After Yuan Wenkui fainted, someone pinched his philtrum and poured a little medicine down his throat, and he finally came to. When he saw the row of coffins laid out, he nearly fainted again, and the servant behind him quickly supported him.

Old Master Yuan moved toward the bodies with leaden steps. At once, he spotted his daughter Xiu’er and let out a wretched cry: “My child — my poor child!”

With that, he threw himself upon Xiu’er’s body and wept bitterly.

After Old Master Yuan had cried for a while, Shi Ting finally spoke: “Old Master Yuan, please take a look at the others — is your son-in-law among them?”

Old Master Yuan forced himself to endure the grief and looked over each of the bodies. In the end, he shook his head. “Those two are my daughter’s in-laws — her husband’s father and mother. The one beside Xiu’er is her unmarried sister-in-law. My son-in-law… is not here.”

At this, Old Master Yuan’s eyes brightened. “That’s right — where is my son-in-law? Where has he gone?”

Shi Ting offered comfort: “Since your son-in-law’s body was not found here, it means he is at least temporarily safe.”

“What good is it that he’s safe? My daughter is dead — what use is him being alive?” Old Master Yuan said, and began to weep again.

Before long, two men from the local security office arrived.

Shi Ting had not revealed his identity, and these two naturally did not recognize him. One questioned Old Master Yuan while the other made a round of the scene.

Old Master Yuan grabbed one of them by the hand in desperation: “Officer, you must catch the murderers who killed my daughter. Give my daughter justice.”

The officer had him sign a statement. “Old man, it’s not that we don’t want to catch them — but every neighbor around here says bandits did this. You know how vicious the Dagu Mountain bandits are. Even the military can’t subdue them. What do you expect us to do? I advise you to quickly take the bodies away and give them a proper burial.”

Old Master Yuan heard this and crouched down on the ground weeping again.

The man was right. If bandits had truly done this, who was he supposed to seek revenge from? Could he fight bandits himself?

After the security office men had gone, Shi Ting stepped forward. “Old Master Yuan, do you have any way to contact your son-in-law?”

Old Master Yuan shook his head.

Shi Ting sighed. “First, have someone prepare the bodies. Buy coffins according to the number of people and get them properly placed — they cannot remain exposed in the open like this. The summer temperatures are high. Have the coffins packed with ice, or the bodies will rot and stink quickly. I believe your son-in-law will soon receive news. He must be allowed to see his family one last time.”

“Yes, yes, yes — whatever you say, benefactor.” Old Master Yuan’s mind was in complete disarray, but he found Shi Ting’s words entirely sensible. “I’ll arrange it right away.”

Once all the bodies had been placed in coffins, Old Master Yuan sat beside Xiu’er’s coffin and sighed.

“Benefactor, it is thanks to you that Xiu’er’s only blood was saved.” Old Master Yuan felt a profound sense of gratitude as he thought of this.

“Old Master Yuan is too kind. It was nothing more than a chance act.”

One could only wonder how that woman had managed to escape this living hell carrying an infant. Running into them had been a coincidence — perhaps it was fate.

By evening, the light was fading.

White cloth was hung at the front of the Ning compound, a funeral hall was set up in the courtyard, and Old Master Yuan had invited a monk to come and chant sutras for the deceased.

After two days, the funeral formalities were finally complete, and Old Master Yuan looked as though he had shed an entire layer of skin. He fell ill.

The Yuan household moved frantically to carry Old Master Yuan onto the boat, fearing that the bloody and ill-omened air of the Qiao family’s former home might worsen his condition.

Shi Ting volunteered to stay behind and wait for the Qiao family’s son-in-law. Old Master Yuan thanked him with heartfelt gratitude once again — after all, no one willingly lingered in such a place drenched in blood.

Once night fell, a row of more than ten coffins sat side by side in the courtyard. Under the moonlight, the scene was especially eerie.

Shi Ting walked a circuit around the courtyard, then returned to Yan Qing’s side.

Yan Qing lifted a servant’s arm and pointed it out to Shi Ting: “Look at these wounds — running downward in three parallel lines of equal width. This shouldn’t be a single-edged blade.”

Shi Ting examined them carefully. “More like a claw knife — a weapon worn on the hand, similar to claws, typically with three blades.”

“I found this type of wound on multiple bodies. It appears most frequently on the bodies of the Qiao family elders, and in each case the strikes deliberately avoided vital points — this was intentional torment, a killer of extreme cruelty.” Yan Qing shook her head. “What about you? What did you find?”

“Cigarette butts.” Shi Ting opened a paper wrapper. “After killing everyone, these people sat together and smoked. They left butts scattered all over the floor.”

“What kind of cigarettes are these?”

“Two kinds. One is ‘Red Plum’ — the cheapest kind of cigarette, harsh-smelling and low-priced, smoked mostly by common people. Some of these butts are smoked all the way to the filter, some have the habit of leaving a short stub, and others prefer to grind the butt underfoot when done. Judging by these habits, at least five people were sitting together smoking at the time.”

Shi Ting didn’t smoke himself, but that didn’t prevent him from studying tobacco.

