Jingyun Year One, January 20th. Luoyang.
The festivities of the Lantern Festival had not yet fully faded when a new storm swept through Luoyang City.
The news came from the imperial court. Emperor Ruizong issued an edict: Crown Prince Li Longji was to enter the Ministry of Justice (Xingbu) as an advisor on administration and assist in handling criminal cases, so that his capabilities might be observed. When the edict reached the Eastern Palace, I was organizing medical records in the study. Qingyuan entered with tea, her face alight with excitement. "Third Lady! His Highness is going to the Ministry of Justice!"
"His Highness is already the Crown Prince," I reminded her.
"Then what will he do at the Ministry?"
"Training," I said, putting down the jar of tooth powder. "The Son of Heaven wants him to learn how to handle cases there."
Qingyuan nodded, half-understanding, then asked, "Will His Highness stop coming for his dental check-ups?"
"No. He promised he wouldn't."
No sooner had the words left my lips than footsteps sounded at the door. He stood there, wearing a deep cyan casual robe, his hair bound with a jade hairpin. His expression was unreadable, but I knew—he had been frustrated again at court.
"Your Highness is back early today."
"Mm." He walked in, sat down, and rubbed his temples. "The court argued all morning."
I handed him a cup of warm water. "Because of the Ministry of Justice matter?"
"Yes." He took a sip. "Some believe the Crown Prince should not go to the Ministry. They say it is a place for 'managing prisons and interrogating prisoners,' unsuitable for the Crown Prince's status. Others say the affairs are too complex and fear I cannot handle them."
"Is it Princess Taiping's people?"
He glanced at me but did not answer. His silence was the answer.
"Does Your Highness want to go?"
"I do." He set down the cup, leaned back in the chair, and fixed his gaze on me. "Criminal justice concerns life and death of the common people. I want to know how the laws of the Great Tang are truly executed. Are there unjust cases? Wrongful convictions? Are there people—thrown into prison simply because they backed the wrong faction?"
He did not speak the name "Princess Taiping," but I understood. He was not talking about criminal law; he was talking about this court.
"If Your Highness wants to go, then go," I said, looking at him. "Your Highness has kept every promise made to me. You will do well in this too."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled. "Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"Do you know who spoke up for me in court today?"
"Who?"
"Li Rizhi."
I paused. Li Rizhi—the Minister of Justice. The legendary "Li Blue Sky," known for judging cases like a god.
"What did he say?"
"He said—" Leaning back, the corners of his mouth curled slightly. "He said, 'If the Crown Prince comes to the Ministry of Justice, this official is willing to teach him everything he knows. The criminal laws of the Great Tang should not be understood by only one person.'"
The Ministry of Justice
January 22nd. Li Longji went to the Ministry of Justice for the first time.
I did not accompany him, but Qingyuan brought back much news from outside. The whole of Luoyang was buzzing—the Crown Prince had gone to the Ministry. Some said the Emperor was tempering the Prince; others said he was handing over control of the Ministry; still others claimed Princess Taiping was so furious her face had turned iron-green.
In the afternoon, he returned. His complexion was much better than when he left. There was a light in his eyes I rarely saw—not the steadiness of the court, nor the sharpness of horseback riding, but something deeper, more grounded, like the glow of someone who had discovered a treasure.
"What did Your Highness do at the Ministry today?"
"Reviewed case files." He sat down, accepting the tea I offered. "Files from the past three years. From the Ministry of Justice, the Court of Judicature and Revision (Dali Si), and the Censorate. They piled up against an entire wall."
"Three years' worth?"
"Yes. Li Rizhi said that to judge cases, one must first read the records. See how others decided, how cases moved up from the county magistrates, which were rejected, which were overturned, and which—" He paused, his fingers tracing the rim of the teacup. "Which people died mysteriously in prison."
I froze. "What did Your Highness see?"
He was silent for a moment. The wind blew in through the window, rustling the open medical records on the desk. "I saw some people who should not have died." He did not elaborate, merely placing the cup on the table and leaning back, closing his eyes. His brows were slightly furrowed, exactly as they were when he had a toothache. But this time, it was not his teeth that hurt.
January 24th. When he returned, his demeanor had changed.
It was not fatigue, but something heavier. He entered the study, sat down, and remained silent for a long time. Outside, the sky had darkened; the candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows on his face.
"Your Highness, what is wrong?"
