The night was as dark as ink, and the White Cloud Temple was hidden in the deep gloom, with only a few everlasting lamps glowing faintly under the eaves of the halls, their orange halos swaying gently in the night breeze.
Pei Cijing moved through the shadows.
His steps were extremely light.
Light as a cat.
He made almost no sound as he stepped on the bluestone pavement.
The night wind blew down from the mountains, carrying the fresh scent of pines and cypresses along with a faint hint of incense, brushing against his black robes and causing the fabric to flutter softly—yet without stirring the slightest whisper of movement.
The White Cloud Temple was much larger than he had expected.
Built into the mountainside, it rose in layered tiers—halls, covered walkways, and courtyards, one after another. Had he not already familiarized himself with the temple's layout during the day, he would have wasted no small amount of time wandering in circles through this darkness.
Xuan Qingzi's residence.
Easy enough to find.
A detached courtyard, situated at the easternmost edge of the temple.
Backed against a cliff, surrounded by trees on three sides, with walls considerably higher than the rest. The gate was lacquered black, and the brick carvings above the lintel were intricate and ornate—even in the darkness, one could discern that particular air of distinction.
The courtyard was large.
Two or three times bigger than the side-courtyard where he and his wife lodged.
Several pines and cypresses grew within, their branches gnarled and twisted, no doubt over a century old. Moonlight leaked through the foliage, spilling onto the bluestone ground like scattered silver.
The main hall consisted of three connected rooms, with upturned eaves, carved window lattices, and two palace lanterns hanging under the eaves. The lampshades were made of fine silk gauze, painted with a pattern of pine trees and cranes symbolizing longevity, turning gently in the night breeze.
Pei Cijing did not rush in.
First, he circled half the perimeter outside the courtyard wall, confirming that there were no patrolling disciples or gate-keeping acolytes inside. Only then did he press himself against the wall and, silently and soundlessly, climb over it.
The courtyard was quiet.
So quiet that only the rustle of wind through the pines and the faint chirping of insects in the distance could be heard.
The main hall's window was half-ajar, with no light spilling through. Pei Cijing leaned closer and listened. There was no sound within—only the steady, long, drawn-out rhythm of breathing.
Xuan Qingzi was already asleep.
Pei Cijing felt a slight sense of relief.
Early to bed, early to rise keeps a man healthy—while the old Daoist might lack in moral character, he was quite diligent when it came to nurturing his health. No wonder that at over seventy years of age, he still looked like he was barely past fifty.
But then again—
Better to add an extra layer of insurance.
Pei Cijing pulled a slender bamboo tube from his robes. One end was carved into a pointed blowpipe, while the other was stopped with a wad of cotton.
He inserted the tube through the gap in the window.
Aimed it into the room.
Puffed out his cheeks, and blew gently.
A faint, almost imperceptible wisp of white smoke drifted out of the tube, spreading slowly through the darkness—silent, odorless, colorless.
This was a "sleep incense" he had redeemed from the system's shop. It deepened one's slumber so thoroughly that even gongs and drums outside would fail to wake them.
Pei Cijing tucked the tube away and waited a while longer by the window. Only when the long, steady breathing inside grew even deeper and more even did he reach out, push open the half-shut window, and vault inside.
The moment he landed, his toes touched the ground first, then his knees bent slightly, absorbing all sound in that single fluid motion.
Moonlight from outside the half-open window cast a dim, hazy pattern across the brick floor of the room.
Pei Cijing straightened up.
And looked around.
The old Daoist lay flat on his bed, hands folded over his abdomen, his sleeping posture as neat and proper as if he had been laid in a coffin. His breathing was long and even, his complexion ruddy, and the corners of his mouth were even slightly upturned, as if he were having a pleasant dream.
On the small nightstand by the bed sat an exquisite bronze incense burner. The lid was carved with auspicious cloud patterns, and a thin wisp of pale smoke rose from the openwork, drifting slowly away in the moonlight.
Pei Cijing leaned in and took a whiff.
Faint.
There was a hint of sandalwood and mugwort, likely meant to repel insects and aid sleep.
