Jiang Hang had fired off a whole barrage of guesses, but Xia Songluo wasn't following his train of thought at all.
With her own butterfly knife pressed against her throat and his body pinning hers down, her mind went blank at first, and only then did a deep, crushing fear crawl up her chest.
When it came down to it, she'd been spoiled rotten by her family since she was little.
No matter what mistake she made, the worst her father would do was dock a month's allowance.
The biggest storms she'd weathered in life were recently going to a bar with He Qi, getting harassed by a drunk, kicking his leg so hard it broke, and ending up at the police station.
And last night, when that blond punk climbed over the wall to steal the mailbox.
She'd never felt aggression and intimidation like Jiang Hang's before.
Xia Songluo knew exactly what the words "desperate fugitive" meant, but it wasn't until this very moment that she truly felt the crushing weight of what that word meant.
Thankfully, Jiang Hang spoke slowly, giving Xia Songluo enough time to calm herself down from the fear and think about what he was actually saying.
Especially when she heard him call her "Miss Assassin"—that's when everything clicked into place.
Her fear of Jiang Hang gradually twisted into an anger she could barely put into words.
Jiang Hang had said everything he wanted to say, thrown out his question, and then went quiet.
The sky was lightening, and passersby were gradually increasing around them. He didn't change his position—still looming over her, arms wrapped around her as if hugging her.
He only pulled his wrist inward, loosening the blade slightly, leaving her room to speak.
Xia Songluo, now having that sliver of space, didn't immediately defend herself. She was too furious for that. She had to retaliate first!
When Jiang Hang had been speaking into her ear, his head had been bent low, his forehead nearly resting against her shoulder.
In such an "intimate" position, his ear was just as close to her lips.
In the gap between the blade, Xia Songluo turned her head slightly, opened her mouth, and bit down hard on his earlobe, cursing him as a bastard in her heart!
Jiang Hang let out a muffled grunt, the arm around her neck tightening from the sharp pain.
He really had wanted to provoke her into fighting back. If she fought back, she'd expose her fox tail.
It would confirm his suspicion.
But not this kind of fighting back.
The emotion transmitted to him was pure, raw venting.
It actually made him waver in his guess.
Only when the thick, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth did Xia Songluo let go, letting out a cold "hmph."
She really did want to bite through his ear, but the blade was still at her neck. She couldn't go further than this.
If she pushed him past his limit, he'd definitely strike back to warn her.
A wise man doesn't court danger.
Blood dripped from Jiang Hang's earlobe, ran down his neck, and seeped into his collar.
Apart from that initial grunt, he hadn't made another sound.
But because they were pressed so close, Xia Songluo could clearly feel his chest rising and falling faster and faster.
When he spoke again, his voice was even more strained than before: "Can you answer me now, Miss Assassin?"
"Just because someone can wield a butterfly knife, they're an assassin? A killer?" Xia Songluo's tense body gradually relaxed as she sneered. "Your logic is seriously questionable, Mr. Ruffian."
It was true that not many people played with butterfly knives, and women who did were probably even fewer, but even so, the numbers nationwide were considerable. It wasn't rare at all.
Jiang Hang said, "There are plenty of people who play with butterfly knives, true. But one who's connected to both the messenger and to me at the same time—I don't believe that's a coincidence."
Xia Songluo said, "Let's say you're right. If I really wanted to kill you ahead of time, why go through all this trouble? Why not just write a letter to myself?"
"Didn't I say it? You needed the messenger family's carrier pigeons to find me, the recipient," Jiang Hang's tone gradually returned to normal. "The assassin organization has been searching for me for fifteen years and still hasn't found me. You think you could?"
Xia Songluo laughed. "Why not? Didn't I find you?"
Jiang Hang countered, "Without that letter, would you have ever discovered my existence in Lanshan Manor?"
Xia Songluo frowned slightly. That meant that in the future when she hadn't sent the letter, she hadn't known Jiang Hang was right there all along?
Then choosing to send it to him, asking the carrier pigeons to find him—that did make sense.
