“Miss Mingfang, rest assured, Zhang Xian is a fine young man. Now that he has been harmed by others, I will certainly not sit idly by and ignore it.”

As Cen Zhao spoke, he set down the scroll in his hand. Hearing the sound of footsteps, his gaze passed over Shang Rong and turned toward the young man who walked in from beyond the threshold.

Rain threads had dampened the hem of his robe as it swayed with his steps. The youth’s complexion was dull, his appearance haggard, yet his eyes shone clear and sharp with spirit.

“May I ask who this is?” Cen Zhao flicked his wide sleeve, staring at him.

“Miss Mingfang searched in vain for Young Master Zhang. Upon hearing news of his death, she wished to go to the yamen to identify the body, but was not allowed to enter. In her utter grief, she sought to end her life,” Zhezhu said with an easy expression, meeting Cen Zhao’s scrutinizing gaze without the slightest haste or panic. “By chance, I saved her. Hearing that Old Mister Cen intended to inquire into this case, I brought Miss Mingfang here to pay a visit.”

At first hearing, there seemed nothing improper in these words. Yet all Cen Zhao needed to do was send someone to the yamen to ask whether a woman named Tian Mingfang had come to identify a corpse, and whether she had indeed been turned away, and the truth would be clear.

Shang Rong listened quietly, and also sensed something amiss. But in Yuling Town, on Xingyun Mountain, she had already witnessed Zhezhu’s scheming mind and methods. These words of his were by no means a careless mistake; rather, he had never intended to conceal things carefully in the first place.

Having her pose as Tian Mingfang was merely to gain an opportunity to meet Cen Zhao.

As for whether Cen Zhao might discover anything, he did not worry in the least.

For a moment, Shang Rong realized she no longer needed to keep pretending every instant to be someone she had never been. Her shoulders and neck relaxed unconsciously.

“Young Master truly intends to seek justice for Miss Mingfang.”

Even though Cen Zhao detested officialdom, he had still spent several decades in the bureaucratic circles of Yujing. His expression now remained unchanged, making it impossible to tell whether he believed it or not.

“To forge a wrongful case, how many people’s justice must be sacrificed? Old Mister Cen must know this far better than I.”

The youth’s tone was gentle.

The hall fell silent for a moment, until a maidservant brought tea and set it beside a chair. The faint clink of cup against table sounded. Cen Zhao had already grasped the veiled meaning in his words. He stared at the youth and suddenly asked, “Can you do it?”

“If Sir believes, then I can.”

A faint curve of a smile lingered at the corner of the youth’s eyes.

“And what do you rely on?” Cen Zhao asked.

Zhezhu slightly lifted his chin. His gaze suddenly met Shang Rong’s as she looked toward him. He lightly raised a hand and pointed at her. “Let her be my proof—what does Sir think?”

A damp wind drifted in from beneath the eaves, stirring his sleeves.

In the brazier, orange peel simmered in boiling water, and the sharp, fragrant scent in the hall grew stronger.

Shang Rong widened her eyes in astonishment, staring at him.

Cen Zhao’s gaze moved back and forth between the young man and young woman. In no time, he smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Very well, we shall follow the young master’s words. The two of you, sit first and have some hot tea.”

“Sir speaks directly. This tea, I will not drink.”

The smile in Zhezhu’s eyes was perfunctory. He turned his face to look again at Shang Rong and said, “For now, I place my bet here with Sir. Please see that she is well fed and well treated with care.”

“That is only natural.”

Cen Zhao stroked his beard and replied with a smile.

Shang Rong watched as, once the youth finished speaking, he turned and walked out the door. The maidservant waiting outside handed him a paper umbrella. He swiftly opened it and walked down the steps.

Without thinking, the hem of her skirt sweeping with the wind as she crossed the threshold, the crisp sound of rain pattering throughout the courtyard, she hurried down the steps and seized his sleeve precisely.

The youth’s steps halted. A patch of daylight filtered through the paper umbrella, casting a bluish-gray, dim hue. He turned around, tilting the umbrella to shield her, yet before he could react, she suddenly grasped his hand and nudged the umbrella further above his head.

