Lin Sui’an considered herself well-traveled and experienced. Setting aside the fact that in her previous world she had read detective novels across every genre imaginable, in this world she had personally worked through three major cases, and she fancied herself capable of facing any crime scene with composure.

But now, confronted with the sight before her, even she couldn’t help feeling a prickle of unease.

The blood trails on the floor were bewildering in shape. It was as though someone had dipped a great brush into blood and dragged it across the room at random — the strokes chaotic and without pattern, impossible to make any sense of.

Beyond that, there were two areas of especially heavy pooling. The first was the writing desk near the west window, where blood had accumulated in a thick, dark mass at the desk’s corner — and the dragging trails all originated from this spot. The second was the bed set against the east wall, so thoroughly soaked that the bedding had been drenched all the way through.

Ling Zhiyan stopped immediately. “How many people have entered the room?”

Wan Lin: “Only the coroner and two runners who carried the body — all of them wore foot wraps. Sixth Brother Ling, I remembered everything you’ve said before. Nothing in the room — not a single object — has been touched.”

“Bring paper and brush.” Hua Yitang raised his voice. Ming Feng quickly summoned someone to bring an inkstone set. Hua Yitang settled cross-legged on the floor, spread the paper out, and with his brush held ready, swept his gaze over the room like a scanning device, taking in every detail. Then he set to work, mapping the scene onto the page. His speed was extraordinary; his markings precise. Those terrifying blood trails, rendered in his hand, even took on something of the quality of ink-wash painting.

Ling Zhiyan: “Where was the body found?”

Wan Lin stared at Hua Yitang’s drawing, momentarily transfixed, before answering: “On the bed. When it was found, the body was lying face-down.”

Hua Yitang added a few quick strokes to outline a human figure on the bed. Considering the scale of the drawing, it was small — but at a glance, it bore a remarkable likeness to Shan Yuanming.

With the rough layout complete, he began adding the fine details, faithfully reproducing every piece of furniture and every object in the room.

On the north wall were two windows — the west one was shut; a clothing rack stood before the bed, draped with two everyday robes; along the wall was the bed, hung with grey-green curtains; beside the bed was a footrest; at the foot of the bed was a wardrobe, its door hanging open, the clothes inside ransacked and tumbled — several garments had been thrown to the floor. The east window was open, its panels swaying gently in the breeze. In front of the bed was a writing desk with several scroll volumes scattered across its surface, all stained with blood. To the east of the desk, along the wall, was a bookshelf with dozens of scroll volumes strewn across the floor — all the binding cords had been undone. Across from the writing desk was a low tea table: two feet high, square, with a teapot and four tea bowls, and a small round ceramic jar, but no other tea implements. Two cushions were placed beneath the tea table — presumably standard issue from the inn.

“Where is the body now?” Fang Ke stepped forward and asked.

Wan Lin had been engrossed in studying Hua Yitang’s drawing. An icy voice suddenly materialized at his ear, and he spun around — the blood-red clothes and pallid face of Fang Ke had appeared from nowhere. Wan Lin’s hand flew to his saber and drew it halfway before Lin Sui’an reacted with lightning speed, pressing his hand down and guiding the blade back into the scabbard.

“Adjutant Wan, this is Fang Ke — our coroner.”

Wan Lin’s expression grew even more alarmed. He looked at Lin Sui’an the way one might look at an apparition from the underworld.

Fang Ke was growing impatient. “The body — where is it?!”

Wan Lin, still dazed, pointed toward the neighboring “Di” suite. Ming Shu volunteered at once: “I’ll show the way.”

Lin Sui’an hurried after them. Fang Ke frowned and glanced at her. “Why are you following me?”

Lin Sui’an: “Curiosity.”

Fang Ke’s brow knitted into a hard knot. He glared at Lin Sui’an in a distinctly unfriendly fashion, as though he wanted to say something cutting. In the end, he said nothing at all, and followed Ming Shu into the neighboring “Di” suite.

Shan Yuanming’s body had been laid out on a rush mat in the center of the room. His blood-soaked shoes, socks, and clothes were piled beside him. The Jing Zhao Prefecture’s coroner had just finished his examination and was packing up his tools. When he saw Ming Shu and the others barging in without a word of greeting, he was about to challenge them — but one of the guards on the door hurried over and whispered something in the coroner’s ear. The coroner’s expression turned strange. He shot a look of considerable curiosity at Fang Ke but stepped aside without a word.

