4. The Paralyzed Gaze

The funeral drums beat a somber rhythm through the streets of Henan County, their hollow echoes bouncing off the grey walls of the Zhang compound. The patriarch Zhang Shoucheng lay in his lacquered coffin, dressed in his finest ceremonial robes, his hands clasped over a jade tablet. Incense smoke coiled upward like ghostly fingers, carrying prayers to the ancestors. Mourners came in a steady stream—relatives, neighbors, merchants who had known the old man in his trading days, and officials from the county yamen who paid their respects out of duty.

Zhang Yuanlong stood at the head of the coffin, his face carved from stone. He had not slept in two days. His eyes were dry and red-rimmed, not from weeping but from the endless calculations that churned behind them. Beside him stood his brother Yuanqing, dressed in identical mourning white, his expression equally solemn. But Yuanlong could see the flicker of triumph in his brother's eyes whenever he glanced toward the eastern wing—the wing that would soon be his, if the pledge was enforced.

Suo Fahui knelt behind Yuanlong, her head bowed, her sobs soft and measured. She had returned from the goldsmith's the day before with her jade bracelet, now perfectly mended, the crack invisible to the naked eye. She had shown it to Yuanlong in private, her face pale with understanding. "Someone wanted you to think I bought that poison," she had whispered. "They used my bracelet—or a copy of it—to set me."

Yuanlong had nodded and told her to say nothing. But he had also noticed something else: the goldsmith had mentioned that the bracelet had been collected three days earlier by a woman claiming to be Suo Fahui's handmaiden, and then returned for "additional polishing" the next day. The timing was perfect—the original collection occurred on the same day as the monkshood purchase. Someone had borrowed the bracelet, worn it to Liao Wu's shop, and then returned it for polishing, creating an alibi for the real veiled woman. The handmaiden in question—a young girl named Chunxi—had been hired only a month ago, recommended by none other than Cao Rong, Yuanqing's limping attendant.

Yuanlong had not confronted Chunxi yet. He was waiting for the right moment, when the household's attention was fixed on the funeral rites.

The third day of mourning arrived. The coffin was carried to the ancestral burial ground beyond the eastern gate, a procession of white-robed figures winding through the countryside like a river of snow. The coffin was lowered into the earth, and the first handful of soil fell with a dull thud. Yuanlong watched the grave diggers heap the clay back into the pit, and he felt the weight of finality settle on his shoulders. His father was gone. The only witness to the true terms of the will—the one that might have disinherited Yuanqing—was buried beneath six feet of earth.

Back at the compound, the mourners gathered for the funeral feast. It was a lavish affair, with roasted meats, steamed fish, and jars of rice wine brought out from the cellars. Yuanlong sat at the head table, his brother at his right, Huan Decong at his left. The merchant had paid his respects with calculated grace, offering incense and a generous donation to the funeral expenses. Now he ate and drank with the appetite of a man who had nothing to lose.

Yuanlong watched Huan's hands—thick, powerful fingers, stained with ink from the contract he held. Those hands had probably purchased the almond powder. Those hands had probably directed the archer. He smiled thinly and raised his wine cup. "To my father's memory," he announced. "May his spirit find peace in the Western Paradise."

The guests raised their cups and drank. Yuanlong drank too, but only a sip; he had made sure his own wine came from a sealed jar that he had opened himself. He had also arranged for a trusted servant to observe the kitchen, to ensure that no extra powders found their way into the food.

After the feast, Yuanlong withdrew to his study. He had one more item to inspect—a small wooden box that his father's old valet had given him in secret, just before the funeral. The valet, a wizened man named Old He, had served the patriarch for forty years. He had approached Yuanlong in the corridor, his voice trembling: "Master Yuanlong, the old master told me before he fell ill that if anything happened to him, I was to give you this. He said you would know what to do with it."

