Xuan Qingzi's gaze swept over Pei Cijing almost imperceptibly.
This Lord Pei, come all the way from the capital, looked to be no more than twenty or so. His features were handsome, his eyes clear and bright. When he spoke, his emotions were written all over his face—he laughed when pleased, cursed when angered. Just moments ago, that impassioned tirade of his, delivered with spittle flying and not so much as a pause for breath, was the very picture of a hot-blooded young man with no guile and nothing hidden up his sleeve.
Not the type to be calculating.
Xuan Qingzi made his silent judgment.
He had spent the better part of his life at White Cloud Temple, receiving and seeing off no small number of officials. Those with depth and cunning, and those without—his old eyes could tell them apart at a glance. A man of depth spoke and acted without a single leak, his joy and anger invisible on his face; you could never guess what was truly going on in his head.
But this Lord Pei—laughed when happy, cursed when angry, and after cursing, was even sheepish enough to mock himself with a sheepish "I lost my composure."
A man like that.
What depth could he possibly have?
Surely he wasn't playing the fool to hunt for clues, sent here specifically to investigate him?
No way!
No way!
The string in Xuan Qingzi's heart—the one that had just been plucked by the words "envoy sent by the Sixth Prince"—slowly loosened. Yet beneath that loosening, a faint, indefinable doubt stirred, like waterweed at the bottom of a pond, gently winding its way up.
This Lord Pei cursed corrupt officials with such ferocity—was it genuine outrage, or was he hinting at something else?
He decided to test the waters.
Xuan Qingzi stepped forward half a pace, his expression still that gentle, composed smile, his tone carrying just the right measure of concern—like an elder soothing an agitated junior, yet also like someone casually raising an unimportant matter.
"Lord Pei's love for the people and care for the common folk truly earns this poor Daoist's admiration." He paused, his gaze settling on Pei Cijing's face, and lowered his voice with an air of heartfelt confidence. "But tell me, the one who embezzled…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Left it hanging mid-thought, a tail for the other to pick up.
This was the old trick of testing.
No need to speak plainly; leave half unspoken and watch how the other responds. Respond too quickly, and there's guilt in the heart. Respond too slowly, and they're weighing their words. Respond with perfect watertightness—that's a man of profound depth.
Xuan Qingzi looked at Pei Cijing with peaceful eyes, waiting for his answer.
The front of the mountain gate fell quiet for a moment.
Wind blew through the branches of the ancient pines, rustling softly. A few withered pine needles drifted down, landing on the bluestone steps and on the shoulders of the two men.
Shen Ninghuan stood at Pei Cijing's side, still as quiet as ever, her bearing composed, her gaze calm—as though she had heard nothing, seen nothing.
But her fingertip moved lightly in her sleeve.
The motion was so slight, so quick.
So light that no one would ever notice.
Her fingertip, almost imperceptibly, tugged at Pei Cijing's sleeve.
Once.
Extremely light.
Extremely quick.
Like a butterfly grazing through the flowers, a breeze stirred by the beat of its wings—so faint it might not exist, yet impossible to ignore.
Pei Cijing felt it.
The tug was so gentle it was almost nothing, yet that touch, that faint rustle of fabric, shot up his spine like an electric current.
He understood.
His wife was reminding him—the corruption in Yunyang was indeed tied to White Cloud Temple. That dog Xuan Qingzi, with all his talk of concern, was actually probing him.
The man had grown wary!
His wife's meaning was clear: keep playing the fool to put the man at ease. A corner of Pei Cijing's mouth curved up ever so slightly.
Playing the fool?
That was something he was good at.
In the world of his past life, there was a saying: "Play the pig to eat the tiger"—make yourself look harmless, let your opponent drop their guard, then strike at the perfect moment.
He'd never eaten a tiger, true.
But in the marquis's estate, he'd spent eighteen years lying flat, wearing that harmless, utterly reassuring look with such ease he could slip into it at any moment.
Playing the fool?
He was a professional.
Pei Cijing pulled his thoughts back, and in that instant his expression shifted subtly—first a cold snort, squeezed out through his nose, carrying both "you asked the right person" smugness and "just mentioning him gets my blood boiling" fury.
