The midday meal was laid out in a refined chamber in the rear courtyard of White Cloud Temple.
The dishes were not lavish, but they were exquisitely prepared — stir-fried seasonal vegetables, mushroom and bok choy, vegetarian roasted goose, and Luohan vegetarian feast, along with a steaming bowl of wild mushroom soup.
Every dish was made with great care.
The knife work was precise.
The heat and timing were exactly right, and even the plates were fine blue-and-white porcelain.
Xuan Qingzi sat beside them as company, his smile warm, his words earnest, now and then picking up a bite of food and placing it into Pei Cijing's bowl, and urging Shen Ninghuan to eat more — with all that eager hospitality, one would think they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in years.
Pei Cijing smiled politely on the surface, but in his mind he was thinking — this old Daoist, his acting is truly impressive.
If it weren't for the hint his wife had given him beforehand, he probably would have genuinely believed this White Cloud Temple abbot to be a compassionate, benevolent, and enlightened master.
That outward appearance, that eloquence, that unruffled composure — if he were in that previous world of his, he'd have no problem taking home an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.
After the midday meal was finished, Xuan Qingzi personally led the two of them across the covered walkway and toward the guest quarters.
Passing through a moon gate, the view suddenly opened up.
This was a standalone courtyard — gray brick walls, dark roof tiles, upturned eaves and corners. In the yard grew several slender bamboo stalks; when the wind blew, the leaves rustled softly, giving off a quiet and refined atmosphere.
Xuan Qingzi pushed open the door of the main room and stepped aside, saying with a chuckle, "Lord Pei, Lady Shen, please make do with this place for the next few days. If you need anything, just give the young acolytes outside a shout."
Pei Cijing stepped inside, swept his gaze across the room, and immediately knew what was what.
The guest room wasn't exactly sumptuous, but it had everything one could want — rosewood tables and chairs, an intricately carved canopy bed, a pot of orchids on the windowsill, a landscape painting hanging on the wall, brush, ink, paper, and inkstone all in place, and even the incense had been lit in advance, with a faint scent of sandalwood drifting through the air.
Compared to the lodgings in the disaster area, this was a five-star hotel executive suite.
In his previous life, internet slang would call this "one in heaven, one on earth" — an unfair comparison.
In those tents, the bedding was straw, the blankets were paper-thin, and cold wind poured in from all directions at night, making you shiver to the bone. But in this room, the mattress was thick and soft, the quilt carried the warm fragrance of having been aired in the sun, the windows were papered with Korean paper — no drafts, no cold, nothing but warmth.
Pei Cijing let out a quiet sigh in his heart.
Innocent common folk could only brave the elements in makeshift shelters, while the one who caused it all could enjoy a life of luxury, still living large and carefree.
What an unjust world!
On his face, however, he wore a look of satisfaction. He cupped his hands toward Xuan Qingzi. "The Daoist master has been most thoughtful. This room is excellent — far more comfortable than I had expected."
Xuan Qingzi waved his hands repeatedly, his smile carrying a hint of humility. "You flatter me, my lord, truly you flatter me. This is but a rustic mountain retreat, hardly comparable to the splendor of the capital. Knowing that my lord approves puts my mind at ease."
He exchanged a few more pleasantries, instructed the young acolytes to attend to their every need, and then tactfully took his leave.
The door closed. Footsteps faded into the distance.
The courtyard fell quiet, leaving only the soft rustle of bamboo leaves swaying in the breeze and the distant, faint chime of bells from somewhere in the temple.
Pei Cijing stood by the door, listened for a moment, and confirmed that no one was eavesdropping outside before turning and walking back into the room.
Shen Ninghuan was already seated in the chair by the window, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, her head bowed as she watched the floating tea leaves drift in the water, lost in thought.
Hearing footsteps, she looked up, and their eyes met.
In that instant, neither of them spoke.
But within that gaze lay a thousand unspoken words—from the hurried departure, to the probing at the mountain gate, to the quiet observations made during the midday meal—all the information, all the speculation, all the judgments converged in that single silent exchange.