The box was plain, unadorned, and locked with a small bronze padlock. Yuanlong had no key, but he was not deterred. He took a fine awl from his writing box and carefully probed the lock's mechanism. After a quarter-hour of patient work, the lock clicked open.

Inside lay a folded silk handkerchief, yellowed with age, and a single sheet of paper covered in his father's precise, slanting calligraphy. The paper read:

To my eldest son Yuanlong: If you are reading this, I am no longer among the living. Know that I did not pledge the eastern wing willingly. Your brother forced my hand by threatening to expose a debt I incurred in my youth—a debt to a merchant who later became Huan Decong's father-in-law. I was weak, and I signed. But I have hidden a second will in the cavity behind the ancestral tablet of Grandfather Zhang. It revokes the pledge and names you as sole heir. Retrieve it before the seventh day of the ninth month, or the pledge will become irrevocable. Trust no one—not even your wife, for I have seen her speaking in private with Huan Decong's steward. The only person I trust is Old He. —Your father, Shoucheng.

Yuanlong read the letter three times. His heart hammered against his ribs. A second will—hidden behind his grandfather's tablet—that was the weapon he needed. But the warning about his wife sent a cold shiver through him. He had just begun to trust Suo Fahui again, and now his father's dying words cast doubt on her loyalty. Had she been meeting with Huan's steward? If so, why? To negotiate a secret settlement? To betray him?

He folded the letter and tucked it into his inner robe. He would retrieve the second will tonight, after the household had retired. But first, he needed to confirm his wife's movements. He summoned his most trusted servant, a young man named Deng Fu, who had grown up alongside him. "Deng Fu, I need you to follow Madam Suo discreetly for the next two days. Note everyone she speaks with, everywhere she goes. Report to me each evening. Do not let her see you."

Deng Fu bowed and withdrew. Yuanlong then turned his attention to the silk handkerchief. It was stained with dark blotches—not ink, but old blood. He examined it closely and saw tiny characters embroidered along the hem: Liao Wu, third month, second year. It was a receipt—a record of payment to Liao Wu for something purchased long ago. But the year was before his father's illness. Why would the patriarch keep a blood-stained handkerchief from that time? Perhaps it was evidence of an earlier poisoning—one that had failed, or one that had been meant for someone else.

He stored the handkerchief with the other evidence in his secret compartment. Then he prepared for the night's work. He would go to the ancestral hall after midnight, when the guards were dozing and the servants had retired. He would retrieve the second will and use it to destroy the pledge—and with it, his brother's ambitions.

But as dusk fell and the compound grew quiet, a knock came at his door. It was his mother, Lady Wang. Her face was streaked with tears, and she clutched a small charm in her hand. "Yuanlong," she said, her voice breaking, "I found this in your father's medicine chest after the funeral. It was hidden beneath the herbs. I think—I think it is a poison charm. Someone placed it there to curse him."

She handed him a small cloth pouch, the kind used for protective talismans. Yuanlong opened it and found a dried toad, its legs bound with red thread, and a slip of paper bearing a single character: Yuan. His own name. The toad was a well-known symbol in folk magic for transferring illness to a named enemy. Someone had wanted to make it appear that Yuanlong himself had cursed his father—a superstitious accusation that could ruin his reputation in a community that still believed in such things.

He thanked his mother and assured her it was nothing, merely a discarded charm from a street vendor. But inside, his anger burned like a furnace. The conspiracy was not just about money—it was about destroying him utterly, body and soul. The poison, the forged contract, the framed wife, and now a curse charm with his own name—each layer was designed to isolate him, to make him seem paranoid, greedy, or even murderous.

He waited until the third drum. The compound was silent. He slipped out of his room and made his way to the ancestral hall, a small building at the northern end of the compound. The door was unlocked, as always, but he had brought a small oil lamp to light his way. The hall was dim, the air thick with the scent of old incense and aged wood. He approached the central altar, where the tablets of his ancestors stood in neat rows. His grandfather's tablet was third from the left, a polished piece of dark rosewood.

