Bai Chen took a sip of water—and immediately spat it back out.
Before him stood Wanruo in a ridiculous getup: a shabby gray robe that looked bought from some roadside stall, her hair coiled up and pinned with the small white jade hairpin Bai Chen had given her. She wore a pair of stylish black shades, and beneath her nose were two little goat-like whiskers stuck on like a joke.
“Are you serious?” Bai Chen stared at her, incredulous.
“Of course I am.” Wanruo arched an eyebrow and smiled with all the confidence of someone who’d practiced this act a dozen times.
Bai Chen: “...”
Wanruo turned and, as if rehearsing, prepared to open shop.
Yun Jiu, who’d just arrived, surveyed the scene for a long moment. She pointed at Wanruo, puzzled, and looked to Bai Chen. “Master Bai, who is she supposed to be?”
Bai Chen stood behind Wanruo, pressing a fist to his lips to hide the twitch of a laugh, and coughed twice to sound more serious than he felt.
Wanruo shot him a triumphant glance and then beamed at Yun Jiu. “Isn’t this great? I look the part, don’t I?”
Yun Jiu blinked, still unsure. “Miss Ru, this is… a fortune-teller?”
“Bingo!” Wanruo declared. “I won’t keep you—there’s work to do. Time is short; I’m on duty!” She seized a folding fan, struck a pose, and sat down behind the makeshift stall as if she’d always done this.
Outside the doorway, Bai Chen and Yun Jiu leaned against the frame, watching her. Yun Jiu frowned, then shot Bai Chen a look. “Are you really just going to watch this?”
Bai Chen chuckled softly and turned away, walking off before she could demand an answer.
Yun Jiu watched his retreating back, glanced at the self-styled “half-immortal” at the stall, and couldn’t help a frown. The scene felt off—too theatrical to be harmless.
Wanruo, meanwhile, had already begun practicing talismans. One hand held an instruction manual, the other a brush; her lips moved as she muttered through a list, half incantation, half shopping list: “Five-Thunder Protection Talisman, Fox-Charmer Talisman… wow, I should draw more protection ones.”
As she bowed her head to focus, a figure approached the stall.
Wanruo looked up. It was the old fortune-teller she’d met on the road earlier—the same bent woman who had seemed to know more than she let on.
“Granny?” Wanruo almost forgot her disguise; she cleared her throat and fell into character. “Elder, do you seek a talisman? Something to aid you?”
The old woman’s eyes seemed to take everything in, then she smiled as if sharing a private joke and didn’t call Wanruo out. “I want a talisman.”
Wanruo’s posture straightened with mock solemnity. “Of course. What kind would you like? Protection? Luck?”
“Something to charm the human heart.”
Wanruo blinked. An old woman asking for a charm to make people fall in love—strange. Yet the old woman’s gaze was not the milky, dim stare of frailty; it was sharp and quick, then gone.
“Just kidding,” the old woman said, breaking into a gentle chuckle. “I’ll take a protection talisman, actually.”
Relief and a hint of delight flitted across Wanruo’s face. She selected the best of the talismans she’d been drawing, chose the one she liked most, and handed it over in all seriousness. “Here you go—this should keep you safe.”
The old woman took the paper and, when the light caught it, something shimmered. Her eyes snapped hard and precise for a moment—she had sensed power inside the talisman. Wanruo felt a small prickle of unease, though she couldn’t have said why.
“Could I have that pouch at your waist?” the old woman asked suddenly. “I once lent mine to a young woman and I’d like to put this talisman where it won’t be lost. If you don’t mind.”
Wanruo hesitated—how did the woman know about the scented pouch at her waist? Had she been recognized? Curiosity overcame caution; she unfastened the little embroidered sachet and handed it over with a smile. “Of course. Here.”
The old woman took the pouch, removed a small cleansing charm that lay within, and for a second Wanruo didn’t notice anything odd—only that the elder’s movements were precise, almost ritualistic. The old woman murmured something, then said, “Hm. There’s still something of yours here.” She held the talisman up and flicked it as if scattering something invisible across Wanruo’s hands and face.
Wanruo felt nothing and assumed she’d merely imagined it. The old woman returned the talisman, set down a copper coin on the stall, and turned away.
“Thank you!” Wanruo called after her, still smiling, the coin making her pockets jingle pleasantly.
Bai Chen, who had seen the old woman moving away from the corner of the street, tensed. For a heartbeat his expression went cold—an instinctive alertness to something he could not yet name.
At the Li household, dawn brought a discovery that cracked the morning open with a scream.
The servants who entered Li Xinghuai’s chamber found him dead—brutally, horrifyingly dead. One of the servants, so shocked by the sight, let out a terrified keening and collapsed before he could summon the household.
Li the elder, upon seeing his son lie slain with no explanation, wasted no time. He ran to report the matter at the magistrate’s office.
Commander Si Hongxi had already issued a standing order: every unnatural or mysterious death must be reported directly to the Department of Censorial Affairs. So when Mu Qing, hairline set in grim lines, came to Si Hongxi with the latest dispatch, the prince's face hardened.
“Come on. Let’s take a look,” Si Hongxi said.
They reached the Li residence quickly. “Has the scene been sealed?” he asked while stepping past the threshold.
“Yes, Your Grace. Please—this way.” The attendant led them through the courtyard. “The deceased is Master Li’s son, Li Xinghuai. He was found this morning. From the preliminary inspection, there are no signs of forced entry; the doors and windows were locked from the inside.”
Outside, the family had gathered, their faces clouded with grief and confusion. “Keep them aside,” Si Hongxi ordered. “Question each family member later. Bring any witnesses to me—I will question them personally.”
Inside the room, a metallic scent hit Si Hongxi first: blood, thick and coppery.
An attendant pressed a handkerchief into his hand with a warning. “Your Grace, you may wish to prepare yourself.”
Si Hongxi inclined his head in acknowledgment but thought, I’ve seen much in my time; there is no need for theatrics. The young man who’d offered the handkerchief retreated, conscience pricking him.
They moved toward the body. What met them froze even seasoned eyes. Despite his experience, despite bracing for anything, Si Hongxi felt the world tilt.
Mu Qing, unable to bear it, bolted from the room and was sick in the yard. Even Si Hongxi, steel-blooded and composed for the court’s sake, felt bile rise. The scene was worse than the grotesque slaughter at Zhang’s butcher shop—if that massacre had been a thunderclap, this was a scar that would not fade.
Outside, word began to spread that the death was no ordinary misfortune. The locked room, the absence of forced entry, the gore—all of it threaded into one chilling question: what could have happened behind doors bolted from within?