The next day, at the hour of Chen.
Just as Manager Qian of Jishi Tang yawned and pulled open the shop door, the sight before him made him swallow the second half of his yawn in shock.
At the forefront stood Mo Xingchuan, clad in a dark blue official robe, exuding an icy aura, his gaze sharper than icicles in the dead of winter.
Behind him followed two rows of officers from the Dali Temple, swords hanging at their waists. Their imposing presence seemed less like an investigation and more like a raid.
Manager Qian was a portly man in his forties, his silk robes straining against his frame, his face glistening with oil.
Upon recognizing the visitors, his legs nearly gave way. He hurriedly forced a smile uglier than tears and stepped forward to greet them:
“Ah, isn’t this Lord Mo? What wind has blown such an esteemed figure here? Please, come inside. We have the finest Longjing tea picked before the rains…”
Mo Xingchuan ignored his flattery, merely stepping aside to reveal a slender woman wearing a veil hat behind him.
Though her face was obscured, Manager Qian inexplicably felt that the aura around this woman was even more dangerous than that of the stern-faced Lord Mo.
Through the thin veil, Wen Yan activated the Truth-Seeking Eye.
In her vision, two golden points of light hung conspicuously on Manager Qian’s body. One of them pointed directly toward the direction of a certain prince’s mansion in the capital, like an invisible coordinate arrow.
Wen Yan sneered inwardly, though her expression remained unreadable.
Mo Xingchuan’s voice held no warmth:
“We are here on imperial orders to investigate a case. Manager Qian, bring out all your shop’s sales records for the past three months.”
“S-sales records?”
Manager Qian’s face instantly paled, fine beads of cold sweat breaking out on his temples. “My lord, these… these are just ordinary prescriptions for headaches and fevers. What is there to investigate? We are honest businessmen…”
Mo Xingchuan wasted no more words. Two officers behind him drew their swords with a sharp clang, the cold blades resting against Manager Qian’s plump neck.
“Will you bring them, or not?”
Manager Qian felt a sudden urge to urinate. Scrambling frantically, he rushed behind the counter and, trembling, pulled out a thick stack of account books from a hidden compartment.
Wen Yan did not let anyone else handle it. She personally took the account books.
Sitting to the side, her slender fingers swiftly flipped through the yellowed pages.
To others, it seemed a dizzying blur, but in her eyes, the numbers were automatically filtering and categorizing themselves.
In less time than it takes an incense stick to burn, her fingers paused on a few pages.
“Manager Qian, explain this.”
Wen Yan’s voice was soft, yet it made Manager Qian shudder all over.
She pointed to several lines in the account book, where transactions for “White Stone Powder” were recorded in small, neat script.
“Sixth month, seventh day: White Stone Powder, three liang. Buyer: Li household, west of the city.”
“Sixth month, twenty-first day: White Stone Powder, two liang. Buyer: Zhang the butcher, South Street.”
“Seventh month, fifth day: White Stone Powder, three liang. Buyer: Wang Mazi, East Market.”
Wen Yan looked up, her gaze piercing through the veil like two tangible cold arrows aimed at Manager Qian.
“These records are truly fascinating. Over three months, seventeen transactions of White Stone Powder, totaling forty-five liang. The buyers are either surnamed Li or Zhang, all nameless, untraceable individuals. Manager Qian, does your shop specialize in doing business with thin air?”
Manager Qian’s sweat had already soaked through the back of his clothes. He struggled to defend himself:
“Your Honor, please understand, while this white stone powder is indeed poisonous, it can also be used medicinally to treat asthma. Those who come to buy it are all patients with urgent conditions, they… they hardly have the time to carefully inquire about names and addresses…”
“Is that so?”
Wen Yan pulled a piece of paper from her sleeve, on which she had transcribed the “Dazhao Code · Medical Provisions” from memory the previous night.
“Article 213 of the Dazhao Code states: Anyone selling potent drugs such as arsenic, aconite, or crane’s crest red must register three parties: the buyer’s name, place of origin, and guarantor—none may be omitted. Additionally, the intended use must be specified and reported to the authorities. Violators shall be punished with eighty strokes and exiled three thousand li.”
She slapped the paper onto the table with a crisp sound. Though the force was not great, it sent a tremor through Shopkeeper Qian’s heart.
“If these seventeen transactions were judged according to the law, your head would be enough to be chopped off seventeen times. Or perhaps you’d prefer to be exiled to the northern deserts and taste the sandstorms there?”
Mo Xingchuan added coldly from the side:
“Alternatively, you could choose to tell the truth now. This official might consider allowing you to spend the rest of your life with dignity in the capital’s prison.”
One played the good cop, the other the bad cop.
On one side was the precise crushing weight of the law, on the other the direct threat of violence.
With a thud, Shopkeeper Qian could no longer hold on. He collapsed to his knees like a pile of mud, his face smeared with snot and tears.
“Your Honor, spare my life! Miss Gu, spare my life! I dare not deceive you, truly… I truly dare not speak!”
He kowtowed as he wailed, “That buyer… I cannot afford to offend them!”
