Chapter 1: رسالة السيف الصدئ

The envelope landed in Lu Zhibai's palm just as evening rain began to fall outside the city walls of Xi'an.

There was no sender's name on the cover—only a line of ink: "To the descendant of the Lu family, to be opened in person. If you do not enter the abandoned temple south of the city, the treason case from a hundred years ago will forever remain a single piece of forged evidence."

Pressed against the corner of the letter was half a rusted sword. The blade was dark red, the edge chipped, rust floating on the surface as if it had been unearthed not long ago.

Lu Zhibai and his companions were lodging at a relay station. While the others gathered around rubbings from the Forest of Steles to decipher fragmentary characters, he walked alone to the corridor. Rainwater from the eaves formed a curtain, yet the envelope's surface was strangely dry. He rubbed the paper's edge with his fingertip and could tell at once that this letter had been deliberately made to resemble a deathbed confession from prison. What it truly meant to trap was not the writer, but the recipient.

Liu Qingwu·Chu hurried over carrying several borrowed old volumes, stopping just outside the rain curtain. She was an orphan raised at the academy, tasked with cataloguing stone inscriptions from Guanzhong, and she never let a single point of suspicion pass easily. Hearing Lu Zhibai's words, she first examined the creases, then the seal.

"You say it resembles a prison confession—is it because of the creases prisoners commonly use, or because the sender wants you to believe first that someone was tortured?"

Lu Zhibai did not answer. He held the letter paper up to the dim yellow sky-light. The paper's fibers showed fine horizontal striations, yet the edges lacked the brittleness of old paper. Genuinely aged paper would have grown soft and weary; this sheet had merely been smoked yellow. The half-rusted sword was equally suspect—near the spine of the blade, fresh scratches still gleamed.

"The paper is not a hundred years old, at least not the original letter," he said. "The fibers are too even, the pulp pressed too uniformly. The ink is also recent, then treated with tea smoke. The ink is black on the outside and gray within, and the brush turns still carry a wet sheen. A hundred-year-old ink would not remain independently clear at the start of a stroke—the paper would have decayed long before."

Liu Qingwu·Chu took the letter and her gaze fell to the final line: "In the third year of Jingtai, the Lu family presented the pass map to Beiting, causing the fall of three garrisons."

If this were true, Lu Zhibai's ancestor had been a traitor. But Beiting of the Jingtai era was no longer the old name of this place. The writer had forced a later-era designation into an old case—clearly not to restore history, but to make the Lu family convict themselves.

She looked up. "He knows about the old Lu case and is also familiar with the methods of forging ancient letters. Sending half a sword—is it to prove that the weapon in the case file truly existed, or to lure you into searching for the other half?"

Lu Zhibai unfolded the back of the letter. As heat from the brazier rose, several faint brown lines emerged from the blank space, like a city wall erased by water. He placed the sword fragment over them, and the notch on the blade's spine pressed precisely against one ink line.

The creases divided the map into layers. The notch pointed toward the south of the city, and at the end of the line there was only a temple gate drawn—no road leading out.

"The sword is not evidence—it's a key," Lu Zhibai said. "This map only arranges the entrance."

Liu Qingwu·Chu folded the paper back to its original state, her expression grave. No way out. It felt both like an invitation and a trap. If Lu Zhibai went, the old Lu case would be rewritten into the jianghu; if he didn't, the world would only say the Lu descendant dared not face his ancestor's crime.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps through water came from beyond the corridor.

Yan Guihong·Su emerged from behind a pillar's shadow, an old straw rain cloak draped over his shoulders. No blade hung at his waist, yet his right hand stayed constantly near where a sword hilt would be. After examining the rusted sword, he spoke: someone had been lodging at night in the abandoned temple south of the city. Three porters had seen a figure in ink-dark robes coming and going. That group asked nothing about incense or offerings—only whether the Buddha statue's belly contained a hollow cavity.

Lu Zhibai put away the letter and asked how long he had been following them.

"Since the Wei River," Yan Guihong·Su replied. "I once escorted a convoy. There was no gold or silver in it—only an old volume called the Treason Testimony. Two escorts died on that run. The Shen family said the convoy was lost, but the government said we had colluded with the enemy. If today's letter leads to that old volume, I cannot stand by."

