Death Countdown: Four Days.
Sitting around waiting for death? That’s not my style.
In this man-eating Guogongfu, passive defense is just waiting to die. I need to take the initiative, to tear a hole in the opponent’s airtight net.
I lack a card.
A “living card.”
A beacon, not controlled by the so-called “plot,” who can carry evidence out of this confined world for me.
“Qiu Chan.”
Wen Yan leaned against the soft pillow, her voice as faint as a breeze, yet carrying a chill. “I want to go out for a walk. My bones are almost rusting. If I don’t get some sun soon, I’m afraid I’ll really grow mold.”
Qiu Chan’s hand, wiping the table, froze mid-air, her eyes flickering uncertainly, not daring to meet Wen Yan’s gaze.
Wen Yan understood.
“Miss, the wind outside is strong, your health…”
Without even lifting her eyelids, Wen Yan interrupted her excuse. “I still want to see more of the Guogongfu’s luxurious scenery. I don’t want to report to the Court of Yama so soon. You don’t need to worry about me; I can manage on my own.”
These words were like a thorn, precisely piercing Qiu Chan’s weak spot. She didn’t dare say another word, lowering her head and obediently coming over to support her.
Wen Yan placed her hand on Qiu Chan’s wrist, clearly feeling—the girl’s muscles were tense, trembling slightly.
Hah, scared? Good, be scared.
From the moment she stepped out of the room, Wen Yan’s “Forensic Mode” was fully activated.
With every step, her legs felt like they were filled with lead, but the weaker this body became, the clearer her mind grew.
She was scanning the map.
Everything within her sight was a clue. At what hour was the flower path most crowded? Which corner was a surveillance blind spot? Who seemed like a “background character” detached from this complex web of relationships?
What she was looking for was an “invisible person.”
When she reached the rockery, Wen Yan pretended to stop and admire the flowers. Using a dense cluster of azaleas as cover, her gaze instantly locked onto a man and a woman not far away.
Qiu Chan was whispering with a man who looked like a steward, her head lowered.
Wen Yan recognized that face—Chief Steward, Wang Fu.
“Truth-Seeking Eye, activate.”
With a thought, her vision instantly became data-driven.
Three golden light points hovered above Qiu Chan’s head, while Wang Fu had two.
Most interestingly, a faint golden thread tightly connected the two, like an invisible chain.
Confirmed.
These two were grasshoppers tied to the same rope.
Just as Wen Yan was about to etch this scene into her memory, hurried footsteps suddenly sounded behind her, followed by a suppressed gasp.
“Ah!”
A figure failed to stop in time and collided with her.
With a clatter, the food box overturned.
Exquisite pastries rolled all over the ground, covered in mud.
A complete mess.
“Spare me, Miss! Spare me!”
The little maid who caused the trouble was pale with fright. Her knees gave way, and she knelt directly, kowtowing repeatedly, her whole body trembling like a sieve.
“You blind fool! Can you afford to disturb the Miss?!” Qiu Chan reacted dramatically, stepping forward and raising her foot to kick.
“Stop.”
Wen Yan’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.
Qiu Chan’s foot hung in mid-air, not daring to land.
Ignoring Qiu Chan’s twisted expression, Wen Yan’s gaze fell on the trembling little maid.
The Truth-Seeking Eye was still active.
This girl was clean—not a single light point on her.
Just a passerby, no affiliations.
It’s you.
Wen Yan bent down, slowly yet firmly helping the little maid to her feet.
“What’s your name?”
The little maid was overwhelmed by the unexpected kindness, tears still shimmering in her eyes as she stammered, “I… I’m called Chun’er.”
“Chun’er? A lovely name.” Wen Yan patted the dust off her knees. “Don’t be afraid. It was me standing in the draft, blocking your way.”
With that, she turned to Qiu Chan, her tone as casual as if discussing the weather: “Go to the accounts office and withdraw one tael of silver to compensate the main kitchen. Then fetch that box of pearl flowers from my dressing case and give them to Chun’er to calm her nerves.”
This series of moves left both Qiu Chan and Chun’er stunned.
Qiu Chan’s face was full of reluctance, as if it pained her deeply, but under Wen Yan’s icy gaze, she could only grit her teeth and agree.