"Arguing about this is pointless. I'm not an assassin," Xia Songluo's mouth tasted metallic, and she wanted nothing more than to spit. "And you said it yourself—they kill for money. Do you know how they charge for a kill?"
Under his restraint, she struggled, tugged at her sleeve, and revealed the watch on her wrist. "Recognize this? Van Cleef & Arpels' Pont des Amoureux. Over a million."
Xia Songluo actually really liked this watch. Its unique feature was that the dial depicted a bridge.
On either side of the bridge stood a man and a woman. The woman on the left held an umbrella, representing the hour hand, moving forward one step every hour.
The man on the right held a rose, representing the minute hand, moving forward one step every minute.
They meet for one minute at noon and one minute at midnight, then separate, waiting for their next encounter.
Meeting, waiting, meeting.
Again and again, ceaselessly.
"When you were a child, your family was basically big capitalists. I know a watch at this price isn't really a luxury item in your eyes."
Xia Songluo said, "But this watch—last month I was shopping with my best friend, and we walked past the Van Cleef & Arpels boutique. She casually mentioned wanting to wear a matching series with me, so I bought two. She got the Fairy watch, I got the Pont des Amoureux, and I put it on my dad's supplementary card without even telling him."
Last year, Altay was super popular. She went there in the winter to ski, and she thought the sunset from the top of Jiangjun Mountain Ski Resort was breathtakingly beautiful—so beautiful she wanted to stay longer.
The hotel industry in Altay hadn't caught up with the soaring market demand yet, so her dad just bought her a small villa at the foot of the mountain.
"Do I look like I need to be a hired killer for money?"
Absolutely ridiculous.
It was the funniest joke she'd heard all year.
Jiang Hang was silent for a long time, but he pulled the blade back a little further.
"Even if we say, for the sake of argument, that I really am an assassin—your family..." Xia Songluo had started with a cold laugh, but when she mentioned his family, she paused, then said seriously, "When something happened to your family, I was only six years old. What could I possibly have to do with it?"
Jiang Hang had said "the assassin organization," not "the assassin family."
Did that mean assassins, unlike messengers, weren't passed down through clans but organized as gangs?
"Assassins all deserve to die." Jiang Hang finally let go of her and resettled himself at the other end of the bench.
The butterfly knife in his hand was stained with blood—his own blood.
With a clatter, he threw the knife down between them.
The pressure vanished instantly, and Xia Songluo let out a breath.
She took a tissue from her waist pouch, wiped the blood off her lips, and asked the question weighing on her mind: "Jiang Hang, have you actually killed someone?"
"In my view, assassins aren't human." Jiang Hang only wiped his ear with the back of his hand, and his entire hand came away stained red. "Also, what makes you so sure I can't kill?"
He couldn't quite tell whether Xia Songluo was bold from skill, or reckless from ignorance.
With a knife at her throat, she still dared to bet he wouldn't hurt her casually, biting down so hard.
Jiang Hang's gaze swept over the blood on the back of his own hand, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "At eleven, it's true I didn't kill anyone. The first time I killed someone, I was twelve."
Xia Songluo believed him. Based on the look on his face when he flashed that blade, if he'd said he'd never taken a life, she wouldn't have believed him.
But she never let go of that "cop" anchor point: "I'm sure you didn't kill anyone without good reason—they were all self-defense kills when you were threatened, right?"
Jiang Hang turned his head slightly to look at her, his eyes full of scrutiny.
Xia Songluo knew she'd guessed right: "You really are a wanted criminal? You're actually an undercover cop, aren't you?"
Jiang Hang didn't answer.
It was hard to answer. He was a wanted criminal, but he was also like an undercover cop.
Back then, he hadn't escaped from the police station—he'd been secretly released.
Among the dead in that massacre was his uncle, Jiang Rui.
Jiang Rui had once been a Hong Kong detective. After immigrating to Malaysia, he'd passed a grueling selection process and entered the country's Narcotics Crime Investigation Department, monitoring cross-border drug flow in Penang, where the Chinese population was densest.
Because of Penang's unique geographical position, it had become a transit hub for drugs moving south from the Golden Triangle in recent years.
