The third quarter of the hour of Zi.
The water clock dripped mournfully.
Only after confirming Qiu Chan’s breathing was deep and steady did Wen Yan rise from the bed like a reanimated corpse, inch by inch.
This body was broken.
Every movement of a muscle felt like dragging a thousand pounds of raw iron. Yet her central nervous system was in a state of extreme excitement—the cold detachment unique to a forensic examiner facing a corpse.
She unfolded the handkerchief she had hidden during the day.
Under the dim candlelight, the white crystals precipitated from the medicinal dregs gleamed with a chilling, deathly light.
Qualitative, quantitative.
These were the ironclad rules of forensic science.
Ignoring the cold sweat covering her forehead, Wen Yan turned and climbed out of bed. She didn’t need complex reagents; the ancient method of the “egg white arsenic test” was enough to tear off the facade of this household.
The path to the small kitchen was only a hundred steps, yet it took her an entire stick of incense to traverse.
Without wasting words, she used this sickly body that could collapse at any moment to forcefully demand three raw eggs from the night-watching maid under her suspicious gaze.
Back in her room.
Door locked.
These hands had dissected two thousand corpses and extracted micron-level fibers from decaying tissue. Now, even with trembling fingertips, they remained as precise as a scalpel.
Crack the eggshell.
Filter out the yolk.
The clear egg white flowed into the porcelain bowl, like a petri dish awaiting its purpose.
Wen Yan crushed the medicinal dreg crystals, letting the powder fall in a soft cascade.
The moment she stirred with chopsticks, a faint sound came from the floor tiles outside the door.
Extremely light.
Like a cat landing, or soft-soled shoes stepping on fallen leaves.
Wen Yan’s pupils contracted sharply.
Muscle memory moved faster than her mind. With a flick of her wrist, she slid the porcelain bowl along with the medicinal dregs into the shadows beneath the bed, then threw herself back onto the pillow, pulling the brocade quilt over her head.
In the next instant, the door silently swung open.
Qiu Chan, holding a candlestick, drifted in like a paper effigy.
Candlelight seeped through the gaps in the bedding, casting red spots on Wen Yan’s tightly closed eyelids. She controlled her diaphragm, forcibly lengthening and slowing her rapid breaths to mimic the rhythm of deep sleep.
That gaze wandered among the bed curtains.
Carrying scrutiny, with a trace of the coldness belonging to a watcher.
A faint, lingering fishy scent hung in the air.
Qiu Chan stopped three feet from the head of the bed, her shadow stretching long, enveloping Wen Yan’s pale face.
Three seconds.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
In that moment, time stretched infinitely long. If Qiu Chan lifted the bedsheet and saw that bowl of egg white, Wen Yan would be doomed.
“…The wind has grown stronger,” Qiu Chan murmured to herself, turning to close the half-open window lattice before retreating.
Only when the soft click of the door latch sounded did Wen Yan snap her eyes open.
Cold sweat had long soaked through her undergarments, clinging to her back, icy and damp.
She didn’t move.
She endured for another quarter-hour, certain there was no sudden return, before dragging the life-or-death porcelain bowl from beneath the bed.
No further steps were needed.
In the originally clear egg white, large clumps of black, flocculent sediment now floated suspended.
The chemical reaction between arsenic trioxide and sulfur protein.
The evidence was irrefutable.
Wen Yan stared expressionlessly at that mass of black death, her mind racing as she constructed a death report.
Approximately 0.1 grams per poisoning.
Continued for ninety days.
Cumulative intake… 9 grams.
A dose sufficient to kill two adult bulls. If not for the original host’s tolerance developed from long-term medication, this body would have long turned to dry bones.
She grabbed a charcoal pen and swiftly recorded on white silk.
Every word was evidence for the court.
Every piece of data was a dagger aimed at the murderer.
As she finished the last stroke, the horizon began to lighten with the first glow of dawn.
Wen Yan sealed the dregs of the medicine into a brocade pouch and tucked it close to her body, then stuffed the poisoned handkerchief into a hidden compartment beneath the bed board.
The final step.
Closing the loop of the evidence chain—fingerprints.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, right on schedule.
Wen Yan adjusted her sitting posture, and just as Qiu Chan stepped over the threshold carrying the morning tea, her elbow slipped as if weakened.