After confirming that Xuan Qingzi would not suddenly wake up, Pei Cijing's gaze fell on the bookshelf at the other end of the room.
The shelf took up an entire wall, reaching from the floor all the way to the ceiling beam. On it were neatly arranged dozens of volumes of classics, each spine labeled with tidy handwriting and sorted by category—"The Tao Te Ching," "The Nanhua Jing," "The Chongxu Jing," "The Zhouyi Cantong Qi"... Most were Daoist scriptures, along with some medical texts and alchemical formulas.
In the middle section of the bookshelf sat several rows of small white porcelain bottles, their mouths sealed with red silk.
Pei Cijing strode over quickly.
He first went through the books, flipping through them one by one, page by page, not even skipping the interleaved pages. But after searching the entire shelf, all he found were scriptures and formulas—nothing related to accounts or ledgers.
He then picked up those white porcelain bottles, pulled out the stoppers, and tipped out a few pills.
The pills were small, about half the size of a longan pit, entirely black, with a faint oily sheen. They gave off a strong smell of Chinese herbs, mixed with a hint of honey's sweetness.
Pei Cijing brought the pills close to his nose.
Smelled them carefully.
Based on his professional judgment from the "Master Healer" skill, the formula for these pills was not complicated—deer antler, wolfberry, cornel fruit, prepared rehmannia, plus a few warming tonic herbs, ground into powder, bound with honey, and rolled into pills.
As for their effects.
Nourishing yin and tonifying the kidneys, warming yang and consolidating essence.
In plain terms, they were kidney tonics.
And the potency was mediocre.
At least a tier below the virility pills he had previously exchanged from the system and given to his old man, Pei Fugui. Rubbish!
Pei Cijing stuffed the pills back into the bottle, twisted the stopper shut, and returned it to its place.
He took down several more porcelain bottles.
Opened and inspected them one by one.
Nourishing yin, calming the spirit, regulating qi and blood—there were even a few bottles of beauty pills meant specifically for women. The formulas were all similar, all in the warming tonic vein. Not a single one was habit-forming.
Pei Cijing placed the last bottle back on the shelf, his brow furrowing even deeper.
The pills that Xuan Qingzi used to control Chen Qiming were not here.
The ledger was not here either.
He began searching the room in earnest.
He pulled open the drawers of the desk—ink brushes, paper, inksticks, a few unsent letters. Their contents were merely ordinary exchanges with some official or another, nothing unusual.
Behind the folding screen—empty, nothing there.
Beneath the step of the canopy bed—he lay flat on the ground and peered underneath for a long while. There wasn't even a speck of dust, let alone a hidden compartment.
The flowerpot in the corner—he picked it up to check the bottom, then felt the soil around the plant. No sign of anything concealed.
Up on the ceiling beam—he climbed onto a chair to take a look. Aside from dust and cobwebs, there was nothing.
Pei Cijing jumped down from the chair, stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and let out a long breath. A wave of frustration surged over him—not fierce or intense, but damp and clinging, sticking to him like wet clothes that just wouldn’t shake off.
He had turned the entire room inside out.
Every place he could think of had been searched.
But no account book, no pills—nothing. The place was as clean as if it had been swept bare.
Pei Cijing suddenly found it hard to tell whether to laugh or cry.
His wife was too good to him.
That had its downsides too!
Ever since they married, control of the second branch’s finances had been handed over to Shen Ninghuan. She managed everything meticulously, never letting him worry about money. Whenever he needed silver, she never asked too many questions, never restricted him—spend as much as he wanted, however he wanted.
Which led to one very awkward problem—
He had never once hidden away private money.
Not a single time.
In his past life, he’d heard plenty of married coworkers complain that after tying the knot, the greatest joy wasn’t spending money—it was hiding it. Carving a hollow in a book, taping an envelope under the bedboard, stuffing a few bills into an old shoe box on top of the wardrobe. Every time they successfully stashed away a bit of secret cash, the sense of accomplishment hit harder than payday.
Back then, he’d found it amusing.
He thought to himself: these people must really be bored.
But now he realized—if he’d had experience hiding things, maybe finding what others had hidden would come far more easily.