Then, his tone rose slightly, as if a floodgate had opened, carrying the unmistakable impulsiveness of a young man who couldn't hold his tongue.
"The one who embezzled has, of course, already been identified." He paused, lifted his chin a little, and his gaze took on a note of certainty, like someone proclaiming an indisputable fact. "The criminal is none other than the Yunyang deputy prefect—Zhao Wenhuan."
Xuan Qingzi's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
He said nothing.
Just watched Pei Cijing, waiting for him to continue.
Pei Cijing drew a deep breath, chest rising and falling, as though suppressing some emotion, or as though mustering something even more impassioned.
His gaze drifted to the distant horizon, carrying something complex and hard to name—anger, admiration, and a faint, barely visible pang of feeling.
"Zhao Wenhuan thought he'd been clever enough, that with no hard evidence of his embezzlement, he could get away scot-free." His voice deepened, each word heavy and deliberate. "But he never counted on the fact that Chen Qiming's dying impeachment had already told us the full truth—paid for with his life."
He turned to look at Xuan Qingzi, the admiration in his eyes deepening. It wasn't feigned—it was the genuine, heartfelt respect of one man for another he had never met.
"Lord Chen gave his life for righteousness—a true man of honor!"
He said it with weight, each word landing like a stone.
The wind at the mountain gate stopped. The ancient pines ceased their rustling. Even those drifting pine needles seemed frozen mid-air as if held by an unseen force.
Xuan Qingzi looked at Pei Cijing's face, so full of admiration, looked at those clear, unclouded eyes, and the string in his heart went completely slack.
He believed it.
Not because Pei Cijing had spoken with any great eloquence, but because this man—was too real!
Young and hot-blooded, unable to hold his tongue, emotions written all over his face. Admiration was admiration, anger was anger—not a shred of concealment.
A man like that.
Didn't seem like someone investigating a case.
Investigators were all about keeping their composure, dropping hints, speaking in code.
Which investigator would be like this Lord Pei, standing right in front of the very abbot of White Cloud Temple, laying out the case so plainly, so detailed, so utterly without reservation?
If he'd truly been investigating, he would have kept the details sealed tight and let not a word slip.
But this Lord Pei—before even being asked, he'd spilled everything like beans from a bamboo tube.
What did that prove?
It proved the man didn't consider Xuan Qingzi a suspect at all. This Lord Pei was truly here for fasting and prayer, venting his frustration about corrupt officials along the way.
The stone in Xuan Qingzi's heart hit the ground completely.
Yet when he heard Pei Cijing praise Chen Qiming as a "true gentleman," he couldn't help but sneer inwardly.
A true gentleman?
Chen Qiming?
Hah!
He wasn't fit to be called a gentleman—if anything, "junkie" was the more fitting term.
Xuan Qingzi silently shook his head to himself, but on the surface, he remained calm and composed, wearing that same gentle, unhurried expression, even allowing a hint of admiration to show on his face.
None of those thoughts in his head would ever pass his lips, of course.
He knew Chen Qiming better than anyone. That governor of Yunyang—outwardly the very picture of incorruptible integrity and upright character—was, behind the scenes, a degenerate with no self-control whatsoever.
Addicted to alchemical pills.
Couldn't quit.
Couldn't stop.
If he didn't come to White Cloud Temple for his monthly dose, he'd be riddled with discomfort, lose control of his emotions, fly into fits of rage, and couldn't even sign off on official documents.
Those pills?
Xuan Qingzi had brewed them himself, using only the finest herbs—ginseng, deer antler, lingzhi, fleeceflower root—every ingredient genuine and top-grade. Of course, those weren't the only ingredients. He'd added a few exclusive components of his own.
Once the pills took effect, they gave one a feeling of floating on clouds.
Letting them forget the sorrows of the mortal world.
Filling the hollowness within.
These were fine goods made from authentic materials, so naturally the price couldn't be cheap.
A temple had to eat, after all!
There was no way they'd run a losing business.
