An old courtyard, yellowed brick walls, a snow-covered ground, shadows stretching under dim red light—and then, a sudden voice.

Xianjin’s mind flashed through countless images: Tyrande, cherry blossom country, Korean dramas— none domestic—because post-1949, spirits aren’t allowed. After 120 minutes of buildup, it’s always just mental illness.

She slowly turned her head and saw an exceptionally handsome face. High cheekbones, straight and full, symmetrical and upright, with a clear and noble expression. He was tall—she had to look up to meet his gaze.

From afar, she hadn’t realized he was this tall.

“Xi—oh no, Dalang.” Xianjin withdrew her gaze and nodded politely. It was the star of the eldest branch. What had he just said? Invited her to sneak into the Zhu residence at night?

Meaning: he’d been listening here for a while, and she’d been listening too—and he’d come to the conclusion that they needed to investigate the Zhu house?

Judging by his appearance, he seemed like the most orthodox scholar-official type. Maybe not quite there yet, but as long as he didn’t misstep, he’d surely earn his black gauze hat and rise above the common folk. Why was he getting involved in this mess? If someone caught him—this rising star of the family—climbing a widow’s wall at midnight, he’d never finish his studies.

Xianjin scratched her head. “You… you’re serious?”

Chen Jianfang didn’t answer. He stepped out first. When Xianjin didn’t follow, he turned and urged, “Second Uncle always sings Romance of Yingying when drunk. He sings Yingying, Second Aunt sings Zhang Sheng.”

Expressionless, he tilted his head to listen to the courtyard. “They’re on the second act now. Once it’s over, people will notice two seats are empty.”

Xianjin hurried to follow. Chen Jianfang walked so fast she had to jog just to keep up with his shadow.

It was the night of the 28th of the twelfth lunar month. Every household had shut its doors, and the streets were silent.

After turning two corners, Chen Jianfang stopped at a residence with a plaque reading “Zhu Residence.” The walls were about three meters high—modest for a wealthy home like Zhu Ganglie’s, but typical in a peaceful, prosperous region like Jing County in Southern Zhili.

Why hadn’t she brought a ladder? Even a rope would’ve helped. Worst case, she should’ve brought Zhou Ergou. His back was broad as a mountain—she could’ve climbed him more steadily than any ladder.

Xianjin glanced at Chen Jianfang. Tall but skinny, narrow face, smaller than hers, wearing a plain hemp robe. No strength in that waist—he probably couldn’t even hold a plank longer than she could. The battle-hardened health-conscious girl subtly curled her lip.

For shady business like this—scheming, deceiving, borderline criminal—you need long-term planning. No impulsiveness. Always think thrice.

“We…” Xianjin began, but Chen Jianfang had already scanned the wall, picked a low spot, backed up a few steps, lifted his robe hem, took a deep breath, and sprinted forward. One foot planted on the wall, hands gripped the roof tiles, and with a push of his arms, he was on top.

“Give me your hand.” A veined hand reached down toward her.

Xianjin gaped, speechless. That move was smooth, practiced—no way he hadn’t climbed a widow’s wall before.

Under the moonlight, her stunned expression was a little dazed, and a little beautiful.

Chen Jianfang pressed his lips together. He’d seen Third Uncle’s famous concubine, He Ainiang—very pretty, like a delicate white flower clinging to a tall branch. Her daughter had inherited that beauty, but the temperament was completely different. Maybe it was the coolness in her slightly upturned eyes, or the clarity from her tall, slender frame, or the clean look from her lack of jewelry—this girl looked smart. One glance, and you knew she was smart.

Being stared at by a clever, beautiful girl in disbelief—Chen Jianfang believed anyone, even a seasoned scholar at the Imperial Academy, would feel a surge of pride. His gloom and irritation faded. Without realizing, his tone softened. “A gentleman studies the Six Arts—ritual, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics. Even the Imperial Academy teaches horse riding and sword dancing. Give me your hand. I can pull you up.” With that said, there was no need to hesitate.

Xianjin naturally reached out. Chen Jianfang gripped her wrist tightly. She mimicked his move, pushed off the wall, flipped herself up, and slid down the other side.

The house was quiet—white mourning flowers everywhere, mourning the master’s death.

Xianjin crouched behind Chen Jianfang, moving toward the main courtyard by the faint corridor light. She soon slipped into the main room and lit a firestarter to look around. It was likely Zhu Ganglie’s room. A tall display cabinet stood there, mostly empty, with only a few porcelain pieces left.

“Porcelain breaks easily,” Xianjin whispered. “Of course, he wouldn’t take it when fleeing.”

Behind the cabinet were two locked chests. Could the ledger be inside?

Chen Jianfang tugged at the lock.

Xianjin shook her head and whispered, “Not there.”

He looked up. They were close, speaking softly.

“…Sixth Master Chen said Zhu kept all valuables on him—even sewed banknotes into his clothes,” she murmured, tiptoeing and scanning the room with her firestarter, then quietly heading deeper inside.

Whoa. That bed was huge. It could fit four or five people.

That pig… She remembered the widow mentioning “a dozen concubines” and felt sick. She pulled out a silk handkerchief to wrap her hand. With a layer between her skin and the bedding, it felt less gross. She flipped the quilt, then said, “…Those locked chests are in plain sight. A man like Zhu wouldn’t trust a lock.”

Nothing under the quilt.

She pulled out the pillow and began feeling it inch by inch. “A man like that only trusts himself. He’d keep the most dangerous thing closest to him…”

There! Hard and thick—hidden in the pillow stuffing! What could be closer than something pressed to your head every night?

She couldn’t find the pillow’s opening, so she set down the firestarter, clenched her teeth, and started tearing at the fabric.

“Let me,” Chen Jianfang offered, reaching out.

Xianjin quickly shook her head. She could do it! She might struggle with bottle caps. But when it came to tearing packages—no, tearing evidence—she was unstoppable!