"I reviewed a case today," he said, his voice low. "From last year. Reported by the Luoyang County magistrate. A merchant named Qian Wansan, owner of a silk shop. Found dead in his home, a knife stuck in his chest. The Luoyang County Magistrate ruled it a suicide."
"Suicide?" I frowned. "How does one commit suicide by stabbing oneself in the chest?"
"The magistrate claimed he wrapped the knife handle in cloth, pressed it against a wall, and threw himself upon it."
"Absurd." The word slipped out before I realized it, but it was too late to take back.
He looked at me, the corner of his mouth lifting briefly before sinking again. "You think it's absurd too?"
"Of course it's absurd. If one wishes to commit suicide, there are a thousand ways. Why choose one so painful and uncertain? Moreover, with a chest stab wound, the angle, force, and direction of the blade matter. A self-inflicted wound differs from one inflicted by another. A suicide's wound would be on the right side of the body, as most are right-handed. If murdered, the wound could be on the left or center, depending on the attacker's position. A suicide's wound is deeper at the entry and shallower at the exit due to the diminishing force of the arm. A homicide wound may be deeper, straighter, or show signs of multiple thrusts."
He looked at me, his gaze shifting. "How do you know these things?"
"In... in books I've read," I stammered, nearly saying "forensic medicine courses in Vancouver."
He did not press further, merely nodding. "Li Rizhi also finds it absurd. But he has no evidence. The case is closed; the man has been buried for nearly a year. Qian Wansan's wife refused to accept it, filing complaints three times, but all were rejected."
"Why were they rejected?"
"Because the Luoyang County Magistrate is one of Princess Taiping's people." He spoke calmly, but his fingers tightened around the teacup, his knuckles turning white.
The study fell silent. The candlelight flickered in the bronze lamp, causing the shadows of us two on the wall to sway.
"Does Your Highness intend to investigate this case?"
"I do. But it will not be easy." He set down the cup, gazing into the night outside. "Qian Wansan has been dead for nearly a year. The body is buried, the crime scene gone, witnesses scattered or vanished. The only clue is a petition held by his wife. But that petition can never reach the Ministry of Justice."
"Why?"
"Because petitions must first pass through the Luoyang County office. The magistrate sees it and suppresses it immediately."
I fell silent. This was the Great Tang. This was a world a thousand years ago. There was no independent judicial system, no appellate court. For a commoner to seek justice, they had to go through the very magistrate accused of wrongdoing.
"What does Your Highness plan to do?"
"Li Rizhi says we must investigate from the root." He looked at me, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. "Not just Qian Wansan's case, but the Luoyang County Magistrate himself. In his three years in office, he has handled over a hundred cases. How many were unjust? How many involved lives lost? How many—were done for Princess Taiping?"
His voice grew lower, as if speaking only to himself.
"Qingyan, do you know I saw a list today at the Ministry?"
"What list?"
"The 'suicide' cases reported by Luoyang County last year. Seventeen cases in total. Seventeen people, all dying under suspicious circumstances. Some were merchants, some minor officials, some ordinary citizens. Their only commonality—they had all offended people associated with Princess Taiping."
He stood up and walked to the window. Beyond lay the myriad lights of Luoyang, yet none seemed to illuminate his face.
"Qingyan, seventeen people. Seventeen lives. If every one of them, like Qian Wansan, is suppressed by the county office, their petitions blocked, their cases never reopened—then what kind of criminal law is the Great Tang's law?"
Undercurrents
January 25th. Trouble erupted in the Ministry of Justice.
It was not Qian Wansan's case, but another—a commoner named Liu San, accused of "rebellion" last year, had been imprisoned in the Ministry's jail for over half a year without trial. On the third day of Li Longji's tenure at the Ministry, Liu San died in his cell. The coroner ruled it "death by illness."
But Li Rizhi did not believe it. Liu San had always been healthy; he had survived half a year in prison without issue, only to die at this precise moment.
When the news reached the Eastern Palace, he was in my study. Not for a dental check-up, but simply sitting, holding a case file, staring at it for a long time.
"Your Highness," Chen Xuanli stood at the door, his face grim. "Someone died in the Ministry jail. Named Liu San."
"How did he die?"
"The coroner says illness. But Minister Li says—" Chen Xuanli hesitated. "Minister Li says the body must be re-examined. There are injuries on Liu San's body inconsistent with natural causes."
He remained silent for a long time, placing the file on the table without looking at it again.