As for whether Chen Qiming would get addicted after taking them, whether he'd need more and more, whether he'd drain his family's coffers, whether he'd dip into the river works funds to buy more pills—that was Chen Qiming's own business. What did it have to do with Xuan Qingzi?
He hadn't forced Chen Qiming to be corrupt.
Chen Qiming had come to him of his own accord, begging and pleading to buy.
All those twisted thoughts churned through Xuan Qingzi's mind in an instant, yet the expression on his face remained that same gentle, admiring mask. He nodded slightly, his gaze carrying a touch of emotion and respect, and when he spoke, his voice was neither too loud nor too soft, bearing the compassion and transcendence unique to one who had left the secular world behind.
"Lord Chen was a man of great righteousness." He paused, hands tucked into his sleeves, giving a slight bow as if offering a gesture of respect toward the departed governor of Yunyang. "This poor priest will recite scriptures and offer prayers for him, wishing him peace and well-being in his next life, and that he may no longer suffer such torments."
The words sounded sincere.
Sincere enough that even Xuan Qingzi himself was a bit surprised.
He would indeed recite scriptures and offer prayers for Chen Qiming—not out of respect, not out of being moved, but because Chen Qiming's suicide had done him a tremendous favor.
A tremendous favor, indeed.
Yunyang had been hit by floods, the river dikes had collapsed, and the court would demand accountability. The first person to be held responsible would be none other than Chen Qiming, the governor of Yunyang. The river works funds had passed through his hands, the dikes had been built under his supervision, and water management was his responsibility. A disaster of this magnitude—there was no escaping blame.
If Chen Qiming were still alive, and the court interrogated him, would he have revealed the business with the pills? Would he have dragged White Cloud Temple into it? In his desperation, would he have pulled Xuan Qingzi down with him?
Xuan Qingzi didn't dare think about it.
But now, none of those questions needed answering.
Chen Qiming was dead.
With his own life, he had firmly sealed the lid on the embezzlement scandal, pinning it squarely on Zhao Wenhuan.
A dead man, a "true gentleman" who had "died for righteousness"—who wouldn't believe his words? Who would question a clean official who used his own life to impeach a corrupt one?
No one.
The dead are given the benefit of the doubt.
The man is dead—what more do you want?
The case ends at Zhao Wenhuan. The trail ends at Zhao Wenhuan. Every sin, every curse, every ounce of blame, all borne by that unfortunate deputy governor alone.
And Xuan Qingzi remained exactly what he'd always been: the abbot of White Cloud Temple, virtuous and benevolent, a man of great renown across the Bei River region.
As for why Chen Qiming had impeached that innocent man Zhao Wenhuan and then killed himself—Xuan Qingzi wasn't inclined to dig deeper.
The man had probably eaten too many pills and fried his brain.
Eat enough of them, and eventually he'd start thinking he was some saint, imagining himself a clean, upright, honorable official who sacrificed his life for righteousness, imagining his death would expose corruption and bring justice to the people.
Ridiculous.
A junkie, and he dares to call himself a "gentleman"?
Then again, the outcome suited him just fine.
If Chen Qiming wanted to play the saint, let him. He was dead either way, and dead men don't talk, don't recant, don't drag White Cloud Temple into the mess.
That was enough.
All those thoughts in Xuan Qingzi's mind, like undercurrents beneath the water's surface, churned silently for a few breaths and then sank back down.
He looked up at Pei Cijing, his smile now even warmer than before, carrying the enthusiasm and attentiveness of a true host.
"Lord Pei, you must be weary after such a long journey." He turned sideways and gestured toward the temple gate, his tone laced with concern and eagerness to please. "The wind is strong out here—please, come inside and continue our conversation. I've already had food and hot tea prepared, and the guest quarters are being readied as we speak."
Pei Cijing followed his gesture and glanced past the temple gate.
Flanking the blue-stone pathway were ancient trees that scraped the sky, their branches and leaves casting dappled light that spilled across the damp flagstones like a layer of scattered gold. At the end of the path, the upturned eaves of several halls peeked through the green shade, incense smoke curling upward, the faint sound of bells and chimes drifting on the air.