Pei Cijing understood now. Hiding private money, though it might not sound respectable, truly did train one’s “stealth-and-detection skills.” His own abilities in that area were clearly lacking, because he’d never needed to hide anything in the first place.
Pei Cijing stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, staring at Xuan Qingzi, who was sleeping soundly in bed. A thought suddenly popped into his head—
What if I woke this old Daoist up?
Give him a proper interrogation?
No sooner had the thought surfaced than he shoved it back down.
Not appropriate.
Decidedly not appropriate.
Pei Cijing’s gaze swept the room once more, finally landing on that carved rosewood canopy bed. A spark of inspiration flashed through his mind.
Beneath the pillow.
The most dangerous place is the safest place.
He’d heard that saying countless times but never taken it seriously—yet now, in this room he’d ransacked top to bottom, it suddenly became his last hope.
He walked to the bedside, reached out, and gently supported Xuan Qingzi’s shoulder with one hand, lifting his body just slightly, while slipping the other hand under the pillow.
His fingertips touched something.
Not the softness of fabric, not the smoothness of paper—but a rough, stiff texture.
Bingo!
His fingers dug in a little deeper, and he pulled the object out from under the pillow.
It was a thin booklet, its cover made of dark blue coarse cloth whose corners were already frayed and fuzzy—clearly a thing handled often.
The pamphlet was small, barely larger than an adult man’s palm, yet in his hand it felt strangely heavy.
Pei Cijing flipped it open.
By the faint moonlight filtering through the window, he saw the contents—tiny, cramped handwriting, dense and packed, every entry recorded with exacting care.
On such-and-such a year, month, and day, such-and-such an official purchased such-and-such a number of pills for such-and-such silver.
On such-and-such a year, month, and day, such-and-such a lady purchased such-and-such a number of pills—no silver exchanged, the debt settled in flesh.
On a certain year, month, and day, Chen Qiming purchased a hundred pills of elixir, silver coins—followed by a number that made his eyelids twitch.
Pei Cijing's gaze lingered on that line for a moment.
He continued flipping through the pages.
His fingers moved faster and faster, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.
This booklet recorded not only transactions of elixirs, but also the murky dealings between Baiyunguan Temple and the officialdom of the Northern River region, as well as the great aristocratic families.
Entry after entry, clear and unambiguous.
This was no mere ledger.
This was a web.
A tangled, far-reaching web woven from silver and self-interest.
Pei Cijing closed the booklet, tucked it into his robes, and reached once more beneath the pillow. This time, his fingers brushed against two cold porcelain vials.
He pulled them out and held them up to his eyes.
The vials were small, no thicker than his thumb, their mouths sealed with wax. They bore no labels, but on the bottom of each was carved a tiny mark—something like a symbol, or a variant of a character.
He uncorked one and tipped a pill into his palm.
The elixir was dark red, a full size larger than those on the shelves, its surface smooth as a mirror, gleaming with an eerie luster. He brought it to his nose, and the smell hit him—not the bitter herbal scent of medicine, but a cloying, sickly-sweet fragrance that sent a chill through the heart.
Pei Cijing's pupils contracted slightly.
He didn't need a second sniff.
He recognized that smell. In his past life, in that other world, he'd never touched it personally—but he'd seen countless documentaries and news reports about it.
It was the kind of thing that made people addicted, drove them mad, turned them from human beings into ghosts.
He put the pill back into the vial, tucked it into his robes, and reached beneath the pillow once more to make sure nothing was left behind. Only then did he gently lower Xuan Qingzi's body back onto the pillow.
The old Daoist smacked his lips, rolled over, and went back to sleep, utterly oblivious.
The evidence was complete.
Any of the items in that hidden compartment—the pills, the banknotes, the ledger—would be enough to nail Xuan Qingzi to the wall.
But Pei Cijing was in no hurry to act.
The web of interests recorded in the booklet was too vast; too many people were entangled in it.
If he took Xuan Qingzi down right now, word would spread, and those people would either flee or destroy evidence. Then catching them all in one net would be nearly impossible.
If this was to be done beautifully, it would need to be handled by the Sixth Prince, Li Chengyu.
