The night did not return to silence. From the eastern wing, the cry of terror had rippled outward like a stone dropped into still water. Servants stirred in their quarters, lanterns flickered to life, and the muffled sound of Yuanqing's voice—high-pitched, almost girlish—cut through the darkness. Yuanlong stood in the doorway of his study, his wife's question still hanging between them like an unsheathed sword.
"I have done nothing yet," Yuanlong said, his voice low and steady. "But I have planted a seed. Now we wait to see what grows from it."
Suo Fahui stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. She wore only a thin sleeping robe, and her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders. In the dim light, she looked younger, more vulnerable—the girl he had married twelve years ago, not the woman who had been caught in a web of suspicion. "Yuanlong," she said, her voice trembling, "I do not know what you suspect of me. But I swear to you, by our children's lives, that I have never betrayed you. Not with Huan Decong, not with your brother, not with anyone. If I have spoken to Huan's steward, it was only to inquire about a loan to cover Father's medical expenses—a loan I never took. That is the whole truth."
Yuanlong studied her face. There was no guile in her eyes, only exhaustion and fear. He wanted to believe her. But his father's letter had warned him to trust no one—not even his wife. Yet if she was lying, she was a masterful actress. He decided to give her a test, a small one. "Then prove it to me," he said. "Tomorrow morning, I need you to visit the Temple of the City God. Find the monk who keeps the donation records—ask him if a man named Huan Decong has made any large offerings in the past month. And ask him, quietly, if any servant of the Huan household has stored a rolled parchment in the temple's safe. Bring me whatever you learn."
Suo Fahui's eyes widened. "You want me to spy on Huan Decong? In a temple? That is—"
"That is what a loyal wife would do," he interrupted gently. "If you are innocent, this will prove it. If you refuse, I will have my answer."
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I will go. But Yuanlong, if I do this, you must promise me one thing: when this is over, you will tell me everything. No more secrets between us."
"Agreed," he said. He watched her return to her chambers, her steps measured and calm. He did not know if he had just gained an ally or set a trap for himself. But the game required risks, and he had just rolled the dice.
He did not sleep that night. Instead, he spent the remaining hours before dawn in his study, reviewing the evidence he had gathered: the sample of monkshood, the sales ledger from Liao Wu, the blood-stained handkerchief, his father's letter, and the scrap of paper with Cao Rong's name. He arranged them on his desk like pieces on a game board. The center was empty—that was the location of the second will, the missing piece that would either save him or condemn him.
At first light, he heard raised voices from the eastern wing. He stepped out into the courtyard and saw Yuanqing pacing near the well, his face pale and drawn. Beside him stood Cao Rong, the limping attendant, whose eyes darted nervously around the compound. Yuanqing held the small silk pouch—the one Yuanlong had placed in his chamber—and was gesturing wildly at the servants.
"This is a curse!" Yuanqing shouted. "Someone has placed a death charm in my room! It has my brother's name on it—Zhang Yuanlong! He is trying to kill me with black magic!"
Yuanlong approached calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. "Brother, you are mistaken," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "That charm was found in Father's medicine chest. I showed it to Mother yesterday. She brought it to me, thinking it was a protective talisman. I threw it away—or so I thought. It seems someone retrieved it and placed it in your room to sow discord between us."
It was a lie, but a plausible one. He saw the flicker of doubt in Yuanqing's eyes. His brother was superstitious—he had always been afraid of ghosts and curses—and the suggestion that someone else was manipulating them might shake his confidence.
"Who?" Yuanqing demanded. "Who would do such a thing?"
Yuanlong shrugged. "Perhaps someone who wants the eastern wing for themselves. Perhaps a certain merchant who benefits from our division." He let the implication hang in the air.
Yuanqing's face contorted with fury, but he said nothing. He turned sharply and stalked back into the eastern wing, Cao Rong limping after him. Yuanlong smiled inwardly. The seed had sprouted. Now he needed to water it with more suspicion.