When a narcotics detective's family is slaughtered, how could the Malaysian police possibly suspect his eleven-year-old nephew first?
Besides, the crime scene was too bizarre—and such "bizarre" cases weren't the first in Southeast Asia, nor the first in Malaysia.
Based on past experience, that eerie assassin, even if he slipped up once, never left survivors under his blade.
Even if they locked Jiang Hang in prison, it might not keep him safe.
The higher-ups decided to let Jiang Hang go.
The identity of a wanted murderer was his protection.
After that, Jiang Hang went alone into the Golden Triangle.
The shadowy mastermind who'd commissioned the hit, as well as the hired killer, were both his targets of investigation.
But after more than a decade of living like an animal, during which Jiang Hang had helped the police take down several major drug lords entrenched in the region, the revenge he sought for his family remained completely unresolved.
He began to think he'd been heading in the wrong direction. Maybe the bloodbath at his home had nothing to do with his uncle's identity as a narcotics detective.
Jiang Hang started shifting his approach, focusing on why his parents had suddenly sold off most of their assets and immigrated to Malaysia.
That turned the trail from Southeast Asia back to China—and that was why he'd returned.
"Assassins aren't always in it for money. This isn't over yet." Jiang Hang stood up. "Once I find proof you're the assassin, I'll come back for you. And then I'll kill you."
"Whatever." Xia Songluo considered herself completely innocent, so she wasn't afraid of him finding evidence.
"In the meantime, don't think about using the Fang mother and son against me. If anything happens to them—" Jiang Hang paused, then warned, "I'm capable of anything."
"I'm warning you too: come at me if you have a problem, but don't go scaring my parents like that again." Xia Songluo also shot to her feet, glaring at him. "My dad can barely lift a bucket of water—there's no way he's an assassin."
"As for my mom—" Xia Songluo's voice caught.
She wasn't even a year old when her parents divorced.
All of her mother's relatives were abroad. Shortly after the divorce, her mother had also gone overseas, and they hadn't seen each other in years.
But there wouldn't be a problem there either. "Back then, the two of them went to court over custody of me, and I was awarded to my dad."
That had happened because her dad had reported her mom for hoarding a large collection of restricted knives, which cost her the custody battle.
Pretty shameless of him.
But the reason they'd divorced was because her mom had secretly sold off one of her dad's research findings.
Both of them were pretty shameless.
"My mom sold out my dad for fifty million—fifty million, twenty years ago." Xia Songluo spread her fingers into a palm. "She wouldn't need to become a killer for money, would she?"
Jiang Hang said nothing and made to leave.
Xia Songluo stood up, holding out the tube: "Wait. Peel back the feather seal, and I'll take it to Jin Zhan. As soon as we open it and take a look, we won't have to guess at all."
"I'm not touching that tube." He didn't even glance at it, heading for the exit.
Xia Songluo chased after him and blocked his path: "I'm not asking you to go with me to see Jin Zhan. Just open it, then go back into hiding, alright? Anyway, you've already seen through the 'conspiracy' between me and Jin Zhan—even if we read this letter, it won't do us any good."
Jiang Hang looked down at her. "What if, once I peel back the feather seal, I can never escape again? What then?"
Xia Songluo called it "ridiculous." "What's hidden in there—some legendary 'Rainstorm of Needles' that'll shoot you full of darts the second you open it?"
"Hard to say. I won't underestimate the combined strength of an assassin and a letter courier." Jiang Hang sidestepped her again. "And I don't gamble on odds—unless I can be sure you're not the assassin."
Assassin, assassin, assassin—Xia Songluo was sick of it. She stopped chasing: "Open it or don't, then. Who do you think you are, getting all this face from me!"
Jiang Hang ignored her, swung a leg over his racing-style motorcycle, put on his helmet, hunched forward, twisted the throttle hard, and rode off without looking back.
"Pfft." Xia Songluo walked to the trash can, spat out the bloody saliva in her mouth, and went back to the bench in a restless state.
She'd only been curious, wanted to see the letter, but the situation had spiraled in a direction she'd never anticipated. Now she didn't know what to do.