"Your Highness," I said, "I do not understand the affairs of the Ministry of Justice. But I know one thing."
"What?"
"If a person dies under suspicious circumstances, their teeth will speak."
He turned to look at me. "Teeth will speak?"
"Yes." I took a tooth model from the cabinet—made of plaster, used for teaching Shen Yue and Qingyuan. "When a person is alive, their teeth record many things: what they ate, what illnesses they had, their approximate age. After death, teeth are the last to rot. If death was by illness, there will be traces on the teeth. If by poison—there will be traces there too. Chronic poisoning leaves a uniform black line along the gum margin; acute poisoning discolors the entire tooth; those strangled often leave bite marks on their tongues. Every method of death leaves different traces on the teeth."
He looked at me, his gaze changing. "Qingyan, can you tell?"
"I can," I said. "But I need to see the person."
He was silent for a long time. "Very well. I will arrange it."
The Autopsy
January 26th. Night.
He took me to the Ministry of Justice prison.
It was my first time entering a jail. Cold, damp, reeking of decay. Water beads trickled down the brick seams, pooling into thin black streams on the floor. The torchlight swayed in the wind, stretching shadows long and ghostly. The air held an indescribable smell—mold, blood, and something deeper, heavier, suffocating. The smell of a prison. The smell of despair.
He walked ahead, the hem of his cloak clutched in my hand. He did not turn back, but his hand reached behind and grasped mine. His palm was warm, a comfort against the cold winter wind.
"Do not be afraid," his voice was low. "I am here."
The coroner had moved the body to the examination room. Covered by a white sheet, only a gray face was visible. Li Rizhi stood nearby, wearing a gray cotton robe, his face gaunt, his eyes sharp, his temples already streaked with gray. Seeing me, he nodded slightly.
"Doctor Gu."
"Minister Li."
He glanced at me but did not ask why a female doctor was performing an autopsy. He simply stepped aside. There were more torches in the examination room than in the jail, but the light was still dim, casting deep shadows on the deceased's face.
I took a deep breath and lifted the sheet. The face was somewhat distorted but recognizable. A man in his forties, with calloused hands from hard labor. His lips were purple, his nails black—typical signs of poisoning, though possibly caused by post-mortem hypoxia; one could not conclude based solely on this.
I pried open his mouth, propping it with a bamboo stick, and leaned in close. The torchlight cast a dim yellow glow into the oral cavity. The gums were blackened, but the degree of decay did not match the time of death. I wiped the tooth surfaces clean with a cotton strip—incisors, canines, premolars, molars, examining each one by one.
"Your Highness, look here."
He leaned in. I pointed to the gum margin of the deceased's lower right first molar. There, a thin black line extended from the junction of gum and tooth, winding like a river.
"There is a black line here. Not decay, but deposition. If poisoned, toxins are absorbed through the gums, leaving traces at the tooth roots. The position and shape of this line do not suggest death by illness."
"Then what does it suggest?"
"It suggests—" I paused, gently lifting the gum margin with the bamboo stick to reveal the deeper part. "It suggests poison was forced into the mouth. As the liquid flowed over the teeth, it left this line on the gum margin. If it were chronic poisoning from long-term ingestion, the line would be more uniform and faint, like a shallow ink ring. But this line is deep and concentrated, indicating a large amount of toxin introduced in a short time. And look here—"
I pointed to the gap between the canine and the first premolar.
"There is a deeper mark here. As if something hard was forced into the mouth, scraping the tooth surface. Perhaps the rim of a porcelain bowl or bamboo tube used to administer the poison struck the tooth."
The examination room was utterly silent. Torchlight danced on his face, flickering light and shadow. His brows were slightly furrowed, his gaze fixed on the black line in the dead man's mouth, as if trying to engrave every detail into his mind.
"Can you confirm it was poisoning?" Li Rizhi asked.
"I cannot be one hundred percent certain without examining the stomach to identify the specific poison—" I paused, closing the deceased's lips. "But it is certain that the cause of death was not illness. The degree and distribution of the blackened gums, the injuries in the mouth, the color of the nails—taken together, they point to one conclusion."
Li Rizhi was silent for a long time. Then he turned to the Prince and bowed deeply. "Your Highness, this official requests a retrial of this case. Liu San's death was not due to illness."
A Game of Go
The news spread, shaking the entire city of Luoyang.
