LBLCPCB C13

Chapter 13

Zhu Song interrogated the kitchen staff, but nothing was gained. As he had explicitly arranged, Lin Feng’s meals had always been under strict supervision—even delivery done by two men together. There should have been no mistake.

By evening, the coroner came with his report.

Lin Feng had been poisoned—crane‑red venom¹ mixed in his water. His body bore many scars, but none fatal. The only lethal wound was to his chest—so deep the heart itself had been pierced. And yet, someone with extraordinary medical mastery had stitched his heart together, prolonging life.

“Exquisite! Unparalleled!” the coroner exclaimed. His face radiated awe. “Never in all my years have I seen such superlative skill. A living immortal physician! Marvelous!”

Zhu Song, grim at such gushing, cut him short. “And?”

Startled, the coroner’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Should my lord someday befriend such a divine physician—please, introduce me.”

Zhu raised a brow. “I meant the case.”

Chastened, the coroner explained: “Li Mingsi indeed died smashing his head on the pillar. But upon autopsy, his heart disease was advanced. Even without this, he had only a few years left to live.”

Zhu nodded curtly, dismissing him.

After dinner, Gu Huaiyu came with a portrait in hand. “Finished.”

Zhu examined it. The painted figure wore a golden mask; only noble bearing and general outline could be seen. Nothing of Li Mingsi, who had none of such polish.

“You think?” Gu asked.

Zhu inhaled deep. “A scapegoat.”

They shared the same thought. Yet time pressed—the Emperor’s deadline loomed. Gu’s true worry was whether Zhu would continue, or stop here.

But Zhu’s jaw set. “Check Li Mingsi.”

Though Gu had expected this, he still advised: “Someone does not wish us to pursue this. If we continue openly, we face blocks at every step. Why not close the case to placate the throne—then investigate in secret?”

“Secret would face no obstacles?” Zhu retorted.

Gu knew resistance was useless. “Fine. Then I’ll find Old Qu.”

“Mm.”

When Gu left, Zhu studied the portrait again. Purple‑robed man, golden mask, eyes gentle, aquiline nose, lips thin, a beauty mole at his mouth, and on his pale hand a dark‑jade ring. Lin Feng’s description, his first impression of that man.

Zhu sighed heavily. Too few fragments; the chain would not form. Only one certainty: some high lord was behind it all. But could such a grand figure covet a mere coral?

Illogical.

Beauty? Xu Wanyin, even as famed as she was, had chosen and wed Lin Sicheng ten years before the massacre. That too seemed far‑fetched.

Without evidence, imagination meant nothing. Zhu pondered all night until dawn, when Gu returned.

“I found it. The man is not Li Mingsi. His true name was Zhou Mu, a cloth merchant from Ganzhou. Two months ago he entered the capital—to treat his son’s illness. They stayed at the Tianyue Inn.”

At last, a lead. Zhu surged upright. “I’ll go!”

But at Tianyue Inn, nothing. The family had abruptly checked out two days prior. The innkeeper recalled them only as anxious seekers of medicine. Nothing more.

With Dali Si’s network, searching even in a city was not hard. Zhu issued public wanted posters. Yet two days passed—no trace.

The Emperor’s deadline pressed. Despairing, Zhu sat when, without warning, a dagger darted through his window and struck the pillar. Affixed was a note.

He ran to the doors: “Anyone see something?”

The guards blinked. “Assassins?”

“No. Investigate quietly.”

“Yes, lord.”

He tore the note open. The man you seek is in Xiliu Village.

Even if suspicious, better to act.

Zhu swiftly led men to Xiliu Village. At the far huts, he found Zhou Mu’s wife and son huddled, shaking with fear. Seeing the insignia of Dali Si, they prostrated.

“My lord, save us!”

Brought back, she confessed before questioned:

“Two days ago, a man in hood came to Zhou Mu. They spoke—I do not know what. Then Zhou said our child’s sickness could be cured.

He returned with a thousand‑year lingzhi mushroom², ground it and fed our son. The boy’s illness truly eased. I rejoiced. Then Zhou told me—I was to take the boy, leave the city in secret. He had a deal to fulfill, and might not return.

Were it only me, I’d have refused. But for the boy, I agreed. That night we crept out. Before three li³, assassins struck us. I begged, but they showed no mercy. When I thought we must die, another group of masked men appeared—rescued us and brought us here.

Since then, they kept us silent. Not until today did you come.”

Two rival bands—intrigue deepened.

“What marks had the attackers?” Zhu asked.

“Only black clothes and masks. I was too scared.”

“And the rescuers?”

“Also black‑clothed, masked. Said not a word—only gestured with swords.”

“And the trader? Apart from the lingzhi?”

“Nothing. Only the mushroom.”

“Did Zhou give him anything?”

“No. Only said I must flee.”

Zhu frowned. But she added timidly: “The first day he came, a gust blew back his hood… and I glimpsed his face.”

Zhu’s spirit leapt. “Summon the painter!”

By night, Zhang the portraitist arrived with Gu.

Gu met the woman’s eyes. “We must paint tonight. Can you do it?”

Flustered, she bowed. “It is my duty.”

The painter arranged his tools.

The woman recalled carefully: “He wore perfumed purple silk robes. A plain dark cloak. Roughly this lord’s height”—pointing at Gu—“but heavier, fifty years perhaps. Yet skin white and smooth, well‑kept. Face rounder, jowls a little slack. Regular brows, long phoenix eyes, a stern gaze. Strong nose, thin lips…”

Under moon and candle, stroke by stroke, a vivid face emerged. By sunrise, it was complete.

They all gathered round—and at once their brows drew tight.

They knew this man.

Zhu seized the portrait, storm already brewing.

“I go at once.”

“I’ll join,” Gu said.

“No need. With proof so clear, would they dare refuse surrender?”

Gu subsided.

The woman asked tentatively: “My lord—do you truly know him?”

Gu did not answer directly. “If we bring him, can you identify?”

“Of course,” she swore.

Zhu marched with yamen to the gates of the Imperial Uncle Chen’s mansion.

The guards flinched at their array. Zhu announced: “Assistant Minister Zhu Song, Judicial Court. Request entry.”

A servant ran to report.

Soon, the Imperial Uncle himself appeared. “Lord Zhu, what is this?”

Zhu held forth the portrait. “Your steward, Chen Yurong, stands accused of the slaughter of the Lin family—thirty‑two lives—and of commissioning scapegoats. Surrender him.”

The noble’s eyes widened. “Preposterous! How could such—! Men! Bring Chen Yurong out!”

Servants rushed.

“Stay and take tea meanwhile,” the noble offered graciously.

Zhu’s gaze flicked to a scar on the elder’s mouth. “You’ve a wound, Uncle?”

“Ha, my wife’s new cat struck me.”

“New cat? I never heard madam fancied cats.”

“Her sister kept one. She fancied it. But it clawed me, so I said return it. She begged keep it.”

Idle words filled the wait until servants returned, panting.

“Master… the steward… dead!”

“What?”

“In his chamber—already lifeless.”

Zhu’s brows slashed down. “Again? So decisive…”

“Show me.”