Ming Huashang was bowed over the wound, applying medicine, when she heard Ming Huazhang’s voice. Without thinking, she replied, “Second Brother, you’re being far too polite — we’re—”

She looked up, and walked straight into Ming Huazhang’s gaze. The lamplight caught in his eyes like ten thousand rivers of stars tumbling down — luminous, still, intent, and deep. Ming Huashang’s heart gave a small, sharp beat. The last two words — siblings — suddenly would not come out.

And worse: only now did Ming Huashang realize that Ming Huazhang was not wearing a shirt, and that she was pressing her hand directly against his body. The sensation beneath her fingertips was cool and smooth, like fine jade.

Her knuckles stiffened. She felt entirely at a loss for what to do with herself. She took up the bandage and began to wrap it stiffly around the wound, round after round.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The bandaging required Ming Huashang to touch him, and that could not be avoided. He kept strict hours and trained diligently; his frame was open and upright, the flesh lean and firm. Dressed, he looked slender and willowy; unclothed, one was startled to find that he was far from slight — particularly from the shoulder to the arm, which was long and strong, the muscles defined and beautifully formed, like a crouching leopard: sinewy, powerful, carrying tremendous force in absolute silence.

It was the first time Ming Huashang had faced a man’s body, and she did not know where to let her eyes rest. Her cheeks burned hot and she stumbled over her words, saying in a scattered fashion, “Second Brother — where did you go? How did you get a wound this severe?”

Ming Huazhang was on the verge of answering when voices came from outside — Duke Zhenguo’s. Ming Huashang startled, hastily draped the robe over him, and ducked behind the inner curtain like a thief, saying in a muffled voice, “Don’t speak. If Father asks, tell him I’ve already gone back.”

Ming Huazhang had no time to object before Ming Huashang was already hidden. The Duke was already pushing the door open, so Ming Huazhang had no choice but to quickly fasten his clasps and rise to receive his father. “Father.”

Duke Zhenguo entered to find Ming Huazhang’s robe slightly disarranged, his expression a shade unnatural. The Duke’s gaze traveled to the medicine flask and gauze cloth lying nearby, and he felt he understood. He sighed and said, “Just now — was Prince Wei’s visit on your account?”

He had been in too much of a rush earlier and the collar clasp had not been properly done. Ming Huazhang shifted his shoulder position to correct it, inwardly resigned.

They hadn’t done anything shameful. He could have told Duke Zhenguo the whole truth openly — but Ming Huashang had hidden herself away. Now that she had hidden, the nature of the matter had completely changed.

This was awkward for Ming Huazhang as well. He had intended to reveal the truth the moment Duke Zhenguo walked in, but the Duke had launched into a speech before he could, and once that conversation began there was no clean way to stop it — the longer it went on, the stranger it would now seem to have Ming Huashang come out. He was left with no good option, and in the end had no choice but to say stiffly, “She has already returned to her own courtyard.”

Duke Zhenguo did not for a moment doubt that upright, conscientious, and gentlemanly Ming Huazhang would lie to him. He nodded, relieved, and said, “Good. She lost her mother young, and I’ve always felt compelled to make it up to her twice over — I’m afraid I’ve gradually spoiled her into what she is. If she behaves improperly toward you at times, I hope you’ll bear with her.”

Since Ming Huazhang could not very well tell the Duke that Ming Huashang was hiding inside this very moment, he kept a composed expression and said, “What are you saying? She is my family — naturally I will do everything in my power for her.”

Reassured, Duke Zhenguo noted that the hour was late and that as a father it was not proper for him to check in on his sixteen-year-old daughter’s rooms anyway. He told Ming Huazhang to rest and heal, then left. Ming Huashang strained her ears until she was sure the footsteps outside had faded away, and then suddenly light flooded back — she looked up to find Ming Huazhang standing there with a composed but clearly exasperated expression, looking at her coolly.

“Father is gone. Come out.”

Ming Huashang blinked with perfect innocence and got up with relief. Ming Huazhang held out his hand to help her. Ming Huashang said quickly, “No — your arm is injured—”

“It’s fine.” He was already pulling her to her feet. Ming Huazhang walked to the couch and bent to tidy up the bloodied cloths and medicine flasks. Ming Huashang could not possibly let a wounded man do such things, and said at once, “Second Brother, please go and rest — I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m fine.” Ming Huazhang moved efficiently and instead pressed Ming Huashang down onto the couch, then methodically gathered everything and put it back in its place. Ming Huashang felt terrible and followed close behind, trying to take the box from him. “The wound on your right hand is so deep — you can’t carry heavy things. Let me do it.”

Ming Huazhang said his thanks but did not loosen his grip. He set the medicine box back on the wooden shelf, then said in a low voice, “Be careful in the days ahead. I may have been exposed.”

Ming Huashang went rigid with alarm, her raised hand freezing in place. By that point Ming Huazhang had already set the box down. He took Ming Huashang’s hand and sat with her on the couch. His complexion was pallid — whether from blood loss or simply his natural color, it was hard to say — and he was, oddly, entirely calm and composed.

As though discussing tomorrow’s weather. As though it were nothing remarkable.