In the end, it was Shen Ninghuan who spoke first.
Her voice was not loud, her pace unhurried, each word articulated with clarity, as though she were reciting a testimony she had long deliberated over.
"My husband, from my observations, Xuan Qingzi's reaction is exactly as we predicted."
She paused, setting the teacup down on the table, her fingers tracing the rim lightly, as if organizing her thoughts, or confirming that her judgment was firm enough to stand on.
"The funds for repairing the river embankment—that's what Chen Qiming embezzled. That silver ultimately found its way into this White Cloud Abbey."
Pei Cijing sat down across from her and nodded in agreement.
"I thought so too." He tapped his fingers twice on the tabletop, producing a faint, rhythmic knock. "Otherwise, Xuan Qingzi wouldn't have turned the tables and probed us in return. A man with a clear conscience, hearing those words, would at most sigh and say something like 'Heaven's disasters and human misfortunes, what a pity'—not question us about who the corrupt official was."
He paused, the corner of his mouth curling slightly, a hint of both irony and reflection in that curve.
"Though, come to think of it—I cursed him out so viciously, and that old Taoist still managed to keep his composure, his face unruffled, his smile unchanging."
Pei Cijing raised his thumb, a note of genuine "admiration" in his tone: "I hereby dub him the greatest ninja of the Great Qian Dynasty."
Shen Ninghuan couldn't help but cover her mouth with a laugh at her husband's words.
That smile carried a touch of helplessness, a touch of amusement, and a warmth she could not fully conceal.
"My husband, the things you said just now truly opened my eyes." She lowered her hand, her gaze settling on Pei Cijing's face, her tone turning serious. "But think of the afflicted common folk—homes destroyed, loved ones lost, no food to eat, no clothes to wear—those words, laid at the feet of the guilty, are not one bit excessive."
Pei Cijing listened, and the indignation in his chest surged again.
Yes.
What had those common folk done wrong?
They farmed their land honestly, lived their lives lawfully, paid their taxes on time, and never caused trouble for the authorities. Yet in a single flood, everything was gone—fields gone, houses gone, families gone, lives gone.
And all because those hundred thousand taels of river works funds were embezzled, leaving them with nothing but a shoddily built dam.
Those who embezzled it truly deserved a thousand deaths.
He took a deep breath, pressing that swells of emotion back down, and pulled his focus back to the case at hand.
"But, my wife—" He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "There's one thing I can't quite figure out. Why does Xuan Qingzi have such endurance? I cursed him so harshly, and he didn't flinch. That doesn't seem like the reaction he should have had."
Shen Ninghuan looked at him, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. After a moment, she spoke, her words slow, as if she were reasoning through each step as she went.
"What if Xuan Qingzi never forced Chen Qiming to embezzle the official funds?"
Pei Cijing was momentarily taken aback.
"You mean—"
"What I mean is," Shen Ninghuan picked up the thread, tracing a small circle on the table with her finger, "Xuan Qingzi isn't racked with guilt because he believes those curses can never touch him. He never pushed Chen Qiming to steal, never forced him to take the silver. Everything was Chen Qiming's own choice."
Pei Cijing leaned back in his chair, slowly rubbing his chin with his fingers.
That angle.
He hadn't thought of it before.
If, as his wife said, Xuan Qingzi hadn't actively reached for the river conservancy funds, but rather Chen Qiming had come to him of his own accord, then the old priest's state of mind made sense enough—I never told you to do it, you chose to be greedy on your own, so why would the retribution fall on me?
"But that doesn't quite add up either." Pei Cijing shook his head, his brow furrowing even deeper. "If Xuan Qingzi didn't demand it, why would Chen Qiming risk embezzling that hundred thousand taels of river funds? He..."
Shen Ninghuan didn't answer immediately.
She lowered her gaze, looking at the cup of tea on the table that had long gone cold, and was silent for a good while.
