The qin hall of Bailu Academy was located on the eastern side by Yingyue Lake. Above the doorway hung a plaque inscribed with the words “Wang Ji” (“Forget Schemes”), taken from the qin melody “Seagulls Forgetting Schemes.” Leading them inside was Zhang Qiang, one of the academy’s guards.
The qin hall was built on a raised platform beside the water. Its four sides had tall, wide windows, giving excellent light. The main lecture hall contained ten qin tables. Because of the year‑end recess, all the yaoqin had been put away. Now, only Yang Jun’s qin remained, placed on the central table.
Zhang Qiang pointed to the instrument. “At the time, Yang Jun was right there, lying across his own qin. I thought he had fallen asleep. When I went to push him, I realized he was already lifeless.”
Recalling that night, Zhang Qiang still felt uneasy. “During the recess, the qin hall was usually empty. After Yang Jun returned to the academy, he often came here to play. His obsession with the qin was well known. If we heard music inside, we dared not disturb him.”
Qi Xun looked toward the stone bridge path outside the hall. “So if someone came here, no one else would know?”
“Yes. There are only four of us guards. Normally, we watch the main gate. At night, we patrol the academy, mostly to prevent disasters like fire. I’ve served here for years, and I never imagined a murder would happen.”
Hearing this, Qi Xun felt disappointed. On the way, she had already told Zhou Wei about her new findings from the autopsy.
Zhou Wei now opened the tall windows and examined the room, then said: “The killer left almost no trace. And since there was no sign of struggle in the qin hall, he must have been someone Yang Jun knew well.”
Qi Xun walked among the tables. “In killing Liu Xi as well, the murderer hardly used surprise attacks—he simply struck when the victim was off guard. Only in killing Zeng Wenhe did he first ambush him, because he intended to suffocate him.”
She asked Zhang Qiang: “Do you know, among those who stayed at the academy, who was closest to Liu Xi and Yang Jun?”
Zhang Qiang thought for a moment. “Other than Chang Qing and Jian Hong, who were from poor families, the rest were all close with Liu Xi and Yang Jun.”
Qi Xun understood—there were factions and cliques within the academy. She asked again: “Do you know about Chang Qing writing plays?”
Zhang Qiang nodded. “Of course. Everyone talked about it. He had been writing plays for several years and earned some silver. I even heard one of his plays performed at Qingchun Theater.”
“You heard his play? How was it?”
Zhang Qiang smiled faintly. “It was excellent. I’m not a scholar, but being in the academy, I’ve read a few essays. Chang Qing’s plays, though refined in language, were clear and elegant. Especially his *Golden Lock Record*—a tale of a talented scholar and a beautiful lady, full of tender affection. It was performed at Qingchun Theater for quite some time last year.”
“Golden Lock Record?” Zhou Wei suddenly spoke. “That sounds familiar. Perhaps I’ve heard it.”
Qi Xun asked him: “Do you remember what kind of story it was?”
Zhou Wei replied: “Much like Brother Zhang said—a scholar and a lady, deeply in love, but denied by their families. They suffered trials, but in the end became husband and wife.”
Qi Xun nodded. “I recall that plays about love are usually those romantic tales of gifted scholars and beautiful ladies, full of moonlight and blossoms.”
Zhou Wei asked, “You’ve been to watch plays?”
Qi Xun shook her head. “When I go home, I always pass by a few theaters. Sometimes I catch the singing drifting out.”
The two looked around the side rooms of the music hall, finding nothing unusual, and then headed to the library. The library stood not far from the music hall, a two‑story building. It was here, beneath the west window on the first floor, that Zeng Wenhe had died upon a long couch.
The first floor was divided into two: bookcases lined the east side, while the west held desks and couches where students often copied texts. Zhang Qiang pointed to one couch.
“Zeng Wenhe was found there. At first, people thought he was just resting, his face covered with paper. But when they came closer, they saw his body was wet. The Su Yu Ci lay beside him, its pages torn out.”