Princess Taiping's faction raged in court, accusing the Crown Prince of "overstepping his authority," Li Rizhi of "colluding with the Eastern Palace," and claiming that a female doctor performing an autopsy was "contrary to propriety." Officials from the Censorate submitted three memorials impeaching Li Rizhi for "confusing the public with demonic words" and the Crown Prince for "privately bringing a woman into the prison, violating ancestral customs."
January 27th. The court argued all day. He did not yield.
January 28th. The Ministry of Justice began reinvestigating Liu San's cause of death. But the resistance was far greater than imagined. Liu San's cell had been cleaned—not ordinarily, but scrubbed with water. Nothing remained on the walls, floor, or bars. The guards at the cell door had been replaced three times; all claimed, "I don't know," "I didn't see," or "I wasn't on duty that day." Of the prisoners who shared Liu San's cell, three had been released and vanished. Of the remaining two, one suddenly recanted, saying "I know nothing," while the other went mad, biting anyone who approached, his mouth filled with blood.
"Your Highness," Li Rizhi stood in the study, his face grim. "Someone is destroying evidence."
"I know." He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest.
"Liu San's cell was scrubbed on the day of the incident. The coroner's report was altered the next day—I compared the original draft and the copy. The original stated 'purple lips, black nails, suspected poisoning'; the copy was changed to 'death by illness.' The two released prisoners were let go on the third day. The release order was signed by Vice Minister of Justice, Pei Sheng."
"Pei Sheng." He repeated the name. "Whose man is he?"
Li Rizhi did not answer. But the air in the study suddenly grew heavy.
"This means—" He sat up straight. "Someone prepared this in advance. Liu San's death was not impulsive. Someone knew what he might say and silenced him beforehand. Moreover, the perpetrator knew the Ministry's procedures intimately. They knew when to scrub the cell, when to write the report, when to release the prisoners. Every step was perfectly timed."
"There is a traitor within the Ministry."
"Yes. And more than one." Li Rizhi's voice was low. "Your Highness, in my thirty years at the Ministry, I have never encountered such a situation. It is not that the case is difficult to solve; it is that those solving the case—are themselves part of the case."
The study fell silent. The candlelight flickered, casting a shadow on his face.
"What does Your Highness plan to do?" Li Rizhi asked.
He did not answer immediately. His fingers tapped lightly on the table. Once, twice, thrice.
"Investigate," he said. "Start with Liu San's case. Who arrested him? Who interrogated him? Who imprisoned him? Who scrubbed the cell? Who wrote the report? Who altered it? Who released the prisoners? Investigate them one by one. Dig to the root."
"Your Highness, what if the investigation hits a dead end halfway?"
"It will not." He stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open. Cold wind rushed in, rustling the papers on the desk. "Qingyan once said—Justice may be delayed, but it will not be absent."
Li Rizhi paused, then smiled. A faint smile, but it reached his eyes. "Did Doctor Gu say that?"
"Yes."
"Doctor Gu is a remarkable person." Li Rizhi hesitated. "Your Highness, this official has another request."
"What request?"
"The case of Qian Wansan. I wish to investigate it concurrently."
He turned to look at Li Rizhi.
"Qian Wansan's case and Liu San's case appear unrelated. One is a merchant's murder, the other a death in prison. But in my thirty years at the Ministry, I have seen too many cases. When two such cases arise simultaneously, it is rarely a coincidence."
"You mean—"
"I suspect Qian Wansan did not commit suicide. Nor did Liu San die of illness. There may be a connection between them." Li Rizhi's voice dropped lower. "Moreover, I suspect the Luoyang County Magistrate is not the only one involved. There are people above him. Suppressing Qian Wansan's case and silencing Liu San—these two acts may have been ordered by the same person."
He did not speak the name "Princess Taiping." But the air in the study suddenly grew heavy. The wind outside ceased, the candlelight stopped flickering; the whole world seemed to hold its breath.
The Vortex
January 29th. New trouble arrived.
Qian Wansan's wife had disappeared.
"When did this happen?" His face darkened, fingers tightening around the teacup until his knuckles turned white.
"Last night." Chen Xuanli stood at the door, dew still on his armor from running all the way. "She lives in a village outside Luoyang County. Neighbors saw her last night. This morning, she was gone. The house was tossed upside down—cabinets overturned, quilts torn, bloodstains on the floor."
"Who did it?"