The hood of her cloak was damp with rain, the rabbit-fur trim clumped together in wet strands. Her face was half hidden within it, untouched by a single drop of rain.

“Zhezhu…”

She was still tightly gripping his sleeve.

“He intends to seek justice for Zhang Xian, and he knows that the Prefect of Shuqing is colluding with others right under his nose, yet he lacks sufficient evidence to prove that those who killed Zhang Xian were not Madam Yu and her husband.”

Zhezhu’s voice was very soft. Amid the sound of rain filling the courtyard, only she could hear him clearly.

“So whether I, this ‘Tian Mingfang,’ am real or not does not matter. What matters is that everyone knows ‘Tian Mingfang’ has entered the Cen residence.”

Shang Rong looked at him. “Zhezhu, you want to find the real Tian Mingfang.”

“The inn where you and I stayed is the very one where Tian Mingfang and Zhang Xian lodged when they entered the city. She was inseparable from Zhang Xian—so how is it that when Zhang Xian died, she vanished without a trace?” Zhezhu’s gaze dropped silently, fixing on the hand that still clutched his sleeve. “Because Mengshi has not yet spoken, on the surface, everyone who attended the poetry gathering that day remains detained in prison. If the true murderer is among them, once he hears that Tian Mingfang is at the Cen residence, he will surely react.”

Zhang Xian was not particularly close with anyone from that poetry gathering. Although they were all from Yeshan Academy, most of them came from prominent backgrounds, and some had already passed the provincial examinations. Only Zhang Xian was from a poor family, merely a xiucai.

Since they looked down on Zhang Xian, why would they invite him to drink and discuss poetry together? Cen Zhao must have sensed the strangeness as well. Moreover, he knew Zhang Xian’s character, and he also knew the character of Madam Yu and her husband. The prefect’s explanation could not deceive him.

Thus, the crux of the case lay with the missing Tian Mingfang.

Now, among those from Zhifeng Tower who had followed Zhezhu here, half had returned after Liu Xuanyi’s death, and the rest had already gone with Jiang Ying to investigate the past of Daoist Miaoshan.

He currently had no one at his side he could rely on. To ensure Shang Rong’s safety, he could only leave her here for the time being.

Cen Zhao needed evidence, and he too needed to rely on Cen Zhao to uncover it.

“I should have told you earlier—you didn’t need to act so seriously,” Zhezhu recalled the words she had spoken to Cen Zhao when she entered earlier. He raised a brow and stared at her. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t even have called him ‘Xian-lang.’”

“I…”

Shang Rong’s cheeks flushed bright red. She stammered in explanation, “I heard Madam Yu call her husband that.”

“Don’t learn everything,” the youth gently shook his sleeve, and her hand moved with it. He said, “Today I drew your brows especially ugly, no one will look at you twice. Have Cen Zhao prepare a good table of food for you, and wait for me to come back and fetch you.”

The youth’s eyes curved with a smile. “If you don’t let go now, Mengshi’s hand won’t be spared.”

Shang Rong instantly recalled that bloody dream. She released his sleeve at once, meeting his clean and beautiful eyes. “Zhezhu, you must be careful.”

Inside the hall, Cen Zhao sipped hot tea, quietly watching as the youth in the courtyard held the umbrella and escorted the girl back beneath the eaves that sheltered them from wind and rain, then turned and left.

“Miss, the rainy weather is damp and cold. Come inside quickly and have some tea to warm yourself.”

As he spoke, Cen Zhao beckoned to the maidservant standing at the doorway.

The maid bowed silently, stepped forward to support Shang Rong’s arm, and said softly, “Miss, please come inside and warm yourself.”

Cen Zhao no longer addressed her as “Mingfang.” After sitting in the hall for a while and seeing her holding the teacup with her head lowered, saying nothing, he smiled gently and said, “I see some weariness between your brows, Miss. Why not go rest in the side chamber first? Today you are an honored guest—my residence must prepare a proper banquet.”