The killer had used the “tiejiaguan” method to murder, and even soaked paper with water. Qi Xun looked around. “Was there a teacup on the desk that day?”
Zhang Qiang shook his head. “No. In the library, one may only copy texts—no food or drink allowed.”
Qi Xun frowned and searched every corner. The place was some distance from Yingyue Lake, with no well nearby. For the killer to stage the scene, he couldn’t have attacked first and then gone outside to fetch water. He must have prepared in advance. Yet the desks were bare. What had he used to strike Zeng Wenhe?
Qi Xun searched again but found nothing. She began to suspect even the weapon had been brought in beforehand. With both crime scenes leaving no clues, she pinned her hopes on Li Lian.
Leaving the library with Zhou Wei, she asked Zhang Qiang on the way to Mingli Hall, “Do you know if any of the students here are left‑handed?”
Zhang Qiang replied, “Left‑handedness is considered unlucky. I haven’t heard of anyone. Wait, no—I recall someone. Zhou Yanbo of Qinzhou, I heard he can use both hands.”
Qi Xun’s heart stirred, and she quickened her pace. At Mingli Hall, most students were waiting outside. Inside, Fu Jue sat while Li Lian questioned them.
As she and Zhou Wei reached the doorway, Fu Jue looked over, eyes questioning. Qi Xun knew what he wanted to ask. She hurried forward and whispered, “My lord, nothing was found in the music hall or the library. But in the library—”
“What?” Fu Jue leaned closer, not catching her words.
Qi Xun glanced at Li Lian questioning in the distance, then leaned nearer.
“No clues in either place. But the library had no water, nor any suitable weapon. I suspect the killer planned ahead and brought those things with him.”
Fu Jue nodded, lifting his chin toward a man at the door. “Zhou Yanbo. Left‑handed.”
Qi Xun had already heard the name. She studied him: tall, upright features, but now looking troubled at being identified as left‑handed. His face revealed nothing of guilt.
Fu Jue continued, “He owns a qin, but no spare strings. No crow‑blue pillow. He claims he doesn’t even have a crow‑blue robe.”
Qi Xun frowned. Just then, Li Lian raised his voice, questioning another student: “Your pillow—you’ve never lent it out?”
“Of course not. My roommates all prefer porcelain pillows. Only I like a soft one. And such personal things—how could I lend them?”
“The qin? Your roommates said you’re skilled at it.”
The student flushed red. “I do have a qin, and I have spare strings as well. But all my strings are intact, stored in my cabinet. You can search them right now.”
Li Lian turned to a constable. “Go with him and search.”
The constable obeyed, leading the student out. Outside, the waiting scholars began whispering among themselves.
Li Lian returned to Fu Jue. “My lord, all have been questioned. None fully matches our earlier deductions. Only one is left‑handed.” He turned and beckoned. “You—come here.”
Zhou Yanbo stepped forward. As he approached Fu Jue, he said quickly:
“My lord, it truly isn’t me. I was born left‑handed, but since it’s considered unlucky, my family forced me to change. Now I mostly use my right hand, only switching when necessary. I’ve never hidden it. I was close friends with Liu Xi and Yang Jun—I would never kill them.”
Seeing Fu Jue’s unreadable expression, he added, “Others can vouch for me. I’m timid by nature, even afraid of blood—how could I kill? My qin has only one set of strings, and my brushes have never been replaced. Luo Chen and Yu Bin can testify. I had no quarrel with Chang Qing. I even went to hear one of his plays.”
At this, Fu Jue’s eyes flickered. “You heard his plays?”
Zhou Yanbo nodded. “A year and a half ago, we already knew he was writing. Several theaters in the capital had taken his scripts. One play, *The Golden Lock Record*, was staged. We went to see it.”
“We?” Fu Jue pressed.
“Me, Liu Xi, Yang Jun, Yu Bin, Luo Chen, He Youwei, and several others no longer at the academy—eight or nine of us in all.” Zhou Yanbo’s gaze shifted. “We thought writing plays for money wasn’t proper for a scholar. Theater troupes are lowly folk, and those scripts contain all sorts of things. We wanted to see if Chang Qing’s work was any different.”