“Clang!”
The teacup fell to the floor, splashing scalding tea everywhere.
“Ah!”
Instinctively, Qiu Chan crouched down to pick up the intact teacup.
Now!
Wen Yan stared intently at Qiu Chan’s hand.
That fair, well-maintained hand, its thumb and index finger pressing firmly against the rim of the cup to steady its smooth surface.
The oils from her fingertips adhered perfectly to the porcelain glaze.
“Are you hurt, Miss?” Qiu Chan stood up, a flicker of impatience flashing in her eyes, though her tone remained deferential.
“My hand slipped,” Wen Yan replied weakly, lowering her eyelids.
Once Qiu Chan had cleaned up and left, Wen Yan immediately locked the door and retrieved the “forgotten” teacup.
She lit a candle.
Using the black smoke produced by the incomplete combustion of the candle’s outer flame, she evenly smoked the surface of the cup.
A miracle appeared.
Black soot clung to the oils, revealing a clear, complete fingerprint that emerged like a ghost on the white porcelain.
This was a dimensional strike from modern forensic techniques.
In this era without DNA technology, this was the “King of physical evidence.”
Just as Wen Yan was about to lift the fingerprint, an inexplicable gust of wind suddenly slammed the window open.
A sinister wind howled.
Immediately after, the white silk she had just sewn into the pillowcase, which recorded her data, burst into eerie green flames out of thin air!
No heat.
No ignition source.
It was as if an invisible hand was forcibly erasing it from this dimension.
Wen Yan reacted swiftly, grabbing the remaining cold tea and splashing it onto the flames.
The water passed through the fire.
Useless!
As the white silk was about to turn to ash, Wen Yan’s eyes sharpened. She reached barehanded into the green flames, forcibly tearing off half of the remaining scroll!
Excruciating pain shot through her fingertips, as if her soul had been scalded.
The flames extinguished.
But the poisoning timeline and dosage calculations had all turned to black ash.
Wen Yan looked at the half-burnt scrap of cloth in her palm, a blood-stained, cold smile curling at the corner of her mouth.
Indeed.
There was “something” in this world protecting the murderer.
It was correcting the plot.
It would not allow a cannon-fodder supporting character to possess evidence that could turn the tide.
“Want to burn it?”
Wen Yan walked to the window, facing the chaotic morning wind, and pointed to her own temple.
Her voice was soft, yet each word struck like a nail:
“I’ve memorized all the data here.”
“You can burn the physical evidence, you can tamper with the plot, but you cannot burn the objectively existing facts.”
“Even if you burn this world to ashes, the corpse will still speak.”
“And I am the translator.”
She tucked the only remaining fingerprint lift close to her body—it was her declaration of war against this twisted world.
Gu Xiewei, your grievance, I accept.
If fate demands your death, I will defy it and let you live.
Footsteps sounded outside the door once more.
Qiu Chan arrived as scheduled, carrying that bowl of pitch-black medicinal soup.
“Miss, it’s time for your calming tonic.”
Mechanical, icy, carrying an unquestionable death sentence.
Wen Yan obediently took the porcelain bowl.
She raised it, her wide sleeves perfectly concealing her jaw. With a tilting motion, the dark-brown poison flowed from the corner of her mouth, completely absorbed into the thick cloth towel hidden in her sleeve.
Her throat moved, feigning a swallowing motion.
When she set the bowl down, it was empty.
“It’s so bitter.” Wen Yan coughed lightly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief to conceal the nonexistent traces of medicine.
Qiu Chan stared at the empty bowl, then withdrew her gaze with satisfaction.
In the moment she turned away, Wen Yan keenly noticed an almost imperceptible flinch in Qiu Chan’s shoulders.
A stress response.
An involuntary muscle contraction triggered by overwhelming pressure, beyond conscious control.
The textbook definition flashed through Wen Yan’s mind, and a cold smile curled at the corner of her lips.
Afraid?
Good.
Even the most impenetrable fortress needs someone who fears enough to unlock it from within.
Leaning against the headboard, Wen Yan watched Qiu Chan’s retreating figure, her eyes utterly indifferent.
Death countdown: five days.
This nauseating plot should finally come to an end.