In truth, Ming Huazhang had been thinking it over for the entire journey home. He could say, in all honesty, that he had been cautious — he had not made enemies of anyone, and the case he was currently investigating was not particularly dangerous. If someone had wanted him to stop, there were plenty of ways to send a warning — why come straight for the kill? He had turned it over and over, and the only thing that could have drawn murder upon him seemed to be his identity as Xuan Xiaowei.

As Ming Huazhang, he had been exceedingly careful. But as the Dual 璧, he had interfered in several major court affairs, and the one who hated him most for it was none other than Prince Wei.

Prince Wei’s midnight intrusion into Duke Zhenguo’s estate only confirmed his suspicion. Something had gone wrong somewhere — he did not yet know where — but it was clear that his identity as the Dual 璧 had been compromised.

Ming Huazhang felt grateful that it was he who had been exposed, and not Ming Huashang. He had already let the Ming family down enough; if he now brought harm to Ming Huashang, no death would be sufficient penance.

The news had hit Ming Huashang like a blow to the head — she needed a moment to collect herself before she could ask in a steady voice, “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ming Huazhang was pensive. “Tonight when I slipped into Pude Temple to investigate, I walked into an ambush in Huang Caiwei’s room from four years ago. The attackers were Prince Wei’s men. This case has no connection to Prince Wei, so why would he want me dead? I have thought on it at length, and there seems to be only one explanation — the one he wants to kill is not the Deputy Prefect of Jingzhao, but Xuan Xiaowei, the Dual 璧.”

Ming Huashang’s brow furrowed deeply, her expression grave. “He knows your identity?”

Ming Huazhang’s voice remained calm and analytical. “When I went to Pude Temple I had my face covered the entire time, and I kept it hidden on the way back to Chang’an as well. He can only be guessing — he has no certainty. If he were sure it was me, just now, he would not have left so easily.”

Ming Huashang exhaled a long, shaky breath. A misfortune with one small mercy. She bit her lip, bewildered. “We have been so careful. The Xuan Xiaowei messages passed through me before I relayed them to you — you never even met the contact in person. How could Prince Wei have come to suspect you?”

This was a question Ming Huazhang had also turned over for some time. He narrowed his eyes slightly. Light filtered into his pupils, sending scattered ripples of light across them — like the surface of a frozen lake: dark, unplumbed, and utterly unreadable.

He had never shown his face, yet Prince Wei had seemed to anticipate the Dual 璧’s next move, waiting for him at the scene of the crime. That could only mean one thing: someone inside Xuan Xiaowei had turned traitor.

More than that — a few days earlier, someone had copied his methods and committed crimes in his name. Was that truly a coincidence?

Ming Huazhang saw that Ming Huashang was wearing a troubled, helpless expression. Despite himself, he felt a flicker of amusement. He reached out and pinched her cheek lightly, and said quietly, “Don’t worry. From the moment I chose this path, I knew a day like today would come. I have prepared for it. It will be all right.”

Ming Huashang looked up at him, eyes full of hope and doubt in equal measure. “Truly?”

When an informant’s cover was blown, what could one possibly prepare for except death? Yet Ming Huazhang showed none of this — he smiled, faint and light, and said, “Of course. By the way, the person I sent to find the coroner from the beggar’s case five years ago has returned. It’s unfortunately late, but I wonder if it’s still of any use to you.”

“It is absolutely still of use.” Ming Huashang recognized what he was doing, and played along readily. “That portrait is critical. What did the coroner say?”

“He said that when he examined the beggar girl’s body, she was extremely thin and frail — she looked even younger than her age, barely twelve or thirteen. But her injuries were very severe: purple bruises covering much of her body, and marks from ligatures on her skin. By the time she was found, her body had been partially consumed by stray dogs, many areas were beyond identification. Beyond that, she was only a beggar, so the coroner assumed she had either died in a brawl or starved to death, gave the body a cursory look, and filed it as an accidental death.”

Ming Huashang pushed back instinctively: “Her leg bones had been hacked off — how was that an accidental death?”

“The wounds were in fact part of why he ruled it an accident.” Ming Huazhang continued, “Both her legs had been cut off. The edges of the wounds were ragged and bloody, with no discernible pattern, which looked to the coroner much like someone had been hacked to death by a mob — so that was how he interpreted it.”

Ming Huashang made a small sound of acknowledgment and fell quiet. Ming Huazhang watched her expression and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Ming Huashang shook her head, sat up straight, and pulled open a drawer to take out the scroll of portraits. “This information is very useful — it fills in exactly what was missing from my profile. In the later killings the killer’s method of dismembering bone was practiced and precise; this first case is crude by comparison, which tells us this was his earliest crime, when his killing technique was still unpolished. The degree of brutality he showed to this victim makes it clear he had harbored violent fantasies since early in his life — compounding over years, growing more severe, until by seventeen or eighteen he could no longer contain himself and acted on them. By that calculation, this year he should be somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. Too young and his technique would not be so skilled; much older and he would not have been losing control only five years ago.”

