Chapter 1: The Box Left in the Rain

The old estate south of Suzhou leaked like a sieve. Rainwater dripped in thin lines from the shattered roof tiles, sounding like someone grinding a blade behind the eaves. I crouched beside a collapsed writing desk and picked up a sheet of mold-blackened ledger paper. The corner bore the faded characters for "Sword-Forging Manor," the ink having lost most of its depth, yet one line of small print remained startlingly clear: 19th year of the Jinghe era, 370 taels of canal grain transport silver, not deposited into the treasury.

This wasn't just clearing out an abandoned house. It was a murder case I’d been chasing for two months. Three years ago, the entire family at Sword-Forging Manor vanished. The officials ruled it a bandit raid and massacre, but the case file was missing all but three pages. Today, someone slipped me a message saying the canal transport ship’s accountant knew the truth. The note ended with just one line: "Come to the ruined house south of the city. Do not bring company."

I held the ledger paper to my nose. Under the smell of mildew, I caught a hint of pine soot fragrance. That was ink commonly used by bookshops in Suzhou, but it was mixed with the salt-alkali residue found only in the ledgers of sea-trade vessels. There were three fine tears along the edge of the page. The tears were identical, clearly not ripped in a fit of anger, but forced open from a complete bound ledger.

Footsteps echoed behind me. I didn't turn around. I simply tucked the paper into my sleeve and murmured, "You've crossed my threshold three times. First, you tested the waters. Second, you pushed for entry. Now, on the third try, you’re standing directly on my escape route."

A lean, tall man emerged from the curtain of rain. His blue cloth jacket was soaked through, and he pressed his right hand against his stomach. He slumped against the wall, gasping, "Mr. Shen, you really do remember how to read accounts. You don't just listen to people tell stories. But it’s a pity we haven't finished the books yet, and the men chasing us have already reached the end of the alley."

I stood up and supported him, my hand touching warm, wet liquid beneath his grip. This wasn't a superficial scrape; the wound was under his ribs, and blood had already soaked through his clothes. The man pulled a Black Iron Casket from his chest. The corners of the casket were polished bright from handling, but the lock had been sealed shut with a fine needle.

I asked, "Are you the accountant for the canal transport ships, or just a decoy sent to die? On the night Sword-Forging Manor was wiped out, what exactly did you see that was worth them sealing off the alley in the rain?"

He coughed, his gaze drifting out the window. "I won't give my name. I dare not leave a trail. That night, the canal transport ship was docked at the Wusong River estuary. The ledger said we returned to Suzhou with an empty boat, but we were actually carrying three wooden crates. One crate was delivered to the manor. The next day, not a single living soul remained."

"Why would bandits take the ledgers but leave the furnace fire, sword blanks, and ancestral seals?" I stared at the casket in his hands. "Weirder still, the weight of the three crates didn't match the canal transport ship's draft. It was short by 260 jin. That’s not silver or gold. It looked more like a batch of dismantled iron parts."

Fear flickered in the man’s eyes. "The fact that you saw through the numbers puts you further ahead than those fools at the magistrate’s office. There’s no silver in the crates, but there is iron proof of why Sword-Forging Manor was destroyed. If you trade this for fame, ask yourself first if you can survive half the merchant fleet in Suzhou turning against you."

I took the Black Iron Casket, my voice dropping to a growl. "I write investigative records. I don’t cover up for sects, and I don’t wash the dirt off the officials’ hands. If you just want to buy yourself a way out, take the casket back. But if you want the dead to speak, explain every detail you saw."

He gritted his teeth. "The manor’s owner refused to hand the ancestral sword manual to the Customs Office for inspection. Pei Zhaoye used that as an excuse to seal the manor’s gates under the pretense of illegal weapon forging. Later, the case file claimed a bandit night raid, but the rain that night ran from the South Gate to the North Gate. The footprints only show entry, not exit."

A wooden hammer rang out from outside the alley—once, twice, three times. They were sealing the street. The man grabbed my sleeve in panic. "They’re coming too fast. That means the rumor wasn’t planted by me. Mr. Shen, if this casket falls into their hands, Sword-Forging Manor will forever be just one line in the file: 'Victims of bandits.'"