The tube had been tossed onto the bench and rolled next to the open butterfly knife.
The red light blinking on the tube reflected off the cold blade, merging with the blood that had already stiffened on the steel.
It was red in an eerie, dazzling way.
Xia Songluo grew even more irritated by that blinking "alarm light."
Tear it up and be done with it. Jiang Hang had already flashed a blade at her—whatever happened to him was none of her business.
She wasn't about to put herself in his shoes.
But in the future, she'd paid unknown costs to collect those three feather stamps. Tearing it up like this was simply too painful to do.
The more agitated she became, the hotter she felt. She unzipped her jacket and peeled off the warm patch stuck to her body.
She then packed the butterfly knife and the tube into her waist bag.
She hailed a cab by the roadside and went to the law firm to find Jin Zhan.
...
Jin Zhan wasn't at the firm—he'd been on leave for the past two days. He was woken from sleep by an urgent ringing at the doorbell.
He was used to being woken by client calls, so he had no morning grumpiness. Few people knew his address—only close acquaintances. He answered the door in his pajamas.
Through the intercom screen, he saw it was actually Xia Songluo.
"Who gave you my address?" Jin Zhan asked as he opened the door. But he already had a good idea—it was his assistant.
No helping it. He'd been paying too much attention to Xia Songluo lately, and he couldn't explain why.
The moment the door opened, Xia Songluo practically charged in, slammed the door shut, and shoved Jin Zhan against the wall of the entryway.
Jin Zhan was still groggy. His back hit the wall, and he winced in pain.
Just as he was about to straighten up, Xia Songluo suddenly lifted her left leg into a full high split, her ankle pressing against his shoulder.
Her slender calf erupted with fierce strength, shoving his struggling body back and pinning him motionless.
Then she raised the butterfly knife in her right hand and pressed it against his throat.
Jin Zhan snapped to full alertness instantly, staring at her in disbelief.
As if confirming whether this was really Xia Songluo, or whether a burglar had somehow gotten in.
Once he confirmed, Jin Zhan demanded with a cold face: "Miss Xia, may I ask what exactly you think you're doing?"
Xia Songluo snapped, “You’ve deceived me more than once, and you still have the nerve to ask me? Tell me—what does it mean when Jiang Hang’s name on the mailbox glows red?”
Jin Zhan’s eyelid twitched slightly. Judging by the look of her coming to confront him, she must have found out.
He remained perfectly composed: “I said Jiang Hang was dangerous—so is he dangerous, or isn’t he?”
“You’re playing word games with me?” Xia Songluo gritted her teeth. “Because you weren’t honest, you made Jiang Hang even more suspicious that the two of us were conspiring against him.”
Jin Zhan frowned. “You met Jiang Hang?”
“He was the handyman you saw at my house the day before yesterday.” Xia Songluo recounted Jiang Hang’s speculation.
“He really is the villain who cries victim first.” After hearing her out, Jin Zhan was almost amused. “He slaughtered his whole family and fled for years—if there were an assassin among us Twelve Messengers, I’d say he looks a lot like the killer.”
Xia Songluo was briefly taken aback. “There’s no assassin among the Twelve Messengers?”
Jin Zhan started to shake his head, but bumped into the blade, and quickly stopped. “I don’t know. I don’t even want to be a messenger, why would I care about the others?”
He’d never paid attention, nor had his parents ever mentioned the other eleven messengers.
“Miss Xia, put your knife away. Do you realize your behavior here has crossed legal lines?”
“Right now, answer a few of my questions.” Xia Songluo withdrew the knife, but not her leg.
The blade spun between her fingers, circling near Jin Zhan’s neck—more dangerous than when it had been held still against him.
Jin Zhan finally understood now. His background check on her had evidently overlooked her athletic accomplishments.
When Jin Zhan was a kid, his family had forced him to practice some martial arts. Though he’d slacked off later, the foundation was still there.
After starting work, he also exercised regularly and was in good shape.
Yet against her, he had no chance to fight back at all.
Also, Jin Zhan now had some understanding of why Jiang Hang suspected she was the assassin. The way she wielded that butterfly knife—you’d think it was a spinning top, ready to fly out of her hand at any moment.