Fang Ke didn’t ask the Jing Zhao coroner what findings he had reached. He went directly to the mat, set down his large wooden case, put on his own white gloves and face covering, and began examining the body from head to toe.

Ming Shu retreated to a far corner. Lin Sui’an hitched up her robe and crouched down beside the body, and couldn’t help letting out a soft sigh as she took in the state of Shan Yuanming’s remains.

He must have died in great pain. His facial muscles were contorted, his skin frighteningly pale. On his forehead was a bloody, mangled wound — as though he had been struck by something. Around his neck was a finger-width bruise. His eyes were shut, but from the expression on his face, it seemed they had only just been forced closed by the coroner.

Fang Ke’s method of examination was entirely in keeping with his personality — silent as the grave. Not a word, not a sound. Nothing like the usual coroner’s practice of narrating each area of the body as he went. The Jing Zhao coroner evidently noticed this departure from proper procedure and let out a cold snort, muttering “back-alley methods.”

Fang Ke’s hand had reached Shan Yuanming’s sternum. Suddenly, his hand stilled, and he looked up at Lin Sui’an.

Lin Sui’an blinked. “If he’s bothering you, shall I knock him out?”

Ming Shu went pale with shock, and hastily dragged the coroner outside.

Fang Ke’s eye twitched twice. “Lin Niangzi, you’re blocking my light.”

Lin Sui’an gave a dry laugh and shifted aside two steps. She watched Fang Ke’s fingers travel from the chest downward — pressing along the hip bones, the thigh bones, the shin bones, the toes — then back up again in reverse, pressing the shoulder, the upper arm, the elbow, the forearm, the fingers. At the fingers, he seemed to find something of interest and examined them very carefully.

Seizing the moment, Lin Sui’an wrapped her own fingers in her sleeve, reached down, and pried open Shan Yuanming’s eyes. Her gaze locked directly onto his dilated pupils.

A piercing ring bored into her skull. The familiar white flash ignited — she saw a hand gripping a bronze key, unlocking a wooden box. Inside the box was a scroll volume — roughly four inches long, about two-thirds the size of an ordinary scroll. It was bound with a red cord and covered in green silk brocade printed with delicate patterns. The title was peculiar — a line from a poem. At the end of the title was a seal stamp, the characters inside it rendered in Greater Seal Script. Lin Sui’an could barely make out one of the characters: what appeared to be the word for “phoenix”…

“Lin Niangzi!”

Fang Ke’s icy voice detonated in her ear. Lin Sui’an jolted back, her consciousness snapping free of the golden finger’s memory. The scene in her vision was replaced by Fang Ke’s impassive face. His brow was furrowed tighter than ever, his black eyes like two dry wells, his lips pressed down into two firm arcs. “What are you doing?”

Lin Sui’an withdrew her fingers with perfect composure. “Can you determine the time of death?”

Fang Ke held her gaze a moment longer, then finally looked away. In a low voice, he said: “Between the start of You and the start of Xu.” He paused, then added: “I need to perform an autopsy. Go ask what procedures are required. Quickly.”

Lin Sui’an immediately recalled the scene of Fang Ke dissecting Lu Shi’s body in the mass grave. A conditioned reflex set her stomach heaving, and she beat a hasty retreat, calling for Ming Shu to go and apply for the autopsy permit. The Jing Zhao coroner, muttering under his breath that “with a fatal wound to the forehead this obvious, an autopsy is entirely unnecessary,” went along with Ming Shu, albeit with marked reluctance.

Lin Sui’an walked back toward the “Tian” suite, musing to herself: Based on past experience, the golden finger’s memories have always been connected, one way or another, to the cause of death. The scroll volume in Shan Yuanming’s memory must be the key — infuriating golden finger, if only it could show a few more seconds.

Back in the “Tian” suite, Hua Yitang had completed his map of the scene. Wan Lin’s attitude toward Hua Yitang was now noticeably more respectful, holding up Hua Yitang’s drawing and expressing admiring appreciation. He declared that once the case was solved, he intended to have the drawing mounted and hung at home — a remark that drew a helpless shake of the head from Ling Zhiyan.