I tucked the casket into my robe. "Why do you trust me? You won’t even leave your name, yet you’re entrusting a family’s fate to a man who makes his living with a pen?"

He gave a bitter smile. "Because three years ago, you wrote an investigation into boat taxes. You didn’t collect fees for the dead, and you didn’t plead for the living. That article cost you two bookshops, but it got the wages back for a crew of dockers who had been impounded."

Before I could answer, a voice boomed from the alley entrance. "By order of Pei, the Head of the Customs Office, we are seizing bandit accomplices! The people inside the house, open the door immediately! Resistance will be treated as harboring criminals."

I recognized the lack of genuine authority in that voice. They weren’t real officials; they were martial arts thugs borrowing the government’s name to do dirty work. Real constables wouldn’t announce charges after sealing the alley in the rain, and they certainly wouldn’t yell "accomplices" like street vendors hawking wares. I pressed against the window crack and watched three wind-lanterns move through the rain curtain. The lampshades lacked the magistrate’s official seal.

The injured man whispered, "The back window leads to the waterway. It’s shallow and muddy; you won’t get far carrying the iron casket. Leave it. I’ll draw them away. At least I’ll buy you some time."

"I said you’ve bled out. You can’t take ten more steps. If you stay, the casket will go to them. But if you tell me where the grates are on the waterway, I can secure your testimony for you."

He shook his head. "Testimony means nothing against one document from Pei Zhaoye. He can make the magistrate inspect your ledgers, and he can scare bookshops into not printing your work. Holding that iron proof will just get you labeled a bandit first, then a forger."

"Then let the accounts speak for themselves." I spread the ledger paper from my sleeve. "This entry for 370 taels of deposited silver has the escort’s red seal but no warehouse receipt. Another entry lists 260 jin of iron material as 300 jin of charcoal. The discrepancy matches the missing weight of the three crates exactly. The accountant changed the cargo names but didn’t adjust the ship’s draft. He changed the deposit figures but didn’t change the escort times."

The man stared at me. "Just from these few entries, you dare to conclude Pei Zhaoye was involved?"

"I don’t dare to conclude that. I can only conclude someone used the same hand to alter the accounts. The red seal is slanted to the right, the ink is mixed with salt, and it matches the duplicate ledger the Customs Office sent to the Canal Transport Bureau. If Pei Zhaoye wasn’t involved, someone is forging his seal. If he was involved, the massacre wasn’t a random bandit hit."

"You’re still the same. Corner a man, then leave him half an inch of air to breathe." A woman’s voice came from outside the window. "Shen Yanjiang. It’s been three years. Your temper is even more sticky than the Suzhou rain."

I turned. Chu Hanyi was standing behind a broken screen. She wore a deep green cloak, water dripping from her hair. Her expression was as calm as always, but she now carried a narrow blade at her waist. She looked at the injured accountant, then at the casket in my arms. "Give it to me. I’ll take this man to a clinic and draw your pursuers elsewhere."

I said coldly, "You never make a losing deal. What do you want from that casket? The Sword-Forging Manor’s sword manual, or the ledger pages that could buy off Pei Zhaoye?"

Her smile was thin. "I want a way out. The manual won’t sell for much. The ledger pages could make three escort agencies change their flags. As for you, I just want to know how many sheets of paper old favors are worth in your eyes."

"Old favors can’t testify for the dead," I said. "If you really want a way out, tell me how many men are outside, where the retreat paths are, and who they are. Miss one detail, and it won’t just be the accountant who dies tonight."

Chu Hanyi listened to the rain. "Seven men outside. Two with short crossbows, three with blades, one waiting by the south wall. The leader isn’t Pei Zhaoye, but he has his official seals. The waterway exit is guarded. The drainage hole in the west wall leads to the Old Dye Works. The mud is knee-deep. You can walk, but you’ll leave footprints."

I asked, "You know they aren’t officials. Why did you dare come in?"

She looked at me. "Because the real officials are looking for me. Nie Yunzhou is in the yamen examining that unidentified body. He found the victim wasn’t a bandit, but someone knocked out from behind. Someone wants you to shut up. And someone wants you to pass on their message."