Jin Zhan said, “Go ahead, ask.”
Xia Songluo narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
The question stunned Jin Zhan. He said incredulously, “You can’t seriously believe Jiang Hang is right? That we’re married? That you’d become an assassin and I’d betray my ancestors to help you?”
What an absolute joke.
Xia Songluo spoke with little courtesy. “Just answer. Why so much blabbering?”
Jin Zhan refused to answer. “I’m just a courier delivering letters. Why should I tell you my personal business?”
“So that means yes?” Xia Songluo’s gaze darkened. On her way over to settle the score with Jin Zhan, she’d also thought of a possibility.
What if Jiang Hang had guessed correctly?
In the future, Jiang Hang wiped out that assassin organization.
And Jin Zhan’s wife was one of the assassins.
“Your assassin wife died, and you were stricken with grief. To save her, you used your family’s mailbox to send a letter back in time. You planned to use the carrier pigeon to locate Jiang Hang and kill him ahead of time.”
Xia Songluo looked toward the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room.
By the window stood a parrot stand. The golden-feathered parrot perched on it, its round little eyes watching them with curiosity.
Xia Songluo looked back at Jin Zhan. “You also knew your actions violated the family creed, and there was a risk the dove wouldn’t be able to lock onto Jiang Hang. So you came up with another trick—writing my name as the sender. Because in the future, Jiang Hang and I are husband and wife. You assumed that at this point in the timeline we were already lovers, or destined to become lovers, so you tried to pinpoint Jiang Hang through me.”
Jin Zhan’s hands were still free, and he raised them slightly, giving a few slow claps. “Miss Xia, I suggest you go back to school and study screenwriting. With your talent for weaving stories, does your family even know? Among the Twelve Messengers, is there a scholar of the ink-and-brush kind? Are you a scholar yourself?”
“Shing!”
The butterfly knife in Xia Songluo’s hand did actually spin upward into the air. As it fell, she caught it backhanded and pressed it against Jin Zhan’s neck again. “Isn’t this the most plausible version of events so far?”
Jin Zhan’s lips pressed into a tight line, and he couldn’t hold back a curse. “This is the most ridiculous version so far.”
Letters inside the mailbox required special writing by a messenger, but for the sender’s signature, the sender had to press a fingerprint in person.
Especially for time-crossing letters—both the messenger and the sender had to share the risk of disrupting the rules of time and space.
“Maybe you don’t understand the rules of time and space, but you’ve heard of the butterfly effect and karma, right?” Jin Zhan was too lazy to explain to someone he considered oblivious, and stressed, “The sender pressing a fingerprint isn’t a messenger’s rule—it’s the mailbox’s rule. Without the fingerprint, the three feather stamps won’t even stick.”
Xia Songluo was momentarily taken aback.
Jin Zhan emphasized again, “So this letter was definitely sent by you. If you insist on accusing me of misconduct, then believe Jiang Hang’s guess: my assassin wife is you—Xia Songluo.”
Xia Songluo: “...”
She couldn’t take it anymore. Her head was throbbing.
She hadn’t used this much brainpower even for the college entrance exam.
“Call your family.” Xia Songluo thought of Jin’s mother. “You’ve tricked me too many times. I can’t trust you.”
“Fine.” On this matter, Jin Zhan hadn’t lied, so he wasn’t afraid to be questioned.
In fact, he’d be glad to let his mom see how delivering this lousy letter had gotten him nothing but trouble.
From now on, she’d stop scolding him for lacking a sense of responsibility or enthusiasm for the “family business.” It was all thanks to these “clients.”
“First, you need to let me go. My phone is in the bedroom.”
Xia Songluo already had a fair estimate of Jin Zhan’s strength, so she wasn’t afraid of him pulling any tricks. She let him go.
Jin Zhan went back into the bedroom and didn’t come out for a long while.
Xia Songluo sat in the living room and faintly heard the sound of water, guessing he was washing up.
When he emerged from the bedroom, Jin Zhan had changed into formal attire. The vibe of a city elite professional hit her straight in the face.