“The time of death falls between the start of You and the start of Xu,” Lin Sui’an had just begun her sentence when Hua Yitang’s expression shifted abruptly. In three quick strides he was beside her, clasping her wrist. His gaze moved anxiously over her eyes and brows. “You — you looked?”

Lin Sui’an nodded and dropped her voice: “I saw someone use a bronze key to open a box. Inside the box was a scroll volume. The title was strange — it read ‘Flowers should be plucked while they bloom.'”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“What?”

“Next time you must wait and let me go with you!”

Lin Sui’an was baffled. “What for? You can’t see what I see.”

Hua Yitang’s fingers clenched suddenly, his grip painful. His voice took on a somewhat gritted quality. “Do you have any idea what your face looks like right now — in any case, you must not act alone!”

Lin Sui’an observed his solemn expression, blinked, and said: “You’re worried about me.”

The tips of Hua Yitang’s ears went red. He abruptly realized what Lin Sui’an was getting at, and his expression darkened instantly — puffed up, he said: “Stop changing the subject!”

“…I’ll try to next time.” Lin Sui’an smiled.

This wastrel is getting harder and harder to manage.

“Ahem — hem — hem — hem!” Jin Ruo raised his voice. “Moving on!”

The first area to examine was naturally the bed where the body had been found. The rumpled bedding was soaked through with blood, though the canopy curtains on all four sides were relatively clean. Scene-reading was Jin Ruo’s specialty. He crouched down, swept his gaze around the curtains, then circled the bed twice, bent low, and began tracing the chaotic blood trails around the room — looking rather like an ant on a hot griddle.

Wan Lin was puzzled. “What’s this young fellow doing?”

Lin Sui’an: “Taking a stroll.”

Hua Yitang was stranger still. He walked to the tea table, crouched beside it, and lifted each tea bowl to his nose, one by one, sniffing. Then he lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed that too. Finally, he sat fanning himself and stared at the seat cushions in silence.

Wan Lin: “What is Fourth Young Master Hua doing?”

Lin Sui’an: “Daydreaming.”

Ling Zhiyan gave a dry cough. “Elder Brother Wan, you said it was a robbery and murder — do you have evidence for that?”

“Shan Yuanming’s belongings were stripped clean,” Wan Lin said, leading the two of them toward the east window. He first pointed to the pool of blood at the desk corner and the large puddle on the floor beside the desk leg, saying: “The perpetrator must have broken in through the window, grabbed Shan Yuanming’s head and slammed it into the desk corner, killing him, then ransacked the room and fled.” He then raised the window panel and pointed to the window frame. “There’s a blood trace here — it must have been left by the perpetrator when he climbed out through the window.” He paused. “But I feel the cause of death is wrong — and as for these blood trails on the floor — Sixth Brother Ling, what do you make of them?”

Lin Sui’an leaned close to the window and looked carefully. On the window frame was a blood trace resembling half a fingerprint. She felt a wave of frustration: in the modern world, a single fingerprint would be enough to identify a killer. In this era, it was probably useless.

Outside the window was the inn’s courtyard wall, roughly seven paces from the window panels, with a strip of wild grass in between. The grass was disheveled, as though it had been trampled. Not wanting to disturb any traces, Lin Sui’an vaulted through the window and up onto the wall in a single leap. Outside the wall was a narrow lane — a dead end to the left, and a path leading out to the main street to the right, where lanterns blazed and the Jing Zhao Prefecture runners were still patrolling.

The clamor of footsteps echoed through the empty street, and faintly woven among them was the sound of a lute. Lin Sui’an stood up and looked west — the night sky in that direction glowed faintly, and the music seemed to be drifting from that same source.

Behind her came the soft scrape of movement: Jin Ruo had climbed out through the window. He traced the back wall of the “Tian” suite in a circuit, climbed up for a look, scaled the wall and dropped into the alley, crouched down to study the ground for a while, then clambered back up and said: “Someone climbed over the back wall and into the courtyard, went around to the front gate, then climbed back out through the rear window and over the wall to escape. From the footprints, it appears to be the same person. And whether entering through the window or fleeing over the wall, this person moved with steady, unhurried strides.”

Lin Sui’an: “Could it be a habitual criminal?”

“Quite possible.”