"Unknown. But—" Chen Xuanli hesitated. "Neighbors said a group of riders passed through the village last night. Wearing black robes, faces covered, unrecognizable. They headed south. About seven or eight men."
"South is—"
"Longmen Mountain."
He was silent for a long time. Outside, the sky was pitch black, candlelight casting deep shadows on his face. His jaw was slightly clenched, just as it was when he had a toothache—but this time, it was not his teeth that hurt.
"Your Highness," Li Rizhi stood up, the hem of his gray robe brushing the table corner. "This official will go to Longmen Mountain to find her."
"It's too late." He stood, walked to the wall, and took down a sword, hanging it at his waist. The movement was swift, identical to drawing a bow on the training ground. "She holds Qian Wansan's petition. If she is silenced and the petition burned, Qian Wansan's case can never be reopened. Nor can the cases of the other seventeen people."
"Then Your Highness—"
"I will go," he said. "If people from the Ministry go, it will cause too much commotion. Princess Taiping's people will know."
"Your Highness goes alone?"
"Not alone." He glanced at me.
I froze. "Your Highness—"
"Qingyan, you can ride a horse."
"...Your Highness, I can ride, but I cannot fight."
"You won't need to fight." He adjusted his scabbard, his gaze falling on my face. "Come with me. If she is injured, you can treat her. And—" He paused, his voice lowering. "I need someone I can trust. In the Ministry, I no longer know whom to trust."
I did not hesitate. "Let's go."
Longmen Mountain
Longmen Mountain lies south of Luoyang, flanking the Yi River, with steep terrain. In winter, the mountain is bare, covered only in rocks and withered grass. Wind poured through the mountain pass, biting cold, stinging the face.
We rode for nearly an hour. He led, I followed. His horse ran fast, its black mane flying in the wind, but he frequently slowed to wait for me. Moonlight bathed the mountain path, white as salt. By the time we reached the foot of the mountain, dusk was fading from the western peaks.
"Your Highness, how do we search?"
"There are several abandoned kiln caves in the mountains. They used to burn lime but were later deserted. If hiding someone, that is the most likely place. Princess Taiping's people have used these spots before." He tethered his horse to a tree, came over, and took my hand. "The mountain path is treacherous; follow me."
The path was steep, the rocks loose; for every step forward, we slid back half. He walked ahead, one hand pulling me, the other bracing against the cliff. Moonlight shone from above, stretching his shadow long before my feet.
"How does Your Highness know about these caves?"
"I had the Wude Bureau investigate yesterday," he said, not stopping. "Princess Taiping's people have several hideouts in Longmen Mountain. Specifically used for—" He did not finish.
Specifically for imprisoning, killing, and burying people. Under the moonlight, his profile was taut, his jawline sharp as a carved blade.
After walking for the time it takes to burn an incense stick, he suddenly stopped, pressing his hand on my shoulder.
"Qingyan, look."
Following his finger, I saw a kiln cave in a mountain hollow. The entrance was narrow, hidden by withered vines and shrubs, nearly invisible upon casual glance. Two men stood guard at the entrance, dressed in black robes, swords at their waists, pacing under the moonlight, their boots crunching on the gravel. A faint firelight flickered from within the cave.
"She is inside."
"Your Highness, there are two men—"
"I see." He released my hand and drew his sword. Moonlight reflected off the blade, casting a cold white gleam. "Wait here. No matter what happens, do not come out."
"Your Highness—"
"Qingyan." He looked at me, moonlight falling on his face, his eyes brighter than the moon itself. "Trust me."
He turned and walked toward the cave.
Under the moonlight, his back looked slender but straight. The wind lifted his cloak, revealing the scabbard at his waist. The sword in his hand glowed coldly. He walked slowly, but each step was steady, his boots crunching on the gravel. The two men in black saw him, paused in surprise, then drew their swords and charged.
The sound of metal clashing exploded in the night.
He sidestepped the first blow, surged forward, and smashed the hilt onto the attacker's wrist. The man screamed, dropping his sword, his wrist hanging at an unnatural angle. The second attacker rushed up; he parried with his sword, sparks flying, flashing briefly in the darkness. He gritted his teeth, veins bulging from his neck to his temples—exactly as he looked when I stitched his wounds. With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved the attacker back; the man crashed into the cave wall, groaned, and collapsed, raising a cloud of dust.
He pushed the door open and entered.