Then she raised her head, her eyes meeting Pei Cijing's. In those clear eyes was a complex look, not entirely certain, as she said, "Husband, I have a thought. I'm not sure if it's reasonable."
Pei Cijing sat up straighter, assuming an attentive posture.
Shen Ninghuan took a deep breath, as if carefully sorting out, word by word, a suspicion that had been circling in her mind for some time.
"Inside this White Cloud Temple, there is something that makes Chen Qiming unable to let go. Once deprived of that thing, he grows restless and agitated, loses control of his emotions, and can't even handle his normal official duties."
She paused, her voice dropping a shade lower.
"So Chen Qiming's character changed drastically. That's why he came to the temple every month—not to 'discuss the Dao,' but to obtain that thing. And the White Cloud Temple charges a hefty sum for it."
"Chen Qiming is a prefect, but his salary is limited and his family isn't wealthy. After several visits, he couldn't sustain it. Yet by then he couldn't live without that thing—unable to quit, unwilling to part with it. Trapped in that predicament, he turned his gaze to that hundred thousand taels of river funds."
Shen Ninghuan fell silent after finishing.
She looked at Pei Cijing, her gaze carrying a hint of humility that said "this is only my guess, it may not be accurate," but deep in her eyes hid a trace of certainty—because she had heard Xuan Qingzi's inner voice, and knew her speculation was eight or nine parts right.
Pei Cijing didn't respond at once.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin slowly, his gaze lowered, staring at the fine grain of the wood on the tabletop.
"Something one cannot let go of..." he murmured, repeating the phrase softly, as if talking to himself. "Deprived of it, one grows restless and agitated, loses control..."
He shook his head.
For the life of him, he couldn't think of anything.
In both this life and the last, the only thing he could never let go of was his wife.
When she smiled, something struck his heart, and it softened to a puddle. When she frowned, he grew restless and uneasy, willing to pluck the very stars from the sky just to make her happy.
But that was conjugal love, mutual affection—a world apart from Chen Qiming's kind of "cannot let go."
"What on earth could make people addicted to such a degree..."
Pei Cijing's fingers traced idle circles on the table, but his mind was racing at full speed.
Addiction.
Inescapable.
Restless and anxious.
Losing control of one's emotions.
Needing large sums of money.
These key phrases spun round and round in his head, like pieces of a puzzle—slowly, very slowly—assembling into a picture that sent a chill crawling up his spine.
Wait.
Pei Cijing's fingers suddenly stopped.
His gaze sharpened, his pupils contracted slightly, and his entire body seemed frozen in place, as if something had pinned him to the chair.
He remembered.
In the world of his previous life, there had been something exactly like this.
Something people couldn't resist, couldn't let go of once they touched it. For its sake, countless families had been ruined, countless homes destroyed. People had turned from humans into ghosts, and from ghosts into ashes.
A wave of cold surged from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his head, chilling him so thoroughly that he shivered.
No way.
Could this thing have appeared here in Da Qian too?
Before the chill could fully fade, another emotion, far more blazing, surged up—anger.
Pure, scorching anger that threatened to burn him to cinders.
By Heaven above!
He was sworn to be irreconcilable with such a thing.
In that previous world, he had heard too many stories of people destroyed by it—people who started out curious, who just wanted to try it once, who thought, "I won't get addicted," "Just this one time," "I have self-control."
But once they tried it, there was no turning back.
So many had been tormented until they were neither human nor ghost—skin and bones, hollow eyes, dazed expressions. Alive like the dead, and death would have been a release.
So many, desperate for money, had resorted to stealing, robbing, cheating, selling their own children, forcing the innocent into prostitution—doing anything, throwing away all dignity, abandoning all kinship.
And so many heroes had sacrificed their lives on the road to stamping it out, guarding a piece of purity with their flesh and blood, building a wall to keep that thing outside.
Pei Cijing closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before pressing that surging emotion back down into his chest.
He opened his eyes and looked at Shen Ninghuan, his gaze carrying a gravity he had never shown before.
