She moved through the shadows of the covered corridor like a ghost, her steps as light as a feather, making no sound on the bluestone floor.
Whenever she encountered a lantern-carrying servant or a dozing old maid, she casually flicked a pinch of powder.
One old woman was leaning against a pillar, nodding off, drool trailing from the corner of her mouth and soaking her collar. As Shen Qinghuan passed, she lightly snapped her fingers, sending a dusting of medicinal powder onto the woman. The woman’s head jerked once, then she sank into an even deeper sleep, muttering that Madam’s rouge was truly expensive.
Another night patrol guard held a bronze gong, preparing to strike it for the fourth time. The powder landed on the tip of his nose. His eyes shut instantly, the gong clanged to the ground with a loud crash, yet he remained standing upright, asleep in a ridiculous posture like a scarecrow.
In less than half the time it took a stick of incense to burn, the dozens of people responsible for night watch in the Minister’s Residence were all sprawled on the ground, fast asleep and utterly unconscious. They lay in heaps beneath the corridors and beside the walls—there wasn’t even a dog left awake to bark.
The two wolfdogs that Madam Wang treasured so dearly had long since been fed drugged jerky. They now lay curled in their kennel, tails twitching occasionally as if dreaming of something pleasant.
With the perimeter handled, Shen Qinghuan headed straight for the treasury.
The brass lock on the storeroom meant nothing to her. Holding two silver needles between her fingers, she inserted them into the keyhole and twisted lightly left and right. With two crisp clicks, the lock opened.
The moment she pushed the door open, a mixed scent of silk, gold and silver, copper, and precious wood rushed toward her.
What moldy smell? This was clearly a mountain of wealth hidden away by Shen Cong’an.
Shen Qinghuan swept her gaze across the room and was nearly dazzled.
Several large camphorwood chests stood against the wall, lids tightly closed and dusted with a thin layer of gray, as if untouched for a long time.
She flipped open one at random. Inside were stacks of luxurious silks—vivid Shu brocade, shimmering Yun brocade, exquisitely embroidered Suzhou silk—piled like a small mountain. The brilliant colors alone were blinding.
Every bolt was of top quality, with subtle woven patterns along the edges. Even a single roll could support an ordinary family for generations.
On the central shelves were official kiln porcelains—elegant blue-and-white, vibrant famille-rose—each piece evenly glazed and beautifully shaped. Any one of them could be traded in the Capital City for a three-courtyard estate.
There were also numerous famous paintings and calligraphy scrolls: Dong Yuan’s landscapes, Xu Wei’s ink bamboo. Wrapped in brocade with jade-carved rollers, they were obviously priceless.
Inside the innermost rosewood cabinet, gold ingots were stacked neatly like bricks, gleaming with dazzling light. Silver ingots formed small hills of soft white sheen. Several boxes of pearls, agate, jade, and other gemstones sparkled under the moonlight—large pearls perfectly round, jade translucent as if dripping with liquid brilliance.
The dowry chest carved with twin lotus blossoms sat in the most conspicuous spot. The copper lock had already begun to rust; Shen Qinghuan flicked it open with a silver needle.
Inside were not mere banknotes worth a hundred taels, but a thick stack of land deeds and property titles, along with several boxes of fine pearls—all part of the Original Owner’s mother’s dowry.
So the dowry had never truly been confiscated—Shen Cong’an had simply hidden it elsewhere.
“Hidden quite well.”
Shen Qinghuan sneered, a sharp glint flashing in her eyes. With a single thought—
An invisible whirlwind swept through the storeroom. Silks, porcelains, gold, silver, paintings—even the sacks of copper coins in the corner—vanished at a visible speed, all absorbed into her space.
The fragile porcelains were gently supported by spiritual energy inside the space, settling safely into storage compartments without the slightest damage.
In the end, she did not even spare the large copper water vat, the rosewood bases beneath the chests, or the bronze lamp hanging on the wall. Everything was taken completely clean.
The storeroom was left empty—only dust on the floor, a few rat tails, and several overturned empty chests standing forlornly.
After looting the treasury, Shen Qinghuan moved toward the granary.
The Minister’s Residence granary was astonishingly large, located in a separate courtyard on the western side of the estate. A plaque reading “Abundant Harvest of the Five Grains” hung at the entrance.
Several storehouses stood within the yard, each secured with thick wooden doors and heavy locks.
Again, two needles solved everything. Inside were mountains of grain—wheat, rice, millet—piled high and fragrant with the scent of harvest.
By her estimate, this supply could feed the household for three years. There were also vats of premium rice and white flour sealed tightly in ceramic jars.
The cellar brought even more surprises. Dozens of jars of aged wine were stored there, labeled “Daughter’s Red” and “Scholar’s Red,” along with boxes of rare tonics: ginseng, deer antler, bird’s nest, snow toad. The ginseng roots were over a century old, complete with fine rootlets; the antlers were bright in color; the bird’s nest pure white and flawless.
Shen Qinghuan did not hold back. With a thought, the grain, wine, tonics—along with the jars and crates themselves—were all swept into her space, leaving the granary empty except for a few scattered husks.
Passing the kitchen, she paused, thinking that since she was already here, she might as well take everything useful.
The kitchen door was unlocked and opened easily. The lingering aroma of cooked food filled the air.
On the stove sat a clay pot simmering bird’s nest soup, soft and fragrant. She took the entire pot.
Stacks of firewood reached high; with a wave, they vanished into her space. Jars of oil, bags of salt, baskets of pickled vegetables—nothing was left behind.
Even the cured meats hanging from the rafters, the dried fish, the strings of chili peppers and garlic drying by the window were all taken. She did not forget the charcoal beneath the stove either.
It was truly a clean sweep—nothing remained.
After finishing, Shen Qinghuan leisurely turned toward the inner courtyard, heading first for her stepmother Madam Wang’s residence.
Madam Wang’s courtyard was lavishly decorated: vermilion pillars, carved lattice windows, rare flowers and plants filling the garden, appearing especially elegant under the moonlight.
A lamp still burned inside the room, silhouettes visible through the paper window—Madam Wang had not yet gone to sleep.
Shen Qinghuan circled to the window, gently lifted a corner of the paper, and looked in.
Madam Wang sat before her dressing table, attended by a maid removing her hair ornaments. She kept talking nonstop:
“Tomorrow, when you go to the rural estate, make sure that little bitch Shen Qinghuan suffers. She must not be allowed to return to the Capital City.”