He knelt and carefully lifted the tablet. Behind it, in a shallow recess carved into the wall, lay a rolled parchment tied with a red silk cord. His heart leaped. He reached for it—and froze. The recess was empty. There was nothing there but dust and a single dead spider.

He lowered his hand, stunned. He had expected the will to be there, exactly as his father's letter described. But someone had already taken it. The recess was too clean, the dust disturbed recently—within the past day or two. He ran his fingers along the edges and found a tiny scrap of torn paper, wedged in the crack. He held it up to the lamplight and read the faint characters: Cao Rong. His brother's limping attendant.

Yuanlong closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. He had been outmaneuvered. Yuanqing had already discovered the will—perhaps through spying, perhaps through Old He's accidental betrayal, perhaps through some other channel—and had removed it. Without the second will, the original pledge stood valid, and the eastern wing would pass to Huan Decong by default. And without the will, Yuanlong had no legal way to contest his brother's claim to the rest of the estate.

He left the ancestral hall in a daze and returned to his study. He sat in the darkness, staring at the single scrap of paper in his palm. Cao Rong. He had to find that man—before dawn, if possible—and force him to reveal where the will had been hidden. But Cao Rong was Yuanqing's man; he would never talk willingly. Yuanlong would need leverage, or a threat, or a trick.

Just then, Deng Fu returned, breathless. "Master Yuanlong, I followed Madam Suo as you asked. She did not meet anyone suspicious—but I saw something else. A man in a dark cloak entered the eastern wing shortly after the funeral feast. He came out half an hour later, carrying a rolled bundle. I followed him to the Temple of the City God, where he handed the bundle to a fat man in a merchant's robe. The fat man was Huan Decong."

So the will had been transferred to Huan. Yuanqing had given it to the merchant, perhaps as collateral for a larger debt, or perhaps as a guarantee that the pledge would be enforced. Either way, the will was now in enemy hands—and retrieving it would be nearly impossible without a direct confrontation.

Yuanlong rose from his chair. He would not confront Huan directly, not yet. He would first create a distraction—a fire, a false report of theft, anything to draw Huan and Yuanqing out of their positions. Then he would search Huan's premises, while his brother was busy with the chaos.

He began to plan, his mind sharp and cold. He would use the poison charm his mother had found—he would place it in Yuanqing's own room, to make it seem that his brother had been cursed, and then he would spread a rumor that the curse was punishment for stealing the ancestral will. In a superstitious town like Henan County, such a rumor could drive Yuanqing into a panic, forcing him to seek a shaman's help—and in his fear, he might reveal the will's location.

It was a gamble, but it was the only move left on the board.

He took the dried toad and the charm paper, placed them in a small silk pouch, and slipped out into the night. The eastern wing was quiet, its windows dark. He crept to Yuanqing's private chamber, where his brother slept with his wife and children. He lifted the latch just enough to toss the pouch onto the low table by the bed, then withdrew as silently as a shadow.

As he returned to his own quarters, he heard a faint cry from the eastern wing—not of alarm, but of terror. Yuanqing had found the charm. In the distance, a dog began to howl. The night was no longer silent.

Yuanlong smiled in the darkness. The first move had been made. Now he would wait for his brother's reaction—and when it came, he would strike again, harder and faster, until the entire web of conspiracy unraveled and the truth—and the will—rose to the surface.

But as he closed his door, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, his hand reaching for his dagger. The shadow resolved into his wife, Suo Fahui, her face pale in the moonlight. "Yuanlong," she whispered, "I heard a cry from the eastern wing. What have you done?"

He looked into her eyes—fear, confusion, but also something else. Loyalty, perhaps. Or perhaps calculation. He could not yet tell. "I have begun the endgame," he said. "And I need you to decide whose side you are truly on."

Her lips parted, but no words came. The silence between them stretched like a knife blade.