“But once we went, we found his writing no different from the rest—full of vulgarities and lewd verses. From then on, we looked down on him, believing he disgraced the academy’s name.”
Fu Jue frowned. “You didn’t report him?”
Zhou Yanbo shook his head. “No. Reporting is petty. We did nothing—just gossiped privately and kept our distance. Later, Liu Xi failed the spring exam, grew irritable, and twice clashed with Chang Qing by chance. Their relationship worsened, and naturally, we sided with Liu Xi.”
“Summon Luo Chen and Yu Bin,” Fu Jue ordered.
Li Lian went out and soon returned with two young scholars. Both wore fine clothes, carrying themselves with poise, respectful yet unyielding before Fu Jue.
When asked about the play, Luo Chen said, “Yes, we went. We were simply curious what our classmate was writing.”
Yu Bin agreed. Fu Jue then asked, “Did Liu Xi or Yang Jun have any other enemies?”
Yu Bin replied, “Only Chang Qing. Liu Xi’s father is an Assistant Minister in the Ministry of Personnel. We’re all preparing for the exams—there was no reason for him to make enemies.”
Their faces remained calm. Fu Jue asked again, “And after that, you never knew what else he wrote?”
At that moment, Yu Bin’s eyes flickered.
Fu Jue caught it instantly, his gaze turning sharper.
Yu Bin swallowed hard. “After we mocked him once, he began avoiding everyone when writing plays. Naturally, we were curious what else he might produce, so we occasionally asked around. Yang Jun’s family owns a theater, and through them we learned of two more plays—*The Tale of Chunxiang* and *The Jade Case*—though surely there were others.”
Fu Jue’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Yu Bin quickly added, “It wasn’t malicious probing. We sometimes went to the theater ourselves, so we asked casually about the playwright.”
Fu Jue looked at the three of them. “You often go to the theater?”
Yu Bin coughed lightly. Zhou Yanbo answered, “Not often, not often. We study all day. It was only occasional amusement. And a few times, we went merely to accompany someone.”
“To accompany?”
“Lord Fang of the Ministry of Personnel—he was once a student of Bailu Academy. His teacher is our Headmaster Qi. Lord Fang is a theater enthusiast. When he returned to visit Headmaster Qi, he invited him to a performance, and Headmaster Qi called us along. That was more than a year ago. We went twice more afterward, also to accompany him.”
Fu Jue thought briefly. “You mean Fang Gan?”
Zhou Yanbo nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”
Fu Jue knew the man well. “And who else went with you?”
Yu Bin replied, “Myself, Luo Chen, and two who are no longer at the academy—Ming Qi and Jing Haoran. Oh, the second time, Chang Qing also went. His scholarship was good, and at that time, Headmaster Qi didn’t yet know he wrote plays. The third time, Yang Jun joined.”
That was peculiar. Fu Jue asked, “Liu Xi never went?”
“No. Liu Xi disliked such social outings.”
Fu Jue understood. He dismissed the three for now, then mused aloud:
“They’ve heard Chang Qing’s plays, even sought out news of his writing. Though they all claim ignorance of *The Qilin Record*, Chang Qing may have told theater owners. If anyone from the academy inquired, they might have learned the method of killing.”
Qi Xun was thinking the same. Whatever the case, the plays were the key. The killer hid within the academy, but the theaters might hold clues.
Soon, the constable who had gone to check the qin strings returned. They were all intact, brand new. Qi Xun examined them and returned them, but the investigation stalled.
Fu Jue said, “Strings and brushes are easy to disguise. But being left‑handed is harder to hide. By rights, Zhou Yanbo is highly suspicious.”
He ordered Li Lian, “Assign two men to watch Zhou Yanbo. Investigate his background.”
Li Lian obeyed and left. Before he returned, a servant announced, “My lord, Lord Song has arrived!”
