Chapter 1
1725words
The snow in the northern lands—a debt that would never be fully paid.
The wind sliced across the face like a knife, more painful than any blade. The snow stung like salt on open wounds, aching deep into the bone.
The road had vanished completely. Between heaven and earth stretched only a vast expanse of white—a desolation so complete it bred nothing but despair.
Emma Lawrence tucked her chin and buried half her face in her frigid collar. She led her horse through knee-deep snow, each laborious step draining the beast's strength.
"Boss, in this godforsaken weather, we're not making it out." Her words shattered in the howling wind, nearly freezing into ice shards as they left her mouth.
The figure ahead trudged forward as if he hadn't heard a word.
He stood tall, his black official robes a stark drop of ink against the pristine white world. His back remained perfectly straight, as though the most violent storm heaven could muster wouldn't bend him an inch.
This was Felix Maxwell.
The most renowned detective the Six Gates Bureau had seen in thirty years. A man whose mere name sent chills through the entire underworld.
Without turning, he spoke softly.
"The path lies beneath our feet."
His voice carried the same chill as the air, yet held an undeniable authority that somehow calmed Emma's anxious heart.
Behind them rode their prisoner, bound tight with heavy iron chains that coiled around him like a sleeping viper. Though his lips had turned purple from cold, his eyes burned with wolfish ferocity.
This was Mitchell "Ghost's Dread" Morgan. A bandit with seventeen lives on his hands and the target of Felix Maxwell's current mission.
Morgan suddenly grinned, laughing silently as snow blew into his mouth. He watched Maxwell's back, his eyes gleaming with mockery.
His eyes said it all: You caught me, Constable, but you can't fight the heavens. Today, we all die here.
Maxwell didn't bother looking back. He simply tugged his horse's reins.
"Change direction."
"Boss?" Emma frowned. "There's nothing out here. Where could we possibly go?"
"Find shelter from the snow," Maxwell replied emotionlessly, "or find a place to bury our bones. Either's better than freezing to death on this road."
Without another word, he turned his horse toward the dark, dense forest alongside the road.
Emma sighed and followed. What else could she do?
Once Maxwell made a decision, no force on earth could change it.
***
In blinding snow, what you meet isn't always a ghost—sometimes it's flesh and blood.
When Emma spotted several blurry figures materializing from the snowy mist ahead, she thought the cold had finally broken her mind. Her hand instinctively tightened on the knife at her waist.
"Boss, people ahead!"
Maxwell was already staring in that direction, his eagle-sharp eyes piercing through the swirling snow.
The figures staggered toward them—three travelers plus a tall guard, all looking equally haggard.
At their head waddled a portly man wrapped in sable fur, still shivering like a frightened bird. When he spotted their official uniforms, his eyes lit up as though he'd glimpsed salvation itself.
"Officers! Thank God!" The fat man scrambled over, nearly tumbling in his haste. "I thought we were done for! Richard Sterling, merchant from the south. Got caught in this damned blizzard and lost our way. Please, you've got to help us!"
The guard looming behind him was a mountain of muscle, one hand never straying far from his weapon as his eyes darted between Maxwell and their chained prisoner.
Two women accompanied them.
One remained utterly silent. Dressed in plain clothes, she clutched a cloth-wrapped sword against her chest. Her delicate face was pale as the snow around them, her vacant eyes suggesting complete detachment from her surroundings.
The other commanded attention. Even battered by wind and snow, she radiated an unmistakable allure. Her crimson dress bloomed like a defiant flower against the white landscape. Her eyes, fixed on Maxwell, held a smile—bold, direct, and filled with undisguised interest.
"Sophia White, at your service, officers." The woman in red offered a slight curtsy, her voice warm enough to melt the very snow beneath their feet.
Maxwell's gaze swept across each face methodically, as though cataloging every feature. When his eyes passed over the sword-carrying woman—Claire Faye—they lingered for just a heartbeat longer.
"This is no place for introductions. We need shelter," Maxwell said without acknowledging their greetings, his voice flat as the frozen landscape.
Sterling nodded frantically. "God, yes! Another hour in this hellish cold and I'm a dead man!"
And so their party grew. Two constables, one dangerous prisoner, one merchant, one guard, and two starkly different women—random pieces thrown together on fate's vast white gameboard, all searching for a way to survive.
The wind howled louder.
The snow fell harder.
Just as despair threatened to overwhelm them, a dark silhouette emerged from the depths of the forest.
A Taoist temple.
***
The temple stood in ruins—gate hanging crooked, vermilion paint peeling to reveal rotting wood beneath. A weathered plaque hung above the entrance, its inscription nearly gone. Only two characters remained faintly visible.
Wu Sheng.
Wu Sheng Temple.
A name that chilled the blood.
