As dusk gradually fell, Qi Xun followed Fu Jue along the academy’s main bluestone path toward the students’ dormitories. The late-winter snow had not yet melted, and the elms and willows by the roadside had not sprouted new buds. Walking along, they saw the academy’s halls and buildings stretching in orderly succession, solemn and majestic, exuding an atmosphere of elegance and clarity.
This was the foremost institution revered by scholars of the Great Zhou dynasty. Here, great Confucian masters lectured and resolved doubts, while these future pillars of the court studied diligently, observing propriety and enduring years of hardship, all in hopes of one day passing the imperial examinations and rising swiftly to prominence.
Zhou Wei had studied for only a few years at a private school when young. Later, he attempted the imperial examinations but failed even the provincial test. Knowing he could not pursue an official career, his family purchased him a minor post. As he looked around, he was moved by the academy’s solemn atmosphere and quietly asked Qi Xun, “Have you ever studied?”
Qi Xun shook his head. “How would I have had the chance to study?”
Zhou Wei lowered his voice again: “I know your background. If misfortune hadn’t struck your clan, you surely would have entered the women’s academy to study. Still, your handwriting is not bad.”
Though Zhou Wei often helped Qi Xun record notes, he had seen her write autopsy reports before—her delicate small script was beautifully done.
Qi Xun replied, “I began learning early as a child. Before disaster befell my clan, I had studied for a few years. That foundation remained.”
Zhou Wei was about to ask further, but Qi Xun shifted the topic: “The academy covers vast grounds. Now, during the year-end recess, with few guards present, it would be quite easy for a killer to strike unnoticed and slip away.”
Zhou Wei immediately thought of this as well and added: “Without a doubt, the killer must be someone within the academy—either a student or a teacher. To kill with paper, brush, or zither strings… it doesn’t feel like the work of a brute. Scholars are proud and value rules; paper, brush, and strings are the tools of literati, things that should never be tainted with blood and filth. What kind of mindset does this murderer have?”
Tilting his head, Zhou Wei pondered: “Could it be that someone has gone mad from studying? Normally, people cherish paper, brush, and zither too much—how could they possibly use such things to kill?”
Hearing this, Qi Xun’s earlier suspicion resurfaced. The killer had struck in three different places within the academy, using strange weapons each time. Not only did he show no reverence for Bailu Academy, but he might also even harbor deep resentment toward it. If Zhou Wei was right, perhaps the murderer bore a grudge against the very pursuit of learning itself.
Fu Jue sat in his wheelchair, listening to the two of them speak in low voices. Twilight draped over him, casting his expression into shadow, making it hard to read. At this moment, he said: “Though scholars may appear lofty, they are not without greed. They endure ten years of study behind closed doors for the sake of success in the imperial examinations. Put nobly, it is to serve the people and the nation. Put plainly, it is all for fame and fortune.”
Zhou Wei clicked his tongue in agreement. Having lived in the capital for a year, he had come to understand this well. For those born into noble families, it was one thing. But for those from humble origins, the imperial examinations were the only path to rise in status. Countless people longed to leap over the dragon gate.
Qi Xun, seeing how clearly Fu Jue spoke, added: “There are four victims. The first three were killed with unusual weapons, likely by the same hand. Chang Qing was poisoned to death, framed deliberately. Whoever the killer is, behind these four lives must lie motives too shameful to reveal. Yet for now, we cannot see them clearly.”
Zhou Wei drew a deep breath and said: “But in a place like the academy, everyone comes to study and learn. What matter could be so tangled that it requires taking four lives? Xu Li killed to avenge his sister. What, then, could this murderer’s reason be?”
His question, of course, had no answer. Yet once spoken, the solemn and upright academy seemed suddenly shrouded in a strange, chilling air—like a sheet of pure white paper stained with a smear of gray.
Passing through a moon gate, they arrived at the dormitories. The dorms were nestled within winding bamboo groves. Though it was late winter, with snow still lingering, a sudden patch of green met their eyes, brightening the spirits of all.
Lin Wei pointed toward the path ahead: “Liu Xi’s dormitory is to the west, Chang Qing’s is to the east.”
Qi Xun said: “Let’s look at Liu Xi’s quarters first.”
The group turned west and soon reached the place Lin Wei had mentioned. The doors and windows of the side room were tightly shut. The attendants stepped forward to open the door, and Qi Xun and Zhou Wei entered first.