I crouched behind a rock, my heart pounding. My fingers gripped the stone, knuckles white. Moonlight illuminated my hands, making them look as pale as a corpse's. The firelight inside the cave flickered; muffled voices drifted out, indistinct. Then came a dull thud, like something hitting the ground.
Then, silence.
Moments later, he emerged, supporting a woman. She was in her forties, hair disheveled, face bruised, lip split, left eye swollen shut, mouth gagged with cloth. Her clothes were covered in dirt, torn in places to reveal the cotton padding beneath. Seeing me, tears suddenly welled in her eyes. Under the moonlight, those two lines of tears shone like light on a blade.
"It's alright." His voice was calm, though his breathing had not yet steadied, his chest heaving. "I will take you back."
He helped her onto the horse, mounted behind her. Under the moonlight, a streak of blood marked his cheek—whether his own or another's, I could not tell.
"Qingyan, follow."
The Return Journey
On the way back to the Eastern Palace, he rode ahead, with Qian Wansan's wife seated before him, wrapped in his cloak. Her shoulders trembled, whether from cold or fear, I could not tell. He held the reins with one hand and supported her shoulder with the other, ensuring she did not fall.
I rode behind, watching his back. The moonlight outlined his figure clearly—broad shoulders, straight waist, the corner of his cloak fluttering in the wind to reveal the empty scabbard at his waist. His horse moved slowly, as if afraid to jostle the woman before him. The hooves clattered on the bluestone road, echoing far into the night.
By the time we returned to the Eastern Palace, it was very late. Qingyuan waited at the gate, shivering and stamping her feet, holding a lantern. Seeing us return, she sighed in relief, nearly dropping the lamp.
"Third Lady! Where did you go—"
"Qingyuan, boil hot water. Prepare clean cotton strips and medicinal powder."
"Yes!"
I helped Qian Wansan's wife into my residence and seated her. Her clothes were dirty and torn, straw tangled in her hair. Deep ligature marks circled her wrists, skin broken and flesh exposed. Several cuts marred her fingers, the blood congealed and mixed with dirt, appearing black.
"You are injured. Let me treat your wounds first."
She raised her head to look at me, eyes full of tears she struggled to hold back. "Are you... Doctor Gu?"
"You know me?"
"I have heard of you. There is a female doctor in the Eastern Palace who treats teeth." She paused, her voice raspy like sandpaper. "They say the Crown Prince trusts you greatly."
I said nothing, simply taking her hand to begin cleaning the wounds. The ligature marks on her wrists were deep, a circle already turning purple. I rinsed them with honeysuckle water; she gasped in pain but did not pull away.
"How long did they hold you?"
"One night. From last night until today."
"Did they beat you?"
"A few times." She lowered her head. "They didn't kill me. They wanted to know where the petition was."
"The petition—"
"They didn't find it." She pulled a folded petition from her bosom, kept close to her skin, still warm. "I hid it in my undergarments. They searched the entire house but did not search my person."
I took the petition and unfolded it. The paper was crumpled, edges frayed, covered in dense writing. The characters were crooked, ink blurred in places as if soaked by water—no, not water, but tears. Every word was written in blood and tears.
"This is the petition I have been writing for half a year." Her voice was calm, as if speaking of someone else's affair. "I am illiterate; I paid a scholar at the street corner to write it for me. Ten coins per draft. I wrote for half a year, revised it seven times. Each revision cost money. I pawned all my dowry."
She looked up at me.
"Doctor Gu, my husband did not commit suicide. He was murdered. I know who did it, but I have no evidence. I only know that on that night, someone saw the Luoyang County Magistrate's secretary leaving through my back door. The secretary is one of Princess Taiping's people."
She stood up and suddenly knelt.
"Doctor Gu, I beg you, give this petition to the Crown Prince. My life matters little, but my husband's life—cannot be lost in vain."
"Get up." I helped her up and tucked the petition back into her hand. "You will give it to him yourself."
"But I—"
"He is waiting outside," I said. "He waits for you to tell him personally how Qian Wansan truly died."
The door opened. He stood there, having changed into a clean cloak, the bloodstain on his face wiped away. Moonlight streamed in from behind him, casting his long shadow to my feet.
Qian Wansan's wife looked at him, lips trembling. She knelt, knocking her forehead on the ground.
"Crown Prince—"
"Get up." He walked over, helping her up. His fingers were long, knuckles distinct, gripping her wrist with a firm but gentle hold. "No need to kneel. Tell me, how did Qian Wansan die?"