He returned to his study and called for Deng Fu. "I need you to spread a rumor in the marketplace," he instructed. "Say that you overheard Huan Decong boasting that he will soon own the Zhang ancestral hall itself—not just the eastern wing. Say he mentioned a hidden document that would make the entire compound his. Make it sound like drunken bragging, but make sure it reaches Yuanqing's ears."
Deng Fu nodded and departed. Yuanlong then turned to his next task: finding Cao Rong alone. The limping attendant was the key to the missing will. If Yuanlong could corner him, isolate him from Yuanqing's protection, he might be able to extract the truth.
He waited until midday, when the household was busy with the midday meal. Cao Rong was in the servants' quarters, eating a bowl of porridge in the shade of the eaves. Yuanlong approached him quietly and sat down beside him, as if sharing a casual moment.
"Cao Rong," Yuanlong said, his tone conversational, "you have served my brother for three years, have you not?"
The attendant stiffened. "Yes, Master Yuanlong."
"And before that, you served a merchant in the eastern ward—a man who later became Huan Decong's partner, I believe. Is that correct?"
Cao Rong's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. "I—I served many masters. I do not recall the details."
Yuanlong leaned closer. "I have a friend who works in the county archives. He told me that a man matching your description was witnessed entering Huan Decong's premises on the night before my father's death. The same night, a rolled parchment was seen leaving through the back gate. I wonder—did you happen to see that parchment?"
Cao Rong's face went ashen. He set down his bowl and rose to leave, but Yuanlong caught his wrist. "I am not accusing you," Yuanlong said softly. "I am offering you a choice. My brother will lose this conflict—I promise you that. When he does, his servants will be dismissed, or worse. But if you help me now, I will give you silver enough to start a new life in another prefecture. And I will forget that you ever carried messages between Yuanqing and Huan Decong."
Cao Rong's eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape. But there was none. He licked his dry lips and whispered, "What do you want me to do?"
"Tell me where the second will is hidden. The one my father wrote. I know you took it from the ancestral hall."
Cao Rong shook his head frantically. "I did not take it. I was sent to watch the hall, but when I arrived, the recess was already empty. Someone else got there first. I told your brother, and he accused me of stealing it. I swear by my ancestors—I do not know where it is."
Yuanlong studied the man's face. The terror in his eyes was genuine. If Cao Rong was lying, he was a better actor than any player in the Luozhou opera. "Then who did take it?" Yuanlong pressed.
"I do not know. But your brother suspected the old valet—Old He. He questioned him, but Old He pleaded ignorance. Then—then your brother had Old He taken to the county lockup on a charge of theft, just to keep him silent. He is still there, I think."
Yuanlong released Cao Rong's wrist. Old He—his father's most loyal servant, the man who had given him the locked box—was in prison. Yuanqing had silenced the only other person who might have known about the will. But if Old He was in the lockup, he was still alive—and Yuanlong could visit him, could question him without Yuanqing's interference.
He rose and left Cao Rong trembling in the shade. He did not go to the lockup immediately, however. He first needed to see the fruits of his other schemes.
By late afternoon, Deng Fu returned with news. The rumor had spread like wildfire through the market. Several merchants had already approached Yuanqing, offering to buy the eastern wing at a discount, fearing Huan Decong would seize the entire compound. Yuanqing had been seen arguing with Huan Decong in the street, their voices raised and their gestures sharp. The alliance between the brothers was cracking—and the crack was exactly what Yuanlong needed.
He sent Deng Fu to the county lockup with a small bribe and a request to see Old He. The jailer, a corpulent man with a taste for silver, allowed the visit in exchange for a handful of copper coins. Yuanlong found Old He in a dark, damp cell, his wrists chafed by iron shackles. The old man looked up, his face haggard but his eyes still bright.
"Master Yuanlong," Old He croaked, "you came. I knew you would."
"Old He, I need the truth. My father's second will—where is it? Who took it from the ancestral hall?"
Old He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "It was not taken from the hall, young master. Your father was afraid someone would find it there. So he moved it two days before he died. He gave it to me, and I hid it in a place no one would think to look—inside the hollow leg of the bronze incense burner in the main hall. But I was arrested before I could tell you. And now—" He shook his head. "I do not know if it is still there."