Lu Zhibai stared at him. Yan Guihong·Su had not come to protect anyone—he had come to find that old volume. If his judgment was wrong, the man would save himself first; if it was right, he would seize the evidence before anyone else.

"The jianghu values loyalty, but it does not die for others," Yan Guihong·Su said without denial. "You can tell the truth of paper and sword—then I'll protect you to the temple gate. If you treat me as a blade, I'll make sure you know the blade has a master too."

The rain thickened. Shen Yan·Chu stood at the relay station's entrance holding an umbrella, his plain blue robe spotless, no attendants behind him. The Shen family controlled several canal docks in Guanzhong and had dealings with every sect in the region. He looked at the letter in Lu Zhibai's hand, his tone still gentle.

The Shen family had investigated that old case. Three pages were missing from the file. The missing pages had not been stolen—someone had cut them out along the binding line. If Lu Zhibai entered the abandoned temple, Shen Yan·Chu could shield them from the government's eyes.

"What's the price?" Lu Zhibai asked.

"I want to know why the Ink Society has set its sights on the Shen family." Shen Yan·Chu's smile did not change. "You investigate the Lu family's innocence; I investigate the Shen family's safety. For now, our paths run together. Whether the destination is the same—we'll decide once we're alive to reach it."

Liu Qingwu·Chu tucked the letter into her sleeve. Nie Yunzhou·Jiang, the leader of the Ink Society, never touched anything useless. The old Lu seal, the missing volume, the Buddha statue south of the city—perhaps these were not three separate matters, but one broken chain of evidence.

When Shen Yan·Chu heard her mention the *Record of Hidden Ink*, he asked if she had read it. She said she had read a fragmentary copy and pointed out that someone had deliberately altered one line: "Secrets must not be shown to others; to show them is death." The original line should have read: "Secrets must not be kept alone; to keep them alone is decay."

The Ink Society had been portrayed as a band of bloodthirsty killers—perhaps precisely because someone was using that reputation to conceal what they truly guarded.

Yan Guihong·Su gave a cold laugh. Three years ago, while escorting that convoy, he had seen the Ink Society's black-boat flag. That old volume might not belong to the Shen family, nor to the Lu family—it might even record a battle that never happened. The so-called testimony might be forged from beginning to end.

Lu Zhibai listened, and remembered the stone tablet in the Forest of Steles whose surface had been ground smooth. The soil at its base was uneven in color, old and new mixed, as if someone had dug it up and filled it back in. From this, he judged that if forged evidence were to deceive later generations, it could not remain confined to paper. Artifacts, strata, the order of transmission—all of it would have to be altered together.

"Look at the soil first, then the paper; look at the paper first, then the person," he said. "True evidence does not become valid because someone speaks persuasively. Get the order wrong, and even the cleverest person will testify for the murderer."

After nightfall, the four of them took a detour outside Xi'an's south gate. The city wall's shadow pressed down on the wet road, and the distant temple tower was reduced to a single line of black. Liu Qingwu·Chu unfolded the letter again by lantern light. A column of tiny characters surfaced at the map's edge:

"The bones are not in the grave. The old seal is not in the genealogy."

This was not a simple summons—it was a hint that the Lu family had once deliberately excised a bloodline record.

Lu Zhibai stared at the line and deduced that the old seal might be hidden on an object that should not belong to the Lu family at all. The sender knew he would examine the paper, yet did not fear his detection of the forgery—because what the sender truly wanted him to believe was that the Lu family had indeed participated in fabricating evidence.

Liu Qingwu·Chu voiced this thought: "He wants you to suspect your own ancestors first, then search for proof on his behalf. Once a person begins trying to prove his own innocence, he will willingly walk into a path someone else has arranged."

The abandoned temple's door axle was crooked, and a faded black rope was wound around the door knocker. Yan Guihong·Su raised a hand to stop the group, pointing toward the bell tower on the left. Fresh mud footprints were stamped there, the soles carrying fine sand—not the kind left by nearby farmers. He intended to scout ahead; the others would wait outside.

Lu Zhibai pressed his wrist.

"We cannot split up. Since the sender used a forged letter to lure me here, he would not set only one ambush. If you enter the bell tower, they will strike from the Buddha hall; if I enter the Buddha hall, they will burn our retreat. Tonight, no one leaves anyone's sight."