She raised her head, looking into his eyes. Those eyes were bright under the moonlight, brighter than the torches in the Ministry, brighter than the lamps of Luoyang. Suddenly, she wept. Not silent tears, but the kind of crying held back for so long that it finally bursts forth. Her shoulders shook, tears washing two tracks through the grime on her face.
"Your Highness, my husband did not commit suicide. He was murdered. I know who did it, but I have no evidence. I only know—" She sniffled, her voice broken. "That night, someone saw the magistrate's secretary leaving my back door. The secretary carried a bundle, and there seemed to be blood on it."
"What is the secretary's name?"
"Surnamed Zhou, named Zhou Ping. He is the magistrate's advisor. He has served in Luoyang County for five years, doing many things for the magistrate. My husband had previously sued the magistrate for forcibly seizing our shop. Before the case could be tried, my husband died."
He was silent for a long time. Moonlight illuminated his face, his brows slightly furrowed, his gaze profound.
"Where is Zhou Ping now?"
"Unknown. After the case was closed, he vanished. Some say he returned to his hometown, others say he was transferred, and still others—" She paused. "Others say he was silenced. Those who know too much do not live long."
The study fell utterly silent. The candlelight flickered in the bronze lamp, causing the shadows on the wall to sway. The wind outside ceased, the moonlight seemed frozen; the whole world had stopped.
He took the petition, unfolded it, read it through, then folded it and tucked it into his sleeve.
"I will read this petition. I will investigate Qian Wansan's case." He looked into her eyes. "Rest here; no one will find you."
She knelt again, about to kowtow. He caught her.
"No need to kneel." His voice was calm. "This is the duty of the Ministry of Justice."
Deep Night
Qian Wansan's wife was taken by Qingyuan to rest.
Only he and I remained in the study. He sat in the chair, leaning back, eyes closed. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on his face, casting fine shadows from his eyelashes.
"Your Highness."
"Mm?"
"Your face is injured."
He opened his eyes, touching the bloodstain on his cheek. "Just a graze. It doesn't hurt."
"Even if it doesn't hurt, it must be treated." I picked up a cotton strip, dipped it in honeysuckle water, and approached him. He lifted his head slightly, allowing me to clean it. When the cotton touched the wound, he winced but did not pull away.
"Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"You said today that teeth can speak."
"Yes."
"In Qian Wansan's case, nearly a year has passed. Can his teeth still speak?"
I was silent for a moment. "If the body was preserved well, yes. If it has rotted—"
"Buried in the mass grave outside Luoyang City. No coffin, only a straw mat."
I fell silent. Nearly a year, no coffin, no preservation. Although Luoyang's winters are cold, summers are hot. The body was likely mostly decomposed. Teeth are the last to rot, but the gums and periodontal tissues might be gone. If only teeth remain, there is much less to deduce.
"I can look," I said. "But what can be determined will be limited. We can ascertain age, sex, approximate time of death. We can see if teeth are missing or repaired. We can detect poisoning—if the toxin penetrated the dentin."
"Can you determine if it was suicide or homicide?"
"Not directly. But we can provide clues. For instance, if it was suicide, there would be no signs of struggle on the teeth. If homicide, the victim might have bitten the weapon or their own tongue, leaving traces on the teeth."
He looked at me, his gaze deep. "Qingyan, where did you learn all these things?"
I was silent for a long time. Moonlight shone between us, white as a river.
"Your Highness, I told you I come from a very faraway place."
"Farther than Changzhou?"
"Much farther than Changzhou."
"Farther than the Western Regions?"
"...Farther than the Western Regions."
He did not press further. He simply reached out and took my hand. His palm was warm, warmer than the moonlight, warmer than the winter wind.
"Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow, come with me to the mass grave."
"...Very well."
He smiled. Faint, light, but his eyes were bright.
"Sleep. There is much to do tomorrow."
He stood up and walked to the door, then suddenly turned back.
"Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"Thank me for what?"
"For coming from such a faraway place," he said. "And for knowing how to make teeth speak."
The door closed. I stood still, clutching the blood-stained cotton strip. Moonlight illuminated my hand, turning the spot of blood black.
Outside, the moon over Luoyang City was round and bright. Tomorrow, we would go to the mass grave. To see what Qian Wansan's teeth had to say.
(End of Chapter 13)