“Is it possible to track where he went?”

“The footprints outside the alley are too muddled — impossible.”

Lin Sui’an clicked her tongue. The scene preservation here was woefully inadequate. All she could hope for now was whether any eyewitnesses could be found. By rights, the killer should also have had blood on his person — at the very least, the soles of his shoes would certainly have blood on them, which would stand out conspicuously in a crowd. But given Wan Lin’s conduct and the tense atmosphere of the runners’ sweep, it seemed there were no eyewitnesses?

That was interesting. Clearly, the killer had a strong awareness of how to evade detection.

“This wasn’t a thief breaking in to rob and kill — it was someone known to the victim. Shan Yuanming knew this person.” Hua Yitang’s voice came through from inside.

Lin Sui’an and Jin Ruo exchanged a glance, then simultaneously dropped from the wall and climbed back in through the window.

Hua Yitang was crouching beside the writing desk, staring at the large blood pool on the floor alongside Ling Zhiyan.

Wan Lin was astonished. “How do you figure that?”

Hua Yitang stood, pointed his fan at the tea table, and said: “Judging by the smell and the state of the tea leaves in the pot, the tea was brewed at roughly the start of You.”

Ling Zhiyan: “That aligns with Shan Yuanming’s time of death.”

Hua Yitang: “One of the two tea bowls has tea dregs, and the other still has tea sitting in it — meaning Shan Yuanming brewed two bowls of loose-leaf tea, but the other person never drank theirs. Someone you’d brew tea for must be an acquaintance.”

Brewing tea?

Lin Sui’an hurried over and lifted the teapot lid — she nearly wept with joy. The leaves steeping inside were unmistakably familiar to her. Though the smell was not particularly pleasant, and the leaves were in a broken, crumbly state, to her this was the dawn breaking through the darkness.

So this world already had a prototype of this kind of tea.

Wan Lin leaned over and sniffed at the tea water in the pot, muttering: “Does he have a dog’s nose, to be able to smell when tea was brewed?”

A vein pulsed at Hua Yitang’s temple. He seemed to want to snap back, but for some reason restrained himself. He continued: “The one seated on the south side is Shan Yuanming — that was his favored position, since the cushion on that side shows greater wear and indentation. The person across from him must be the guest he was receiving. Furthermore, the tea table, teapot, tea bowls, and seat cushions are all neatly arranged, indicating the two sat here in conversation only, with no violent conflict breaking out at this spot.”

Wan Lin got down on his hands and knees and stared at the cushions for a long while, vigorously scratching his head. “In other words, after finishing their conversation, this acquaintance walked over to the writing desk with Shan Yuanming, and for some reason suddenly turned on him — grabbed his head and slammed his forehead against the desk corner, killing him —”

“No,” Ling Zhiyan said. “There’s far too much blood here to be from a single fatal blow.”

Wan Lin: “He’s not dead with all this blood?”

“Paradoxically, a single instantly lethal blow would produce less blood. This much blood suggests — ” Ling Zhiyan raised his fist to demonstrate. “The killer grabbed Shan Yuanming by his hair and drove his forehead into the desk corner repeatedly.”

“I see — that would explain the blood trails all over the floor! The killer failed to finish him in one blow, Shan Yuanming fought back, and the struggle spread the blood everywhere — but that still doesn’t quite fit…”

“These blood trails were not caused by a struggle. They were caused by the killer dragging Shan Yuanming around the room.” Jin Ruo said.

At that, not only Wan Lin but all of them were taken aback.

“I see.” Lin Sui’an’s gaze followed the trail of blood slowly. “The blood vessels in the human head are dense — a head wound bleeds profusely. Shan Yuanming’s neck has a bruise, consistent with someone grabbing his collar from behind and hauling him up by it.” Lin Sui’an demonstrated the motion. “Shan Yuanming is slender but quite tall. The killer could not lift him entirely off the ground, so he was half-dragged, half-hauled —”

Hua Yitang: “Shan Yuanming’s head drooped forward. Blood dripped from the wound onto the floor. His feet and hem dragged through the blood, creating these strange, smeared trails.”

Jin Ruo crouched down and pointed at the floor. “Look at these spots here.”

Everyone crowded around and crouched down as well — sure enough, there were three circular blood spots on the floor, the edges of which had developed tiny jagged projections.