A serene little retreat, indeed.
He withdrew his gaze and looked at Xuan Qingzi, offering a polite smile and clasping his hands in a slight bow.
"You've gone to great trouble, Reverend." His voice was moderate in pitch, carrying just the right note of gratitude. "For these few days of fasting and prayer, I shall be much obliged."
Xuan Qingzi waved his hands dismissively, his smile deepening, his tone brimming with heartfelt warmth: "My lord, you speak too kindly. It is my bounden duty—I shall not fail your trust."
He paused, hands folded into his sleeves, and gave another slight bow, his tone growing more solemn, as if making a sacred vow: "To pray for the people is a great act of merit. This poor priest will do his utmost to recite scriptures and offer prayers for the flood-stricken people, that they may soon pass through this calamity and rebuild their homes."
He straightened up, his gaze settling on Pei Cijing's face, and his smile deepened once more: "The people of Bei River shall remember your kindness."
The words were well chosen.
They pledged commitment, flattered the listener, and placed himself on the moral high ground of "working for the people's welfare." Not a single crack in the armor.
Pei Cijing listened, a look of flattered modesty spreading across his face as he waved his hands hastily: "The Reverend exaggerates, truly. I am merely running an errand on behalf of the Sixth Prince—hardly deserving of such words as 'remember my kindness.'"
He turned and made a "please" gesture with his hand, his tone growing more casual: "After you, Reverend."
Xuan Qingzi naturally refused to walk in front. He promptly stepped aside, gesturing toward the temple gate, his tone respectful yet affable: "After you, my lord, after you. This poor priest will lead the way."
And so the two of them, each deferring to the other, exchanged courteous pleasantries as they made their way into the temple.
Shen Ninghuan walked beside Pei Cijing, maintaining her quiet, composed demeanor, her steps unhurried, her bearing graceful and at ease.
Her gaze swept past Xuan Qingzi.
The look was featherlight, faint, like a fallen leaf drifting across the surface of water, stirring not a single ripple—yet deep in her eyes lingered a meaning no one else could read.
Just now, at the temple gate, she had heard it.
She had heard Xuan Qingzi's thoughts.
Those secrets hidden beneath that gentle face, the ones he dared not speak aloud, the ones not even his closest disciples knew of—the pills, the addiction, Chen Qiming, the river conservancy funds, the embezzlement.
Not a single word missed.
Every one crystal clear.
As if, in the pitch-black night, someone had suddenly lit a lantern, casting every shadowed, unseemly thing into stark, unforgiving light.
She betrayed nothing.
She didn't even spare Xuan Qingzi an extra glance.
She simply walked along quietly, the picture of a dutiful wife accompanying her husband to observe fasting and offer prayers—no different from any other official's lady who came to the temple.
Pei Cijing walked ahead, his steps unhurried, a cordial smile on his face as he made idle conversation with Xuan Qingzi.
"Master, this temple of yours, nestled halfway up the mountain, is quite secluded and serene."
"You flatter me, my lord. My ancestors chose this site for the mountain's spiritual energy. If you have the inclination, I would be honored to show you around tomorrow—the scenery up here is not to be missed."
"Then I shall be in your debt, Master."
"Not at all, not at all. You are too kind, my lord."
And so the two traded pleasantries, one after another, their footsteps echoing softly along the bluestone path. Ancient trees on either side wove a dense canopy overhead, filtering the afternoon sunlight into scattered patches of dappled glow that fell upon their shoulders.
At the end of the path, several temple halls drew closer.
Incense smoke drifted out from the main hall, mingling with the fresh fragrance of mountain grasses and trees, spreading through the air and soothing the senses.
Bells rang out, low and measured, one after another, echoing through the hills—as if welcoming the distant guests, and as if offering prayers for the flood-stricken people.
Pei Cijing raised his head, gazing at the grand hall with its sweeping eaves and upturned corners, and the corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly.
White Cloud Temple.
He had arrived.
Whatever was hidden inside, he would dig it out. Yunyang demanded an answer!
