his eyes completely dissipating, replaced by a gambler’s resolve.
“I understand.”
He stood up and bowed solemnly to Wen Yan, his movements as precise as a student’s.
“Miss Gu, please.”
…
In the backyard of the Dali Temple, in the farthest corner, stood an abandoned storeroom.
Weeds grew knee-high, and the lock had rusted into a lump of iron.
“This used to store case files from the previous dynasty. It’s been empty since, and even ghosts rarely show up here.”
Mo Xingchuan forced open the rusted lock and pushed open the heavy wooden door, stirring up a cloud of dust.
“From today onward, this will be your ‘Physical Evidence Examination Laboratory.’ Make a list of whatever you need—glass, gold, anything available in the capital—and I’ll get it for you within three days.”
People, authority, and now even a designated workspace—this Assistant Minister had fully boarded Wen Yan’s “pirate ship.”
Wen Yan surveyed the large, dusty room filled with cobwebs, and for the first time, a look of satisfaction appeared in her eyes.
“Good. Tomorrow at seven in the morning, I want to see Old Fang and the first batch of materials.”
And so, her modern forensic laboratory was set to be “improvised with local methods” in this ancient time.
Over the next few days, this storeroom became the most mysterious forbidden ground in the Dali Temple.
Wen Yan was practically performing magic.
She directed craftsmen to fire oddly shaped bottles from heat-resistant purple clay, connected bamboo tubes with treated sheep intestines, and assembled a set of distillation equipment that, while crude, was absolutely functional.
Old Fang was conscripted into service, toiling day after day to make filter screens from silk threads of varying densities.
When several high-priced glass cups were placed on the table, Old Fang was utterly dumbfounded.
He watched as Wen Yan pieced together a pile of junk into a set of tools that, while incomprehensible, seemed undeniably impressive.
From initial skepticism to later astonishment, Old Fang now looked at Wen Yan as if she were a deity.
One day.
Wen Yan dusted off her hands, finally drying the mulberry bark papers soaked in purple herb juice.
“Old Fang, stop standing there. Come here.”
Old Fang grunted and shuffled over reluctantly, muttering under his breath:
“A perfectly good coroner, reduced to playing with mud under a young girl’s whims. If word gets out, I’ll lose all face…”
He had been simmering with frustration for days.
Grinding bones? He accepted that. Examining corpses? He was fine with it. But sifting soil with silk threads and connecting tubes with sheep intestines?
This was pure nonsense!
Ignoring his complaints, Wen Yan handed him a strip of purple paper.
“Take this.”
“What for?”
“Writing my last will?”
Old Fang snatched it irritably, pinching it between his fingers, his face full of disdain.
“A piece of scrap paper—what could it possibly reveal?”
Wen Yan didn’t answer, only pointed to a dish of vinegar on the table.
“Dip it.”
Wen Yan picked up the dish of vinegar, dipped a chopstick into it, and gently touched a drop to one of the test papers.
Old Fang, half-doubting, touched the corner of his paper to the vinegar dish.
In the next moment, a miracle occurred.
The originally dull purple corner of the paper, upon contact with the vinegar, seemed to be soaked in blood, abruptly turning into a glaring, vivid red! “Hiss—!”
Old Fang recoiled as if scalded, flinging the paper to the ground and collapsing onto his rear. He pointed a trembling finger at the sheet, his eyes bulging like brass bells.
Before he could regain his composure, Wen Yan dabbed a bit of plant ash solution onto another test strip.
This time, the purple turned bluish-green!
“Ghosts… there are ghosts! This is sorcery!”
Old Fang scrambled backward, his voice quivering.
Wen Yan shook her head, picked up the paper, and said calmly:
“This isn’t sorcery. It’s telling you that this dish of vinegar has a very ‘sour temper.’”
She glanced at the utterly stunned Old Fang and Mo Xingchuan beside him, then took another test strip and dipped it into the nearby plant ash solution.
This time, the purple turned bluish-green.
“And this bowl of water has an ‘alkaline temper.’”
Wen Yan placed the two distinctly colored papers side by side on the table.
“Poisons have their own ‘temper’ too.
Once you understand it, even if the culprit dissolves the poison into a hundred bowls of water, I can still root it out.”
She paused, looking at Old Fang and the equally dumbfounded Mo Xingchuan beside him, and enunciated each word clearly:
“This isn’t divine magic, Old Fang. This is called… chemistry.”
Chemistry.
Mo Xingchuan silently repeated the word in his mind.
Though the two characters felt entirely unfamiliar, they seemed to have kicked open a door to a new world before his very eyes.
Beyond it lay endless truths, and Wen Yan held the only key.
Wen Yan carefully stored away the dozen or so precious test strips.
In ancient times, these were her “demon-revealing mirror.”
She turned to face Mo Xingchuan.
After days of preparation, she now resembled a finely honed blade, sharp and gleaming.
“Magistrate Mo, the weapons are ready.”
“Tomorrow, we go to Jishi Tang. It’s time to close the net.”