A flash of recollection lit Lin Sui’an’s mind — knowledge from detective novels read long ago surfaced: “When blood drops fall while in motion, they form these jagged-edged marks. And the direction the jagged points face indicates—”

Jin Ruo rose to his feet, stepping forward: “The direction of movement.”

Everyone was astonished. They watched as Jin Ruo walked to the bookshelf and stopped. “The killer ransacked the bookshelf, then hoisted Shan Yuanming up—” He turned, went around the tea table, and stopped at the screen. “Shan Yuanming’s blood-stained hand groped across the screen.” He walked a few steps and stopped at the wardrobe. “The killer rifled through the wardrobe.” He circled the bed, paused. “Searched the bed.” Then walked back to the desk, turned around, walked parallel to the bed in a straight line, and stopped. “Dragged Shan Yuanming back to the bed.” He came to a halt and said: “That is the killer’s path and sequence of movement.”

Ling Zhiyan: “What was the killer doing?”

Hua Yitang: “Looking for something, it seems.”

Wan Lin: “So it really was a robbery after all!”

Could it be — he was looking for the scroll from the golden finger’s memory?

Lin Sui’an’s gaze circled the path Jin Ruo had traced twice. There was only one place the killer had visited twice — the final position where Shan Yuanming’s body ended up: the bed.

She strode to the bed, searched it above and below with meticulous care, and found nothing. She thought for a moment, then gripped the bed frame with her left hand. With a crack, she flipped the entire bed up.

Wan Lin let out a startled yelp.

Lin Sui’an: “Check the underside of the bed and the floor — any hidden compartments?”

Hua Yitang and Jin Ruo got to work immediately. Hua Yitang felt along the underside of the bed; Jin Ruo knocked on the floorboards. Lin Sui’an propped up the enormous bed with one arm and ran the other hand over the legs and side rails — all solid, nothing unusual. Hua Yitang finished and found nothing. Jin Ruo knocked until he reached a floorboard tight against the wall and suddenly looked up. “This one’s hollow!”

Lin Sui’an was elated. She drove her arm upward with full force, hoisted the bed completely off the ground, and flung it aside with a whoosh. She crouched down, and with a sharp crack drove her fingers into the gap in the floor, prying the plank up by brute force.

Beneath the floorboard was a fist-sized hollow. Inside lay a cotton cloth pouch. Hua Yitang picked it up and shook it — a bronze key fell out.

The very key from the golden finger’s memory! Lin Sui’an’s excitement surged. She locked eyes with Hua Yitang, and both of their gazes blazed with light.

“Fourth Young Master Hua, Lin Niangzi — come look at this!” Ling Zhiyan called out sharply.

When Lin Sui’an had flung the bed aside earlier, the quilt and mattress had been thrown clear, exposing the part of the headboard that had been hidden beneath the bedding. On the wooden board were two blood-written strokes.

Wan Lin tilted his head, trying to make them out. “A vertical stroke and a horizontal? A starting stroke and a horizontal? Or a dot and a horizontal? It seems like — like an unfinished character?”

Jin Ruo: “Could it be… something Shan Yuanming wrote before he died?”

Hua Yitang raised an eyebrow. Ling Zhiyan pressed his fingers to his temple until it reddened.

Lin Sui’an: Oh! A dying message has appeared!

Skit

Hua Family’s Sixty-Six Residences

Yita cradled a bowl of vivid green tea broth, delivering it to Mu Xia with the air of someone seeking praise. “The master’s restorative tea is ready! Give it a try.”

Mu Xia carefully took a sip, and felt as though a bolt of lightning had split his skull clean in two.

Yita: “Awake now?”

“Very awake!”

“Then let’s take it to him!”

“Hold on,” Mu Xia said quickly, blocking the way. “There’s a curfew in the Eastern Capital.”

Yita’s face fell. “Will we have to wait long?”

“It’ll be light soon.”

“When exactly?”

Mu Xia looked at the sky. “Very soon.”

In this installment, the little investigation squad’s work was crime scene reconstruction — too many threads and foreshadowing needed revising, I’m sorry for the delay — wiping tears

I’ve posted the maps of Shuangyuan Inn and the crime scene on my Bilibili and Weibo — those who are interested can look at them side by side!