Moments later, Song Huaijin strode in, bowed, and said, “My lord, I’ve just come back from the Liu and Yang households. I did find two clues.”
Fu Jue motioned him to sit. “What clues?”
Song Huaijin said, “Lord Liu was deeply grieved by Liu Xi’s death. He doesn’t know who would harm him, but he told me Liu Xi failed to win the title of top scholar because, before last year’s spring exam, he picked up bad habits. Lord Liu said that instead of preparing diligently, Liu Xi was sneaking off to the theaters in the capital.”
“In those places, the refined go to hear plays, but the reckless go for other reasons. He suspected Liu Xi had grown close to a young actor there. When he confronted him, Liu Xi refused to admit it. Father and son quarreled. Later, Liu Xi indeed failed the exam. Lord Liu was furious and struck him. After that, Liu Xi stayed at the academy, rarely returning home—even during New Year, he only went back on the twenty‑ninth and returned by the fifth.”
“An affair with an actor?” Fu Jue pondered. “You suspect Liu Xi and the others were killed because of ties to the theater?”
Song Huaijin nodded. “I also visited Yang Jun’s family. His father said Yang Jun often went to the theater too, also before last year’s exam. I suspect he accompanied Liu Xi—or perhaps he too had a lover there.”
For wealthy families in the capital, keeping actors was nothing new. Fu Jue had heard of it. But Liu Xi had not yet passed the exams or married, so his family would never approve such behavior. At seventeen or eighteen, though, boys are easily distracted by desire.
Plays, theaters, actors—the threads began to weave together. Fu Jue grew more convinced of Song Huaijin’s reasoning. “I’ve already sent Lin Wei to investigate several theaters. He should return before dusk.”
Song Huaijin exhaled in relief. “As for the poisoned rat medicine, I’ve sent men to investigate near the academy. No leads yet. To cover the whole capital will take at least four or five days.”
Fu Jue replied, “Slow or not, keep searching. Perhaps we’ll find a clue.”
Song Huaijin agreed, then sighed. “I’ve met Lord Liu several times before. Today, he looked almost overnight aged, his hair white. Liu Xi was his only son. The Liu clan was once a great family, but in recent generations has declined. At his age, he cannot rise further, so he pinned all his hopes on Liu Xi.”
“He said he thought Liu Xi would easily pass, so he hadn’t enrolled him in the Imperial Academy. Now he was about to humble himself and ask the Academy’s Chancellor, Qu Chang, to be his teacher. But Liu Xi was killed.”
Zhou Wei sighed, “Such is a parent’s heart. But everyone says Liu Xi’s temper changed after failing the exam. Perhaps Lord Liu placed too heavy a burden on him.”
Fu Jue suddenly asked, “Above Liu Yuan, isn’t it Fang Gan?”
“Vice Minister Fang? Yes, that’s him. Why?”
Fang Gan was now Vice Minister of Personnel. Fu Jue said, “He too studied at Bailu Academy. Last year, he returned several times, met these students, and even went to the theater. Qi Zongyi must have introduced him deliberately.”
Song Huaijin was unsurprised. “That makes sense. These students will one day serve in court. Building connections early is all gain, no loss.”
Fu Jue mused, “But Liu Xi never went along. I suspect Liu Yuan and Fang Gan had grievances.”
Song Huaijin suddenly recalled. “That’s possible. Liu Yuan had long hoped to rise from Assistant Minister to Vice Minister. But Fang Gan was transferred from the Ministry of Rites and took the post instead. That was two years ago. Fang Gan had ranked second in the exams seven years back, served three years outside the capital, and returned only four years ago. Yet he seized the vacancy. Liu Yuan was bitter.”
That explained why Liu Xi never joined those outings. Fu Jue now had a clearer picture and awaited Lin Wei’s report from the theaters.
The case hinged on two places: the academy and the theaters. While Lin Wei was gone, Song Huaijin continued examining evidence at the academy. By dusk, Lin Wei returned with his men. He had visited five theaters, traced the plays Chang Qing had written over the past two years, and brought back a stack of manuscripts.