Mo Xingchuan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his killing intent fully exposed:
“Speak.”
Shopkeeper Qian trembled, as if mustering every ounce of strength in his body:
“It’s… it’s the Prince’s residence! It’s someone from Prince Jing’s residence!”
As expected.
Wen Yan and Mo Xingchuan exchanged a glance, both seeing the anticipated answer in each other’s eyes.
“Which Prince’s residence? Who bought it?”
Wen Yan pressed, leaving no room for the other to catch his breath.
“It’s Prince Jing’s residence!”
Shopkeeper Qian seemed to have thrown caution to the wind. From the innermost part of his robe, he pulled out a waist token, warmed by his sweat, and raised it high above his head.
It was a black iron waist token, clearly engraved with several characters in seal script:
“Prince Jing’s Residence, Steward, Wang Fu.”
Wang Fu!
The very steward who had framed Chun’er and later held secret talks with Qiu Chan in the garden!
The circle was complete.
All the clues in Wen Yan’s mind were perfectly connected at this moment!
Wang Fu was the executor. He procured the poison from Jishi Tang, handed it to Qiu Chan, who then administered it to her daily.
This was a clearly divided, intricately linked chain of murder.
And behind Wang Fu was Prince Jing’s residence!
Mo Xingchuan snatched the waist token and account book, ordering the officers behind him:
“Seal Jishi Tang! Take all the clerks back to the Dali Temple for interrogation! Additionally, dispatch a team to Guogongfu immediately to arrest Wang Fu! Alive or dead, I want him found!”
“Yes, sir!”
The officers obeyed, splitting into two groups and moving with swift efficiency.
Wen Yan looked at Shopkeeper Qian, collapsed on the ground, knowing this man was finished.
But before his end, he had finally served some purpose.
She slowly rose and said to Mo Xingchuan:
“Your Honor, let us return to Guogongfu. I have a feeling we might be… too late.”
…Wen Yan’s premonition soon became reality.
When they galloped back to Guogongfu, they were not greeted by the captured Wang Fu, but by a towering blaze of flames.
The fire was raging precisely in the servants’ quarters backyard—Wang Fu’s residence.
The mansion’s servants were scrambling to put out the blaze, but the flames were too fierce. The roof beams had already collapsed, turning the entire structure into a massive furnace.
The Dali Temple officers sent to apprehend the suspect were all covered in soot and grime. The leading officer knelt on one knee, reporting to Mo Xingchuan:
“Sir, by the time we arrived, the fire had already broken out. The door was bolted from the inside, making it impossible to enter. After we forced it open, the interior was already engulfed in flames. Wang Fu… Wang Fu likely perished in the fire, leaving no trace of his remains!”
“Suicide by fire to avoid punishment?”
Mo Xingchuan’s brows furrowed into a tight knot. “What a coincidence!”
Wen Yan remained silent.
She pushed through the crowd and approached the charred remains of the house.
Once again, she activated the Truth-Seeking Eye.
In her vision, a scene invisible to others clearly unfolded before her—countless fine, invisible golden threads rose from the ruins, converging into a single stream that drifted toward the direction of the imperial palace.
It wasn’t smoke; it was the residual traces of a forcibly altered plot.
This energy fluctuation far exceeded any previous instance.
It meant that Wang Fu’s death was an extremely critical plot point that had been forcibly twisted.
It meant that Wang Fu’s death was an extremely critical plot point that had been forcibly twisted or erased.
This was… silencing a witness.
And it was the work of “Fate” itself.
“It seems we’ve truly touched upon a taboo,” Wen Yan’s voice was soft, yet carried a chilling undertone.
“Wang Fu knew too much. He was the sole link connecting Jishi Tang to the mastermind behind it all. With his death, this lead is severed.”
Mo Xingchuan clenched his fist until it cracked, slamming it against a nearby charred beam.
For the first time, he felt this sense of powerlessness—his opponent was an invisible, omnipotent black hand.
“Severed?” he gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with unwilling fury. “Are we just going to let it go?”
“No.”
Wen Yan shook her head.
She turned around, facing the flames filling the sky and swirling black ash, her gaze fixed on the astonished Mo Xingchuan.
Her cool, clear eyes now burned with a determination fiercer than the flames of the fire.
Her gaze crossed over Mo Xingchuan’s shoulder, precisely locked onto a chaotic firefighting figure in the distance.
It was an utterly unremarkable servant, running back and forth with buckets of water, his face filled with panic.
But in Wen Yan’s Truth-Seeking Eye,
a faint golden thread connected to the servant from the direction of the imperial palace,
slowly merging into his body.
After erasing Wang Fu,
“Fate” had immediately chosen its next executor!
“Leads may be dead, but people are alive.”
“The more it tries to stop me, the more it proves I’m on the right path.”
“It destroyed one thread; I’ll seize another right before its eyes.”
She paused, then spoke word by word:
“Lord Mo, it’s time to formally submit my own case to the court.”
“Since ‘Fate’ wants me dead, then I’ll chop off its ‘hands’ in this world,
one by one, in front of everyone!”