Xia Songluo knew he was off work today. “Going somewhere? Do you need to leave the house just to call your family?”
“It’s proper etiquette for meeting a client.” Jin Zhan pointed at her. “And you are my client.”
He sat down on the sunken sofa in the living room and dialed a number. “My hometown is in the mountains. The signal’s bad, and they refuse to switch to a satellite phone. I have to dial a hundred times and might get through once—so you might have to wait...”
Before he finished his sentence, the call went through. “Jin Er?”
“Mom, you’re not at home?” Jin Zhan was surprised it connected so quickly.
Jin’s mother said, “Get to the point.”
“Right, the sender came to blame me,” Jin Zhan said, putting the phone on speaker and placing it on the coffee table. “The other day I asked you about the recipient’s name glowing red—now they’re both suspecting I did it.”
“Hm?” Jin’s mother’s voice carried puzzlement.
Jin Zhan explained the whole situation, then looked at Xia Songluo. “This is my mother, Jin Zhaoheng. If you have any questions, go ahead and ask.”
Before Xia Songluo could even greet her, Jin Zhaoheng spoke first: “Does the recipient believe the culprit from back then was the assassin?”
“That’s what he says.” Xia Songluo wasn’t sure. “Auntie Jin, I mainly called to ask you: is it true that a letter placed in the mailbox must have my fingerprint on it before it can be sent?”
On the phone, Jin Zhaoheng replied without hesitation: "That's right, the fingerprint and the sender's information must match, otherwise the letter can't be sent out."
Xia Songluo couldn't help asking, "That smart?"
How did the mail pillar manage that?
Jin Zhaoheng: "Are you talking about modern intelligence? Then I can tell you, modern intelligence can have program errors, but my family's mail pillar has an extremely low error rate."
Xia Songluo asked, "What's the theory behind it?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "Theory? You mean the driving force behind the mail pillar's message delivery? It's... the divine power of the bluebirds."
"Divine power of the bluebirds?" Xia Songluo had heard of bluebirds before—weren't they birds from myth and legend?
Jin Zhaoheng spoke very gently: "In ancient mythology, there were three bluebirds under the command of the Queen Mother of the West at Kunlun Mountain. Before the Queen Mother arrived, the bluebirds would fly ahead to deliver the news—they were messengers of information. Throughout history, many poems about bluebirds delivering messages have been passed down. My favorite is Li Bai's 'Encounter Song'—'I wish to rely on the three bluebirds, to report my longing for you once more.'"
Xia Songluo was astonished as she took the bronze mail pillar out of her waist pouch: "These three feather stamps—are they feathers left by the three bluebirds?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "Myths and legends—you can choose to believe them, or you can choose not to. I can only tell you that the Twelve Guests developed and formed gradually through changes in the times and dynasties, and each Guest has a fairly deep foundation."
"I don't know much about the other eleven Guests. The only thing I can be certain of is that among the two Guests with the deepest foundations and the oldest origins, we Letter Guests are one of them."
Jin Zhan listened quietly from the side, feeling a bit puzzled.
He had suspected before that the feather stamps were bluebird feathers. He'd asked a couple of times, but his mother hadn't answered.
He grew suspicious: "Mom, you never told me any of this before?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "I told you when you were little, but I could see you were annoyed and had no interest at all, so I stopped talking. Anyway, when the day comes that a client comes knocking on your door, accusing you of being unprofessional, and you call your mom for help, you'll naturally find out then—and the impression will be deeper."
Jin Zhan's eyelid twitched: "Mom, there's an outsider here. Save me some face."
Jin Zhaoheng: "Miss Xia isn't an outsider—she's a client."
Jin Zhan changed the subject: "So that said, the Taoist Mei might really be one of us Letter Guests?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "Possibly."
Xia Songluo was still stunned by the mail pillar in her hand and looked up to ask: "Who is Taoist Mei?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "A neighbor of Meng Haoran's when he was living in seclusion. He wrote several poems for Taoist Mei, and 'Feast at Taoist Mei's Mountain Dwelling' seems to be describing us Letter Guests."