“These include *The Golden Lock Record*, *The Jade Case*, *The Tale of Chunxiang*, and a few others I can’t recall—all written by Chang Qing, copied by the actors themselves.”
“He began writing plays more than two years ago, in the latter half of Jianzhang Year Two. His first script sold for just one or two taels of silver, to the Four Joy Troupe. His third play was early in Jianzhang Year Three, but that one went to the Qingchun Theater. *The Golden Lock Record* was his fourth, sold to Qingchun, and the manager valued it highly, paying him five taels.”
“Later, when *The Golden Lock Record* was staged, it caused quite a stir at Qingchun Theater. Chang Qing’s reputation rose, and he sold more scripts to Miaoyin Theater, Wanfubang, and Xianke Theater, each for around five or six taels. He never sold to one place exclusively—he’d show his work to two or three theaters, compare offers, and sell to the highest bidder. This earned him complaints from his old patron, Qingchun.”
“As for his last play, *The Qilin Record*, he intended to sell it to Qingchun. He even told the manager it was more legendary than anything he’d written before. The manager was eager, but before he ever saw the manuscript, Chang Qing met his end.”
The others weren’t interested in the scripts, but Qi Xun stepped forward and opened one. After a few pages, she found the play vivid in theme, wit, and spirit. It ignored formal musical patterns and tonal rules, focusing instead on twists and conflicts. The more she read, the more compelling it seemed. On the title page, she realized it was *The Golden Lock Record*.
She read faster and indeed found coarse, bawdy passages. Compared to the classics, such writing was unrefined. But plays were written for common folk, not lofty scholars, so she wasn’t surprised. Still, curiosity made her linger. After a few lines, her cheeks warmed—she hadn’t expected such explicit descriptions, nearly as graphic as erotic art. No wonder Liu Xi and the others used this against him. If such verses were sung before Headmaster Qi, would they not make the old man faint with rage?
“What do you think, Qi Xun? How’s his writing?” Zhou Wei leaned in.
Qi Xun quickly stacked the scripts. “Good or bad, I can’t judge. I’ve never heard them performed.”
Zhou Wei said nothing, but Fu Jue eyed her suspiciously.
Lin Wei added, “He hid things from Jian Hong. He earned more silver than he admitted—likely to avoid showing off wealth.”
Fu Jue said, “Understandable. But this isn’t enough. Liu Xi’s father suspected he had an affair with an actor. Chang Qing often visited theaters too. Perhaps that’s the connection.”
“A group of scholars fighting over actors? Or some other entanglement?” Lin Wei asked.
“Not impossible,” Fu Jue replied, glancing at the sky. “It’s late. The Ministry of Justice officials may leave for the day. Tomorrow, the Ministry of Punishments will investigate the actors. Lord Song, visit Liu Xi and Yang Jun’s other friends in the capital—see if they have sweethearts or grudges with classmates. Friends of the same age know best.”
Song Huaijin agreed. Qi Xun and the others also left for home. As she stepped out, she heard Fu Jue order, “Lock these scripts together with the academy evidence.”
Night was falling. Qi Xun urged her horse faster, hoping to reach home before dark. Yet the case weighed on her mind. After parting from Song Huaijin and the others, she turned her horse toward the bustling western market of the capital.
Along the imperial street, jeweled curtains and carved beams gleamed. As lanterns lit one by one, the city shone with dazzling light. After half an hour wandering the streets, she finally stopped before Qingchun Theater.
It was three stories tall, grand and imposing, its plaque resplendent. At this hour, the theater was at its liveliest—cups clinking, music rising. Qi Xun was about to dismount when a carriage approached from the other side. The driver, seeing her, looked startled. “Coroner Qi—”
Lin Wei’s voice seemed to come from nowhere. Qi Xun blinked, wondering if she imagined it. In that instant, the carriage halted before her. The curtain lifted, revealing Fu Jue’s striking, otherworldly face.
Qi Xun froze. If she claimed she was “just passing by,” would Fu Jue believe her…?