If this was so.
Then everything made sense.
Not only why Chen Qiming had embezzled—that was clear. His suicide, and his impeachment of Zhao Wenhuan, could all be explained.
A person who consumed that thing over a long time.
His mind would rot.
Mental confusion, frequent hallucinations, unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, unable to tell right from wrong.
He might genuinely believe he was an upright official, genuinely believe Zhao Wenhuan had stolen silver, genuinely believe his death would expose the truth and deliver justice to the people.
An "addict" could do any absurd thing, and it would come as no surprise.
[Ding! Successfully scooped the gossip: "Chen Qiming hooked on alchemical pills, frantically deems himself a saint, impeaches the innocent Zhao Wenhuan, little knowing the dike collapses from his own guilt." Gossip points +5678]
Well, that was confirmed!
"My dear, we have to find that thing." Pei Cijing's tone carried an unshakeable determination. "Find the physical substance, find the evidence, dig up all those shameful things hidden in Baiyun Temple, and drag them out into the sunlight."
Shen Ninghuan nodded softly.
She lowered her eyes, pondered for a moment, then said, “I think this thing is most likely some kind of medicinal pill. Xuan Qingzi is famous for alchemy, and the pills from Baiyun Temple have an excellent reputation all across the Beihe region—many wealthy and official families make special trips here to seek them.”
She paused, then raised her eyes, a hint of sharpness creeping into her gaze. “If we could also find the ledger of their transactions, that would be even better.”
Pei Cijing looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
A ledger.
Yes.
A deal like this, one that couldn't bear the light of day—how could there be no record of it?
Every year, Baiyun Temple took in silver, sold pills, dealt with certain people, charged certain prices. Xuan Qingzi couldn't possibly not keep track of all that.
As long as they could find that ledger.
This case.
Would be solved.
“Good.” Pei Cijing rose to his feet, walked to the window, and pushed open half of it.
The mountain breeze from the evening rushed in, carrying the fresh scent of pine and cypress mixed with a faint hint of cooking smoke—cool and refreshing, seeping into the very soul.
He gazed at the few slender bamboo stalks in the courtyard, his expression calm and far-reaching.
“Tonight, we make our move.”
Shen Ninghuan neither tried to dissuade him nor asked further questions.
She knew her husband's skill—back at the Shen mansion, she had watched him use qinggong to carry her up a tree to tie the blessing plaques aboard. That unhurried grace, that effortless ease, was not something ordinary men could manage.
Going to search for something at night—for him, it shouldn't be difficult.
“Be careful.” Those were the only three words she said.
Pei Cijing turned his head, looked at his wife's gentle, composed face, at the lingering worry hidden deep within her eyes, and curved his lips slightly. He gave a small nod.
“Don't worry.”
...
That night.
Silence reigned over everything; every lamp had been extinguished.
Baiyun Temple was swallowed by the darkness. The upturned eaves and pointed corners of its halls traced hazy silhouettes in the moonlight, like a watercolor painting soaked through with moisture.
Outside the room where Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan were staying, five female guards continued their dutiful rotation, patrolling the premises.
They split into two shifts—one shift walked about the courtyard, keeping watch, while the other sat under the eaves resting, their gazes alert as they swept over their surroundings. Even a stray cat leaping over the wall would draw their stares for several breaths before they looked away.
But none of them noticed—
A shadow slipped out from the room, pressed close against the wall, and blended soundlessly into the night.
The shadow moved with incredible speed, swift as the wind. When it passed behind the guards, not even the hem of a sleeve stirred the air.
Its footsteps were as light as a cat's, stepping on the flagstones without the faintest sound.
In just a few breaths.
It had already passed through the moon gate and vanished into the depths of the rear courtyard.
Moonlight spilled across the empty yard. Bamboo leaves swayed gently in the night breeze, rustling softly, as if murmuring some secret to the world.
The five female guards continued their vigilant patrol, utterly unaware...