“Besides Red Plum, there is also a brand called ‘Mount Fuji.’ This cigarette is produced in Di Guo and is not sold in Xin Guo.”

“Produced in Di Guo?” Yan Qing was startled.

“Di Guo also has mineral development rights in Qian Pass. The coal they extract needs to pass through Dagu Mountain on the way back to Di Guo as well — the bandits on Dagu Mountain may have robbed a Di Guo convoy and taken the cigarettes along with everything else.” Shi Ting reasoned through it. “There are only two Mount Fuji butts. Whoever smoked them should be the leader of this group.”

“A claw knife and Mount Fuji cigarettes — the characteristics are so distinctive that even if we don’t know, Qiao Yishan, as the bandit chief, will certainly know who it is.”

Shi Ting nodded. “This was most likely an internal conflict among the bandits. We need only observe and wait for Qiao Yishan to appear.”

“Will Qiao Yishan come back?”

“This is his home. He will certainly return.”

Shi Ting was certain. “The furnishings and lifestyle of this household are refined and meticulous. That Xiu’er never did a hand’s worth of rough work — she was impeccably well-kept. Her room still has paintings and calligraphy, and I looked at the inscriptions — all by Qiao Yishan. Most of them depict a pair of mandarin ducks, and the poems are full of tender, entangled love. It is clear that the two of them shared a very deep bond.”

“A bandit who can produce calligraphy and paintings?”

“Even bandits can have talent.”

“True.” Yan Qing fully agreed. “You don’t need to fear a ruffian — the dangerous ones are the ruffians with culture.”

Shi Ting laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

“Can’t I have come up with it myself?”

“Alright, alright, alright.” Shi Ting ruffled her hair. “Go rest. I’ll keep watch here.”

“I’m not going. I want to stay with you.” She moved her chair closer to his and rested her head on his shoulder.

Probably only she would have no fear of this — otherwise, who would willingly sit among a courtyard full of the dead and make idle conversation?

The night grew deeper, and a wind rose.

Before the gates of the Qiao compound, paper spirit money had been scattered earlier in the day. Now, with the wind blowing, pieces of paper money swirled through the air, while two white funeral banners hanging at the gate billowed in the breeze.

A foot pressed down on paper money tumbling across the ground, and a figure looked up at the grey, dimly lit street.

So much paper money — whose family was holding a funeral?

The figure quickened its pace. After several days of travel out in the world, there was now an urgent pull toward home.

Turning past a street corner, the paper money grew denser underfoot. The wind made it hard to keep his eyes open; he raised a hand to shield them, and dimly made out a tall gate ahead with two lanterns hanging from it — pure white lanterns, swaying in the wind like ghost flames.

His heart lurched. He broke into a run, taking two steps at a time.

Reaching the gate, he looked up. White cloth hung across the gate — someone was clearly in mourning.

He had only been away from home for half a month. How could someone have died already? Was it his father or his mother?

If it was them, why had no one come to notify him, and where were the compound’s servants?

He dared not think further. His mind was in turmoil as he pushed the gate open and rushed in.

The paper money swirled rapidly to pile at his feet in thick layers. He passed through the inner gate, and in the courtyard he saw more than ten pitch-black coffins arranged in neat rows. Inside a hastily assembled mourning hall, white candles burned, and fine white gauze swayed in the wind.

Something seemed to clamp onto his feet with great force, and he could no longer move a single step.

Shi Ting, sharp as ever, heard the movement and immediately rose to look.

A man stood at the inner gate, buffeted by the wind, his clothes whipping and snapping. He was tall and strongly built, with finely shaped features and a pair of deeply set eyes.

Those eyes had lost all their light. They stared numbly at everything in the courtyard.

Although Shi Ting did not recognize him, he made his judgment at once — this man was Qiao Yishan.

Qiao Yishan noticed someone standing there and came back to himself. He dragged his leaden legs and forced himself forward.

He glanced at Shi Ting without speaking, and casually pushed open the lid of the nearest coffin.

When he saw the body inside, all color drained instantly from his face.

“How can this be?” He pushed open the coffins one by one, then stood before the last coffin as though turned to stone.

“Xiu’er, Xiu’er?” Qiao Yishan suddenly collapsed to his knees before the coffin, reaching in to stroke the face of the one within. “Xiu’er, wake up. What has happened to you — please wake up.”

“Father, Mother, little sister — wake up. Please wake up.”

Qiao Yishan, kneeling before the row of coffins, let out a howl of grief as mournful as a wild beast.

Yan Qing had witnessed too many such scenes of life and death. Her second uncle always told her that once you saw enough, you grew numb to it — but he had never taught her how to actually reach that state of detachment.

Instinctively, she tightened her grip on Shi Ting’s hand. A mist of tears rose in her eyes. If her second uncle were here, he would certainly say again that she was a useless forensic investigator.

Qiao Yishan slumped to one side, tears flowing without stopping. The way he looked reminded Yan Qing of a grieving lion.

She and Shi Ting stood to the side and did not step forward to disturb him. Some grief must be released — otherwise it would fester into illness.

After a long while, Qiao Yishan finally looked over: “What happened here, and who are you?”