Yuanlong felt a surge of hope so intense it nearly made him dizzy. The incense burner—the large tripod that stood before the ancestral tablets, filled with ash and sand—that was a perfect hiding place. He thanked Old He and promised to secure his release. Then he hurried back to the compound, his heart pounding.
The main hall was empty at that hour, the servants busy with evening chores. Yuanlong approached the incense burner, a massive bronze tripod that had stood in that spot for three generations. He knelt and felt along the base of one of the legs. His fingers found a seam, a slight indentation. He pressed it, and a small panel slid open, revealing a hollow cavity. Inside lay a rolled parchment, tied with a red cord.
He withdrew it with trembling hands. He unrolled it and read the first lines: I, Zhang Shoucheng, being of sound mind, hereby revoke all prior pledges and bequeath the entire Zhang estate to my eldest son, Zhang Yuanlong... The seal was intact, the signature unmistakable. It was real.
He tucked the will into his robe and closed the panel. He had won—or so he thought. As he stood up, he heard a soft step behind him. He turned to find his wife, Suo Fahui, standing in the doorway of the main hall. She was still in her traveling cloak, her cheeks flushed from the wind.
"Yuanlong," she said, her voice breathless, "I went to the temple as you asked. The monk told me that Huan Decong has indeed stored a sealed bundle in the temple safe—but it was not a will. It was a deed. A deed for the eastern wing, signed by your father, transferring ownership directly to Huan, with no mention of a pledge. The deed is dated two months ago—before the pledge contract was even written. Your brother and Huan have been planning this since the day you left for the eastern markets."
Yuanlong felt the ground shift beneath his feet. The pledge was not the true threat—it was a cover. The actual transfer deed was the real weapon. If Huan produced that deed, the eastern wing would be his regardless of the will. And if the will named Yuanlong as sole heir, it would only become a legal mess that could take years to resolve—years in which Huan and Yuanqing could drain the estate dry.
He looked at his wife—her eyes were clear, her hands steady. She had done what he asked. She had brought him the truth. And the truth was worse than he had imagined.
"We need to get that deed," he said. "Tonight. Before Huan can present it to the magistrate."
Suo Fahui stepped forward and took his hand. "I know a way into the temple's back storehouse. The monk who keeps the records is a friend of my father's. He will let me in—if I ask for a private prayer at the midnight hour. But I cannot go alone. If I am caught, it will ruin me."
Yuanlong squeezed her hand. He had been wrong to suspect her. She was not the betrayer—she was his only true ally. "We go together," he said. "And when this is over, I will make sure everyone knows that it was you who saved this family."
He kissed her forehead, then they made their plans. The midnight hour was three watches away. They would dress as common pilgrims, carry a small lantern, and slip into the temple storehouse. If they found the deed, they could burn it or replace it with a forgery. If they were caught, they would claim they were praying for his father's soul.
But as the night deepened and they prepared to leave, a commotion erupted from the eastern wing—cries of alarm, the clatter of furniture, and then Yuanqing's voice, screaming: "The will! I have found it! It was hidden in my own chamber—the second will! And it names ME as sole heir!"
Yuanlong froze. That was impossible. He had the real will in his robe. Unless—unless Yuanqing had planted a forgery, or had somehow obtained a duplicate, or had simply decided to create a false will of his own.
He turned to Suo Fahui, his face grim. "We go now. He is trying to preempt me. If he presents his forgery to the magistrate before we can counter it, the case becomes a he-said-she-said. We need the deed—we need to expose the entire conspiracy at once."
They slipped out through the rear garden gate, two shadows merging into the night. The temple bells tolled the first watch of midnight as they crossed the dark streets of Luozhou, their hearts beating in unison. Behind them, the Zhang compound burned with the noise of a brother's triumph. Ahead lay the temple, the deed, and the final confrontation—a confrontation that would determine who lived, who died, and who truly inherited the poison that had consumed their family.
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