"Nie Yunzhou doesn’t cover up cases for martial artists," I said. "He only respects bones, wounds, and documents. He doesn’t care who pays."

"Exactly," Chu Hanyi said. "That’s why he’s dangerous. Today, he found the hemp thread in the victim’s clothes came from Sword-Forging Manor, so he went to pull the old case files. But before he could get them, someone claimed a fire and sealed the archive room. Shen Yanjiang, if you still believe paper can outlast fire, hand me the casket."

A harsh voice outside shouted, "Illegal weapons in the house! Open the door within three breaths or we’ll let arrows fly in!"

The accountant grabbed my wrist, his breath faint. "The bottom of the casket has a hidden latch. Don’t pry it open with a blade. The manor’s owner said before he died that the real evidence isn’t in the sword body, but in the engraved plaque. Half a plaque is enough to prove that batch of iron wasn’t for weapons; it was an item forged by order."

I felt a slightly raised copper pin at the bottom of the casket. "Where’s the other half?"

He looked at me, his lips moving slightly. "Taken... by Pei... inspected..."

The door panel thumped violently, dust falling from the beams. Chu Hanyi drew her blade, blocking the door. "Shen Yanjiang. There’s a broken ship plank under the back window. Follow the waterway twenty zhang, turn left, and you’re at the dye works. You take the casket. I’ll take the man."

I didn’t move. "If you stay, you might not make it out. If I stay, the accountant dies. You want the casket. I want the testimony. We each take what we need. Don’t dress it up as selfless rescue."

She stared at me. "You still calculate human hearts like accounts. But without me tonight, you wouldn’t even get this half-page of ledger paper out."

"So I’ll give you a choice." I handed her the ledger paper. "Trade it for your own escape route, or take it to Nie Yunzhou. The former might let you live for three days. The latter might let this case survive."

Chu Hanyi took the paper, her fingertips lingering on my palm for a second. "You’re handing me the most critical evidence. Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn and sell you out?"

"I am," I said. "But I’m more afraid it dies in my arms, becoming unreadable waste paper."

She folded the paper away, then suddenly kicked over the remaining desk. The wooden frame crashed toward the door crack, sending a burst of gasps from outside. I used the distraction to scoop up the accountant and vaulted through the back window into the waterway. The mud water covered my calves. The sound of the rain masked the curses of the pursuers, and it masked the accountant’s last breath.

As we crawled along the broken ship planks into the dye works, the accountant had stopped breathing. The Black Iron Casket was still in my arms, heavy as a tombstone that refused to sink. Chu Hanyi dropped from the wall, a thin new wound on the back of her hand, but not a shred of panic in her face.

She said, "He’s dead. The chain of testimony is broken. Now we only have the paper and the casket. Do you still want to dig?"

I looked at the dead man’s emptied eyes. "Precisely because he’s dead, I can’t treat his words as a convenient story I can make up. First, note the body’s position, the wounds, the clothing. Then find Nie Yunzhou. Homicides belong to the yamen for inspection. Cold cases belong to me for investigation. No one can substitute martial arts rules for evidence."

Chu Hanyi said softly, "Then open the casket. If there’s really iron proof of the massacre inside, you’ll realize you’re not facing a cold case, but a path that’s already been paved."

I took the fine needle the accountant had left behind and pressed it against the copper pin next to the lock. With a click, the Black Iron Casket opened. Inside, there was no sword manual, no silver or gold. Only half a broken sword engraved plaque. Its edges were jagged, and dried blood stains clung to the black iron face.

I held the engraved plaque under the dye works’ dying lamp, checking the casting marks, then the edge. The mountain pattern on the plaque matched the old seal of Sword-Forging Manor, but the back had a thin line engraved later. Chu Hanyi leaned in. "This isn’t decoration. The engraving is too shallow. It looks like someone didn’t want anyone else to see it."

I pried open the layer inside the plaque with the tip of my dagger. As the iron sheets separated, the bloodstains were illuminated by the damp air, revealing a line of tiny, curled characters inside. The writing was as fine as hair, yet clear enough to chill the blood:

"Inspected by the Pei Family."