This narrowed the range of suspects once again, ruling out Cheng Dalang’s former dormitory mate Xu Ji. Ming Huazhang lowered his gaze, looking at the portrait on the scroll. “You believe it is Lu Du?”

“Yes.” Ming Huashang said, “As it happens, today I also made a new discovery. I visited Qingchan Temple to make inquiries, and learned by chance that on the twenty-second day of the tenth month, Cheng Siyue had gone there.”

This was significant. Ming Huazhang’s manner became earnest. “How did you find this out?”

“I asked the chestnut seller at the temple entrance. Then I went to the Eastern Market and the proprietor of a clothing shop there also confirmed that on the twenty-second, Cheng Siyue had indeed come in and changed her clothes before leaving.”

So Cheng Siyue had changed her clothing — no wonder Ming Huazhang had come up empty in his inquiries. Before she disappeared she had visited Qingchan Temple, and the trail seemed to point directly at Lu Du — and yet Ming Huazhang’s brow furrowed slightly. “But Lu Du and the abbot of Pude Temple both had alibis for that day.”

“That is the other thing I wanted to tell you.” Ming Huashang picked up a length of yellow gauze and held it over her clothing. “Look — if I am wearing red beneath a yellow veil, it appears orange. I tried several colors, and found that blue beneath yellow appears green.”

Ming Huazhang startled, then immediately remembered: the private chamber at Qingchan Temple was hung with yellow silk curtains. That day, Lu Du had been wearing a green official’s robe, while his servant had worn a blue jacket.

The two garments were different in cut and pattern — seen up close, no one could mistake them. But from a distance, it would in fact be very difficult to tell who was kneeling inside: Lu Du himself, or his servant.

Light blazed into Ming Huazhang’s eyes. “I understand now. With this, Lu Du’s alibi is entirely without foundation. That day, he went to meet Cheng Siyue.”

“That is my suspicion as well,” Ming Huashang said. “And I suspect that four years ago, something very important must have happened to him — something that greatly relieved his psychological pressure, so that he no longer needed to kill in order to find satisfaction.”

Ming Huazhang suddenly seized Ming Huashang’s wrist, his gaze blazing and intent. “How did you know?”

Ming Huashang was startled. “I guessed,” she said faintly.

Ming Huazhang was genuinely astonished. Ming Huashang seemed almost to have seen the future — every detail she described matched reality precisely.

“Your guess was correct,” Ming Huazhang said. “Four years ago, a fire broke out at the Lu family home. Both of Lu Du’s parents died in it — only he survived. Afterward he donated the Lu family compound to Qingchan Temple, acquired a new residence elsewhere, and the Director of the National Academy, sympathizing with his misfortune, recommended him to teach at the National Academy as a Scholar. He has been there ever since.”

Ming Huashang stared with equal surprise — she had not expected Ming Huazhang to have gathered so much. She combined what he had said with what she already knew. “Then it all makes sense. You said earlier that Lu Du had a poor relationship with his father. Most likely, the thing that relieved his psychological pressure was precisely his parents’ death.”

Ming Huazhang thought of the bones Lu Du had donated to Pude Temple, and his gaze grew cold. Human bone flutes were objects of esoteric Buddhist tradition, but to ordinary people in the central plains, the belief that the dead should rest in peace held firm. As a son, offering rites for parents who had died in an accident was entirely understandable. But to desecrate their bodies, dig out their bones, and fashion them into a flute — could that be called anything but the height of unfilial conduct?

And moreover: the bone flute was said to scatter evil spirits and cleanse sins. Why had he felt his own parents needed their sins cleansed? Was the Lu family couple’s death truly an accident?

Ming Huazhang narrowed his eyes, inclined to reopen the investigation into the fire from four years ago — but then he thought of Prince Wei’s men causing such a commotion at Pude Temple that night, and his head ached all over again.

With Prince Wei’s people having stirred up such chaos, the Pude Temple abbot and Lu Du would surely be on high alert. Ming Huazhang was deeply worried the abbot would use the cover of night to destroy the evidence in the underground chamber — and if that happened, there would be no evidence left pointing to Lu Du.

That Wu Chengsi — never good for anything, always good for making things worse.

Ming Huashang saw Ming Huazhang’s expression darken and asked, “Second Brother — what’s wrong?”

Ming Huazhang sighed deeply. “Tonight at Pude Temple I discovered an underground altar with a tantric deity enshrined within — it was almost certainly the site of the crimes from four years ago. But I was spotted by Prince Wei’s men during my withdrawal, and the alarm has been raised. The evidence inside will very likely be destroyed.”

Ming Huashang felt her breath catch. Ming Huazhang had expended such care and time, the killer had been all but identified, and all that remained was to gather the evidence needed to overturn the verdict — and now Prince Wei had chosen this moment to ruin everything. The Prefect of Jingzhao already had no goodwill toward Ming Huazhang; without sufficient evidence, this would only hand the Prefect something more to use against him.

Ming Huashang knit her brows and thought quickly, and then — a flash of clarity.

Perhaps not all of the crime scenes had been compromised. The place where Cheng Siyue had died had not yet been found.

That place had to be somewhere within Qingchan Temple.