Xia Songluo naturally knew who Meng Haoran was, but she'd never heard of "Feast at Taoist Mei's Mountain Dwelling."
Jin Zhan chuckled twice: "Mom, you're a romantic literary lady—this is a case of the scholar meeting the soldier."
Xia Songluo set down the mail pillar first and took out her phone: "Do you know what the difference is between a person and a pig? A person knows how to look things up, while a pig just grunts."
Jin Zhan's chuckle froze on his face.
On the phone, Jin Zhaoheng gave a soft laugh.
Xia Songluo found the poem.
Reclining in the woods, I mourn spring's end;
Lifting the curtain, I view nature's splendor.
Suddenly I meet the bluebird messenger,
Inviting me to the house of Red Pine.
The golden stove has just been lit,
The celestial peaches are blooming.
If youthful looks could be preserved,
Why begrudge getting drunk on rosy clouds?
Based on the notes, it roughly meant that while Meng Haoran was living in seclusion, Taoist Mei sent a "bluebird messenger" to invite him.
When he went to Taoist Mei's mountain dwelling as a guest, Taoist Mei was in the middle of refining elixirs, and the peach trees in the courtyard were in full bloom.
If one could keep eternal youth and live forever, then why not stay drunk and never wake in Taoist Mei's mountain dwelling?
Jin Zhan pointed his finger at the golden-armored pigeon on the parrot perch: "This should be the 'bluebird messenger.'"
Letter Guests mostly liked to live in the mountains. His mother often used carrier pigeons to deliver letters, inviting neighbors over for meals.
When Jin Zhan had read this poem before, he'd felt that this Taoist Mei resembled the Letter Guests a lot.
Except no one in their family refined elixirs—his father only liked brewing Chinese herbal medicine.
Jin Zhaoheng: "Miss Xia, I wonder if this has dispelled your doubts. The sender must press a blood fingerprint and form a bond with the bluebird feathers. Only then does our mission as Letter Guests officially begin."
Xia Songluo nodded and apologized: "Auntie Jin, I'm sorry. It was my ignorance."
Jin Zhaoheng: "This isn't your fault. I know exactly what Jin Er is like—sorry for all the trouble he's caused you."
Jin Zhan refused to take the blame: "Isn't it them who are especially troublesome?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "Any cross-time message delivery is never easy."
Jin Zhan didn't argue with her.
Jin Zhaoheng: "The recipient has appeared. Why aren't you moving? It's time to deliver the letter."
Jin Zhan crossed his arms and leaned back into the sofa: "The recipient is suspicious of me right now. If I deliver the letter to him, will I even come back alive?"
From Xia Songluo's account, he could tell that Jiang Hang's suspicion and aggression were both strong.
He didn't like dealing with that type of person.
Jin Zhaoheng: "Then work hard to dispel his suspicion. And while you're at it, ask him about that assassin's killing method from back then, and tell me when you get back."
Jin Zhan asked, "Do you think his direction is wrong? That the killer isn't necessarily the assassin?"
Jin Zhaoheng: "I don't know. I just want to learn about the assassin from his perspective. If possible, also ask him how he came to know about the assassin. And how much he really knows about us Twelve Guests."
Jin Zhan felt her tone was a bit strange: "So the assassin really exists? Did we actually have some connection with the assassin after all?"
Jin Zhaoheng hesitated: "When I was little, I heard my great-grandmother mutter, 'Delivery' is the mission of the Letter Guest, 'Destruction' is the fate of the assassin... Anyway, go ask first and tell me promptly."
Jin Zhan really didn't want to go. He asked Xia Songluo, "He's even suspicious of you. Do you still want this letter delivered?"
After being flashed with a knife by Jiang Hang, Xia Songluo had indeed wavered greatly, but now she was gripping the bronze mail pillar that had turned red...
Her future self had collected three bluebird feathers, found the Letter Guests, pressed a blood fingerprint on the letter paper, and formed a contract.
The weight of this letter had slowly begun to take shape.
"Deliver it." Xia Songluo handed the mail pillar over. "Anyway, you're the one going to deliver it—it's not me who'll get hit."