The room was divided into two sections, each with two beds. The beds were set against the north wall, while desks and bookcases stood on the east and west sides. From the southern window, one could see the entire interior at a glance.
“Liu Xi lived in the western section. At the time, he was lying over his desk.”
Lin Wei pushed Fu Jue’s wheelchair to the window and flung it open. He continued: “That night, it was a student named He Youwei who saw Liu Xi. When he arrived, the door was locked. Liu Xi was slumped over his desk, looking as though asleep, and the window was half-open. When He Youwei left, he even closed the window for him.”
Fu Jue added: “The next morning, when Liu Xi was found, the window was still unlocked. The killer most likely escaped through it.”
The windowsill was not high; a grown man could easily climb in. Qi Xun acknowledged this and began examining the desk.
The desk had inner cabinets on both sides, with no panel in front—so anyone seated there could be seen clearly from the legs down.
Liu Xi had been dead for several days. Blood still stained the floor tiles beneath the desk, and because he had collapsed forward, the desk’s edge was also smeared.
Qi Xun first inspected the marks on the desk and chair, then pulled out the chair to sit, rising again to stand behind it. She repeated this—sitting and standing several times—until Zhou Wei couldn’t help but ask: “What are you doing?”
Qi Xun steadied herself and replied: “When He Youwei came, he didn’t notice any blood dripping. Liu Xi was wearing a pale robe that night. If blood had stained it, it would have been obvious. He was stabbed in the heart; blood would have spread quickly from his chest down to the hem. If He Youwei wasn’t lying, then when he arrived, Liu Xi had only just been killed.”
Fu Jue spoke: “He came on the eighth night of the month, at the beginning of the Hai hour.”
Qi Xun’s expression sharpened. “Then we can pinpoint Liu Xi’s exact time of death—before the beginning of the Hai hour on the eighth night.”
Zhou Wei asked: “When He Youwei saw Liu Xi lying at the desk, why didn’t he wake him?”
Lin Wei sighed: “Liu Xi had a difficult temperament. He never allowed anyone to disturb him while reading. He Youwei had come to borrow a book. Seeing Liu Xi slumped as if asleep, he didn’t dare speak.”
Qi Xun pulled open the desk cabinet. Inside were crammed volumes of books and calligraphy rubbings. She casually picked one up—the edges were worn and curled from being read countless times. The other books were filled with dense notes on essays, while the rubbings were blotched with ink, showing Liu Xi’s daily practice of calligraphy.
She couldn’t help but remark: “Liu Xi was truly studious.”
Fu Jue added: “At fourteen, he already passed the provincial exam as a *juren*. Half the capital knew of his talent then. His father placed great hopes on him, believing last year he might win first or second place in the palace exam. But unexpectedly, he didn’t even make the top three.”
Qi Xun frowned, her brows knitting tightly. Looking around the room again, she noticed ink stains even on the bed and pillow, suggesting he often wrote while lying there. Aside from books, brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, there were no amusements or luxuries. She could hardly tell he was the son of an official family. She decided to inspect the rooms of the other three victims.
By the time they stepped outside, night had fallen. Several attendants brought lanterns.
Lin Wei pointed to a row of side rooms not far away: “Yang Jun lived there. He Youwei shared the same quarters.”
Before they reached Yang Jun’s dormitory, a familiar young scholar hurried out. Qi Xun recognized him from earlier, when he had followed Qi Zongyi. He bowed respectfully to Fu Jue: “I am He Youwei, paying respects to my lord.”
This was the very He Youwei Lin Wei had mentioned. Qi Xun studied him briefly and asked: “May we look at Young Master Yang’s quarters?”
He Youwei recognized her too. His gaze was cautious, with a hint of unease in his eyes—an expression Qi Xun knew all too well. She ignored it, and He Youwei stepped aside: “Please, come in—”
The room was divided into east and west. Entering Yang Jun’s western section, Qi Xun immediately noticed several *yaoqin* (jade zithers) laid out on the desk. She was surprised, and He Youwei explained: “Yang Jun was obsessed with the qin. He loved collecting them. These were ones he purchased. Aside from his basic studies, he spent all his time with his instruments.”
He sighed: “He never imagined he would die by a single string of the qin.”
There were five zithers in total, each of different design, but all lacquered in an ancient style, their surfaces marked with fine cracks—clearly not ordinary pieces. In addition, Qi Xun saw a white jade paperweight, a red coral qin pendant, and other exquisite ornaments. Opening the desk cabinet, she found not classics or histories, but old qin scores from previous dynasties and numerous accessories for the instruments.