The side chambers of the Cen residence were even more spacious and comfortable than the best rooms of the inn. Yet though Shang Rong lay within warm brocade quilts, she could not fall asleep.

The rain pattered on without pause until nightfall. Shang Rong lay awake in the side chamber until darkness fully settled. Only when someone came to summon her did she rise and go to the hall.

Rainwater streamed down from the eaves. Inside the hall, a whole table was laid with rare delicacies, yet only Cen Zhao sat before it.

“Seeing that Miss seems shy of strangers, I did not have my children and grandchildren come along,” Cen Zhao said as he watched her rinse her mouth with tea and wash her hands in the basin. Her manners were nothing like those of a girl from an ordinary household.

“Many thanks, Mister Qingshan.”

Shang Rong lowered her head and said.

The old man and the young girl sat across the table in silence for a time. Shang Rong absentmindedly ate a few bites of the fish the maidservant had placed in her bowl. When she lifted her eyes, she inadvertently caught sight of several calligraphy and paintings faintly visible behind the antique display shelf.

Among them was one piece of writing whose brushwork she had once seen every morning upon her own desk.

“What is Miss looking at?”

Cen Zhao was busy picking at the roast goose when he suddenly noticed Shang Rong had set down her chopsticks. He raised his head and followed her gaze.

“Only curious,” Shang Rong came back to herself, feigning calm. “I heard that Mister Qingshan does not favor mystical practices—how is it that there is a qingci in your home?”

Cen Zhao’s expression did not change. He set down his chopsticks, wiped his hands, and said, “A gift from an old friend—how could I reject his sentiment simply because of my own likes and dislikes? He wished to give it, so I accepted it.”

“If one’s paths differ, can they still be friends?” Shang Rong turned her face toward him and asked.

“If their paths differed from the very beginning, then naturally not,”

The smile at the corners of Cen Zhao’s mouth faded somewhat—perhaps he had thought of the old friend who had given him that piece of calligraphy. “But if he changed his path midway, then one must see whether it was of his own willing heart.”

“I can make my own choices without burden,” The sound of rain striking the jade-green tiles and railings echoed outside the eaves. Cen Zhao turned his face toward the curtain of rain, “But not everyone in this world can live by the heart. Though I regret it, though I am angered… I can still understand him.”

Cen Zhao did not know why, but before this young girl whom he had never met, after a few cups of wine, he had spoken a little of what weighed on his heart. Yet once he mentioned these past matters, it was difficult not to recall that autumn night six years ago when he resolved to resign from office. At that time, he had just come out of Prince Rong’s study and encountered a very small girl.

“He has a daughter—she should be about Miss’s age,” Cen Zhao gazed at her, holding his wine cup for a moment before continuing, “Originally, I had planned to agree to teach his daughter to read. Had I not resigned from office, I would likely already have been that little girl’s tutor.”

“That little girl…”

Cen Zhao’s voice suddenly stopped. He closed his eyes briefly and let out a deep sigh. “Most pitiful.”

The hand resting on Shang Rong’s knee suddenly tightened, her long eyelashes lowering.

The night deepened, yet the rain did not cease.

After returning to her room, Shang Rong did not wash or freshen up. The mask still clung to her face, and she dared not remove it in this unfamiliar place. Inside, a single lamp burned faintly like a bean of light. She pushed open a door and sat in the corridor, her mind in such turmoil that only the sound of rain beyond the railing remained.

On a rainy night, there were no human voices below.

In the empty courtyard, damp mist filled the air, rendered faint and drifting by the lamplight.

At some unknown moment, there was suddenly a sound behind her.

Shang Rong turned her head warily, only to see a figure sweep over the railing like the wind. The lamplight revealed his dark, rain-soaked robes and the soft sword at his waist stained with blood.

He came closer. That pale and handsome face was completely uncovered, his brows and eyes damp, droplets of water clinging even to his lashes.

“Shang Rong, you placed my box in—”

Her sudden embrace cut off the youth’s words.

The droplets on his lashes fell. His hands froze stiffly in midair. After a moment, he slowly lowered his eyes to look at her face.