Chun’er was even more terrified, waving her hands and shaking her head: “No, no… Miss, I absolutely don’t deserve this, I…”
“If it’s given to you, take it.” Wen Yan grasped her cold hands, the warmth from her palms passing through. “You work in the main kitchen?”
“Yes… I’m responsible for tending the fire and also preparing meals for you and the young masters.”
The main kitchen. Meals.
This was practically heaven-sent.
As she adjusted Chun’er’s collar, Wen Yan leaned close to her ear, her voice so low only the two of them could hear:
“Chun’er, the medicine sent over these past few days tastes off to me. But my body is too weak to go to the kitchen myself.”
She paused, her clear, cold eyes meeting Chun’er’s gaze, carrying a hint of barely perceptible plea and trust: “If you’re willing, keep an eye out for me. See if someone… added something. If you find anything, knock on my back window at midnight.”
These words carried explosive implications.
Hinting at poisoning, pointing to a direction of suspicion, and establishing an absolutely private, single-line communication channel.
Though young, Chun’er was not foolish.
She had heard whispers of the dark secrets within the deep courtyards.
The little maid’s face instantly turned pale, her lips trembling.
But when she met Wen Yan’s eyes—
Those eyes were clear, calm, and did not look at her as a servant, but as a trustworthy “person.”
That earlier helping hand, that one tael of silver in her defense, had planted a seed in Chun’er’s heart—a seed named “a scholar dies for his confidant.”
Gritting her teeth, she nodded heavily.
This nod was worth more than a thousand pieces of gold. Wen Yan’s investigative network had finally extended its first tendril beyond this damned “original plot.”
…
Late at night, the hour of the rat.
All was silent, save for the rustling of leaves in the wind.
“Tap, tap, tap.”
The back window was knocked three times, with extreme restraint.
Wen Yan immediately rolled out of bed and pushed open a crack in the window.
Chun’er’s tense little face appeared outside like a pasted painting, the night masking her fear.
“Miss…” Her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s hum. “I… I saw something.”
“Don’t panic, take your time. What did you see?”
“I saw that Sister Qiu Chan sneaks out of the estate every five days. She goes to that obscure pharmacy in the west of the city, called ‘Jishi Tang.'”
Wen Yan’s breath caught.
Jishi Tang!
It matched perfectly with the shop name she had found beneath the poison bottle in the secret compartment of her dressing table!
Chun’er swallowed hard and continued her revelation: “Moreover, she never returns directly to the courtyard each time she comes back. Instead, she goes to the main kitchen first, using the excuse of helping the cook tend the fire, but in reality… she secretly brews a pot of something over a small, hidden flame on the stove.”
“Did you see what it was?”
Chun’er shook her head, her eyes filled with terror. “I didn’t dare get too close. But… I caught a whiff of a smell.”
“What kind of smell?” Wen Yan pressed, her nails digging into her palms.
Chun’er struggled to recall that unsettling odor:
“A smell… like bitter almonds that have gone bad for a long time.”
Bitter almonds!
In that instant, a thunderclap seemed to explode in Wen Yan’s mind.
The scent of bitter almonds—that was the telltale odor of cyanide!
The faint, elusive smell she had detected in the room’s incense burner—its source had been found!
So, the arsenic was just an appetizer; this cyanide was the real death warrant! Inhaling a little through the incense each day, adding a dose to the medicinal broth—a double-pronged attack that even the greatest immortal couldn’t survive.
What a ruthless method, what a meticulous dual-line poisoning!
The information Chun’er brought was the final nail that would firmly seal this “case of death by illness” as a “murder case” on the pillar of shame.
“Well done, Chun’er.”
For the first time, a genuine smile appeared in Wen Yan’s eyes—the satisfaction of a hunter seeing their prey caught in the trap. “Starting today, your monthly allowance will be tripled. Remember, keep your eyes open, but don’t speak a word. We mustn’t alert the enemy.”
The window closed, shutting out the night.
Standing in the darkness, Wen Yan curled her lips into a cold, mocking smile.
So this is the so-called “Plot Correction Force”?
You can burn my material evidence, alter my records, but can you really wash the brains of living people?
You can manipulate those puppet-like NPCs, but you can’t control the eyes outside this plot.
The game is starting to get interesting.