Yan Guihong·Su looked at him for a long moment, then withdrew his hand. Lu Zhibai's arrangement was not elegant, but it was sound. If one person disappeared, the rest would keep making mistakes trying to find him—exactly the situation an ambusher most desired.

The four stepped into the Buddha hall.

A damaged Buddha statue stood on a dust-covered lotus pedestal, its paint peeling, yet its belly was more intact than its shoulders and arms. Shen Yan·Chu tapped the base with a short blade. A hollow sound came from deep within the stone core. There were repair marks between the statue's chest and abdomen, but it had been reshaped at least twice—whatever was hidden inside might no longer be the original object.

Liu Qingwu·Chu crouched to examine the soil. The yellow earth on the pedestal's west side had a different moisture level from the ground outside the hall—clearly someone had recently removed something and pressed the dirt back down. If the hidden object had already been taken, then tonight's letter was merely a lure to make them confirm the scene for someone else.

Lu Zhibai wiped dust from the edge of the lotus pedestal, revealing a small patch of ink. Fine scratch marks from a wooden box dragged across the surface extended from the pedestal's edge toward the statue's belly. The direction was not outward removal, but inward movement.

"Not taken out—moved," he said. "The sender wants us to find something, but does not want us to know where it was originally hidden."

A soft laugh came from behind the hall.

Nie Yunzhou·Jiang walked slowly out from behind a collapsed sutra rack. He wore white robes, clean as if he had not walked through mud, and held a black ink stick in his hand. His eyes first fell on Lu Zhibai, then shifted to the rusted sword.

"The Lu descendant did not disappoint me, after all. You looked at the paper, the soil, the sword—but you have not yet seen the most important thing: who has the right to sign history."

Lu Zhibai gripped the sword fragment and asked if he was the one who wrote the letter.

"I did not write the letter, and the handwriting is not the Ink Society's." Nie Yunzhou·Jiang replied. "But the one who lured you here borrowed the Ink Society's name, borrowed the Lu family's crime, and borrowed the dead to speak. If you truly wish to prove your own innocence, do not ask who the murderer is—ask first who profited from the forged evidence."

Shen Yan·Chu stepped half a pace forward, shielding Liu Qingwu·Chu. He pressed Nie Yunzhou·Jiang on why the old case had been drawn to the Shen family docks.

Nie Yunzhou·Jiang's gaze swept past him, his smile turning cold. The Shen family was never innocent—their ledgers were simply written beautifully. The canal boats carried grain, and they also carried away people's names. A single missing page in a case file clears no one; it only shows that someone could afford the price to redirect the memory of an entire river.

Liu Qingwu·Chu stared at him. "You admit the Ink Society kept the old volume?"

"The Ink Society keeps secrets, not answers." Nie Yunzhou·Jiang said. "When an answer falls into the hands of those who should not see it, it becomes a blade. The most dangerous thing is not a wrong character—it is a true sentence accepted by everyone."

Before his words faded, the sound of bowstrings suddenly rang out beyond the hall. Three short arrows struck the doorposts, their tips gleaming faintly blue—clearly coated with anesthetic.

Yan Guihong·Su drew his blade and positioned himself in front of the group, knocking one arrow aside with the edge. He judged that the front entrance was already sealed. Since Nie Yunzhou·Jiang was not the one who set this trap, he should know what needed to be done at this moment.

Nie Yunzhou·Jiang stepped aside, clearing the way to the Buddha statue.

"Let Lu Zhibai open it. Only the hands of a Lu descendant can remove what is inside. The price is this: from tonight onward, no matter what he finds, the Ink Society will list him as someone who must be eliminated."

Footsteps approached outside the door—too many to count. Shen Yan·Chu shielded Liu Qingwu·Chu, Yan Guihong·Su guarded the entrance, and Nie Yunzhou·Jiang retreated to the statue's side, watching Lu Zhibai quietly.

Lu Zhibai looked at the crack in the statue's belly. Wedged inside was a thin white fragment, like bone, or jade that had been burned.

He reached into the gap. Cold patterns touched his fingertips—not scripture, not the statue's original carvings, but a broken seal: a double square frame, and inside it, the character "Lu" with half of it shaved away.

The white fragment slid out of the statue's belly.

On its face was carved a line of tiny ancient characters—

"The Lu family received the mandate. The bones are the proof."