She asked: “Master He, when you went to see Liu Xi that night, did you notice anything unusual? And when Liu Xi was found dead the next morning, did Yang Jun show any strange behavior upon learning of it?”
As Qi Xun examined the contents of the cabinet, she asked her question. He Youwei pressed his lips together, a shadow flickering in his eyes, and replied impatiently: “Lord Song of the Court of Judicial Review already asked me these things.”
Qi Xun was a coroner—considered a lowly role. Most of those studying at Bailu Academy were *xiucai*, men of scholarly rank. Even court officials gave them some respect. How could He Youwei be willing to answer a coroner?
Ordinary people would surely feel slighted by such disdain, but Qi Xun was long accustomed to it. She sighed inwardly, thinking she could ask Song Huaiyin later instead.
“Already asked means it cannot be asked again?” Suddenly, Fu Jue’s voice cut through.
Qi Xun started, lifting her gaze to see He Youwei’s face change slightly as he bent forward: “No, no, of course not. It’s just…”
Fu Jue’s cold eyes fixed on him. “However you answered Lord Song, you will now answer Miss Qi the same way.”
Qi Xun blinked, surprised that Fu Jue would speak up for her. She looked at him and saw his dark eyes covered in frost.
Realizing his mistake, He Youwei stammered nervously to Qi Xun: “I… I noticed nothing unusual that night. He was lying over his desk as if asleep. I didn’t dare disturb him. I closed the window since it was cold outside, and left without lingering.”
“The next morning, when Yang Jun learned Liu Xi was dead, he seemed a little agitated. By afternoon, he went to the qin hall. That wasn’t unusual—he often practiced there for half the day, as everyone knew. I didn’t see him again until late that night, past the middle of the Hai hour, when I was nearly asleep and heard someone outside shouting that something had happened.”
Within moments, sweat beaded on He Youwei’s forehead. When he finished, he looked nervously at Fu Jue. But Fu Jue turned his gaze to Qi Xun and asked softly: “Do you have more questions?”
Qi Xun’s eyes shifted slightly. She shook her head. “No more. Let’s look at the next room.”
Fu Jue nodded. The group stepped outside and headed east. The night was pitch black, lanterns casting dim circles of light. The cold wind cut to the bone, rustling the bamboo groves along the path. The trembling stalks threw jagged shadows across the ground, clawing and writhing like a dance of restless ghosts.
Suddenly, a chill swept across Zhou Wei’s face. He cried out in alarm, clutching Qi Xun’s sleeve. Even she, usually composed, was startled.
“What are you doing?”
Terrified, Zhou Wei shrank against her side. “Something flew past—hit my face!”
Qi Xun sighed helplessly. Just then, Zhou Wei’s eyes widened sharply, and he pointed toward the bamboo grove behind her. “Look! Ghost fire—!”
Qi Xun ground her teeth, thinking Zhou Wei was useless. But when she turned, her heart gave a sudden jolt. Ten paces away, deep in the bamboo, a flicker of flame truly danced in the darkness.
“Lin Wei, go see—” Fu Jue’s clear voice broke her fright.
Exhaling, Qi Xun slapped Zhou Wei’s hand away and scolded: “You’re not afraid of corpses, yet you fear ghost fire?”
Zhou Wei yelped in pain at the slap. Qi Xun sighed again, turning—only to find Fu Jue’s gaze fixed on her hand. She raised her brows inwardly, quickly tucking her hand back into her sleeve, thinking: *Damn, I lost composure. As the heir of Marquis Linjiang, Fu Jue has likely never seen such rough behavior from a woman.*
Soon Lin Wei returned from the bamboo grove, leading a young student with reddened eyes, no more than twelve or thirteen, sobbing as he walked.
Lin Wei reported to Fu Jue: “He was burning paper offerings.”
Then he asked the boy: “What’s your name? For whom were you burning paper?”
The youth, frightened by the scene, stammered: “My name is Jian Hong. I was offering for Brother Chang Qing.”
Knowing Fu Jue and the others were investigating, he suddenly lifted his tear-streaked face and cried: “Brother Chang Qing did not kill himself! He couldn’t have! He was preparing to return home to visit his mother—how could he possibly commit suicide?”
His sobs grew heavier. “He was already bullied nearly to death. He would never kill anyone—!”