Pei Cijing closed his eyes, calculated silently in his mind for a moment, then gritted his teeth and opened the system's shop panel. He typed a few keywords into the search bar.
[Ledger · Duplicate]: Can perfectly replicate the full contents of a target ledger—appearance, texture, and degree of ink age indistinguishable from the original. Required points: 100.
[Xuan Qingzi's Secret Little Pills · Fake]: Identical in appearance, smell, and weight to the target elixir, containing no addictive ingredients, safe for human consumption. Points per pill: 10.
Pei Cijing stared at the number, his heart aching with every digit.
Four hundred and twenty points.
Painful as it was, not a single point could be spared.
He gritted his teeth and hit confirm.
[Exchange successful. 420 gossip points deducted. Remaining balance—]
The ledger duplicate and those black pills materialized before him out of thin air.
Pei Cijing picked them up and inspected them carefully. Satisfied, he slid the duplicate ledger and the imitation pills back under Xuan Qingzi's pillow, and tucked the real ledger and real pills into his own robes.
The old Daoist's breathing remained steady, his complexion still ruddy, and the corners of his mouth still curled upward slightly, as if he were lost in a long, beautiful dream.
He knew nothing.
Pei Cijing took one last look at him, then turned and slipped silently to the window. He vaulted over the sill and vanished into the thick darkness of the night.
...
Over the next three days, Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan acted as if they had truly come to observe a fast and offer prayers on behalf of the Sixth Prince—burning incense, chanting scriptures, and kneeling in worship each day, going through all the motions convincingly.
Xuan Qingzi kept them company, his smile warm and his words sincere. Every so often he would sigh with admiration and say things like, "Lord Pei truly cares for the common people—a blessing for the Great Qian dynasty."
Pei Cijing smiled through the pleasantries, but in his heart, he was thinking—
Keep smiling.
Go ahead and smile all you want. You won't be smiling much longer.
Three days later, the fast and prayers came to an end.
Pei Cijing led Shen Ninghuan out through the mountain gate of White Cloud Temple, with Xuan Qingzi seeing them off with great attentiveness.
At parting, Xuan Qingzi stood before the mountain gate, hands tucked into his sleeves, face beaming, his tone as warm as if he were sending off an old friend of many years: "Lord Pei, Lady Shen, safe travels. If you ever have the time, do drop by White Cloud Temple for a stay—I will personally prepare a bed and welcome you."
Pei Cijing clasped his hands in salute, his expression carrying a hint of genuine gratitude: "I am deeply indebted to you, Reverend, for your hospitality these past few days. Should fate allow, I will surely visit again."
With that, he turned, helped Shen Ninghuan into the carriage, and mounted his own horse.
Xuan Qingzi stood at the mountain gate, watching the procession grow smaller and smaller in the distance, the smile gradually fading from his face.
The young acolyte beside him leaned in and whispered, "Master, did Lord Pei forget something?"
Xuan Qingzi was momentarily taken aback. "Forget what?"
The acolyte counted on his fingers: "For a fast and prayer offering, shouldn't one leave some incense money? These past few days, we've fed them well, given them the finest guest quarters, and when they left, they didn't leave so much as half a copper coin in alms..."
The corner of Xuan Qingzi's mouth twitched.
Of course, he had noticed.
This Lord Pei was a stingy one.
He'd brought a whole entourage to eat, drink, and stay free for three days, and when he left, he hadn't even left a donation—just a perfunctory "thank you for your hospitality."
What's more—what really galled him—was that when they left, they'd sent someone to the kitchen to pack up a large stash of pastries and snacks, saying they were "for the road." He took the food and more besides.
Those pastries had taken the temple's pastry chef several days to make, using only the finest ingredients, and they were meant to be served to distinguished guests.
And now, all of it had been carried off.
Xuan Qingzi took a deep breath, forcing down the indescribable resentment rising in his chest.
Never mind.
At least they were gone.
He shook his head, turned, and walked back through the mountain gate. His wide crane-feather robe drifted gently in the morning breeze, and his silhouette still looked every bit the part of an immortal sage...