The main gate remained sealed tight, as though untouched for decades. Dead leaves and dust packed the cracks, releasing a musty, unsettling odor.
"Who gives a damn about the name—at least it'll block this damned wind!" Sterling rubbed his frozen hands together, rushed forward, and shoved against the door.
The door didn't move an inch.
"All together!" The guard stepped forward with a grunt.
Emma glanced at Maxwell, and seeing no objection, joined the effort. With everyone straining, the heavy gate finally yielded with a teeth-grinding creak, opening just enough to create a narrow gap.
A strange odor—dust, mildew, and something unidentifiable—rushed out, sending everyone into fits of coughing.
Beyond lay nothing but darkness—a hungry beast opening its maw.
No one spoke. An inexplicable dread settled over them all.
But outside, the storm had become their death sentence. They had no choice.
Maxwell entered first.
The others followed one by one. As the last person crossed the threshold, the heavy gate slammed shut behind them with a thunderous bang—all by itself.
The hall plunged into absolute, deathly silence.
***
Night fell deeper.
The storm outside had quieted slightly, only emphasizing the tomb-like silence within the crumbling temple walls.
They'd built a fire in the center of the hall. Though it pushed back the cold, it cast the shadows of mutilated deity statues into grotesque dances across the walls, adding to the unsettling atmosphere.
In the center stood an unidentifiable deity, its features worn away, its expression caught between a smile and sorrow.
Maxwell personally led Morgan to the front of the deity. Beside the statue's base stood a thick stone pillar. He secured the prisoner to it with heavy chains.
The iron chains wound in complex patterns before Maxwell secured them with an intricate locking technique—a Six Gates Bureau secret. Without the special key and knowledge of the technique, no one could possibly unlock it.
"Why bother with all this, Detective?" Morgan laughed, eyeing his chains. "In this hellhole, I couldn't escape even without them."
Maxwell dusted his hands and addressed the group without looking at Morgan. "Everyone rest. When dawn breaks and the snow stops, we leave."
His gaze swept casually across the group.
Sterling cowered behind his guard, eyes darting nervously toward Morgan.
Claire Faye retreated to the farthest corner, clutching her sword close as she closed her eyes, detached from everything around her.
Sophia White leaned against a pillar, watching Maxwell with amusement, a faint smile playing on her full lips.
Emma kept watch by the fire, knife in hand, fighting to stay alert. With a dangerous prisoner present, she couldn't risk falling asleep.
Maxwell sat cross-legged opposite the statue, eyes closed, his ever-present dagger resting on his knee.
The night grew deeper.
The fire slowly dimmed.
Outside, the wind moaned like a dying beast.
Each person, burdened with their own fears, drifted into uneasy sleep in the temple of silence.
***
A scream.
A piercing shriek—so shrill it seemed inhuman—shattered the midnight silence.
Emma jolted awake, her blade already half-drawn from its scabbard.
"What the hell?!"
She whipped her head toward the sound.
The fire had dwindled to mere embers, casting just enough light to illuminate the center of the hall. Around her, the others stirred with confused murmurs.
"What's happening?" Sterling's voice quavered with fear.
"Protect the master!" The guard moved to shield Sterling.
Sophia and Claire rose to their feet, peering intently into the darkness.
Emma stumbled toward the center of the hall. When she saw what awaited, her stomach lurched violently.
Mitchell Morgan.
The notorious "Ghost's Dread" was dead.
He remained chained to the pillar, every link intact, every lock exactly as Maxwell had secured them.
But across his throat ran a paper-thin wound.
Blood had flowed from the wound and congealed into a dark crust, staining his chest and the statue's base.
His eyes remained wide open, filled with unimaginable terror—as though his final sight had been something too horrific for this world.
A single, precise cut to the throat.
With chains completely intact, someone had killed him with a single, impossible stroke.
An impossible murder.
"Nobody move!"
A sharp command cut through the rising panic.
Maxwell.
He had materialized beside the corpse—no one saw how he got there. His face remained utterly expressionless, as though examining not a dead man but a curious artifact.
He crouched, methodically examining the body and surroundings, his movements deliberate and thorough.
Emma's heart hammered in her chest. How was this possible? Who could have killed Morgan without unlocking those chains?
Maxwell suddenly stood. He extended one finger, pointing to the ground beside the corpse.
Everyone followed his gesture and gasped.
Next to Morgan's congealed blood pool, someone had drawn a symbol using the dead man's blood.
A character—incomplete.
An unfinished character for "trial."
Maxwell turned, his cold gaze sweeping across each face—Sterling, the guard, Claire, Sophia, and Emma.
Fear spread through the group like wildfire.
"Everyone," Maxwell's voice wasn't loud, but it reached every ear with perfect clarity, each word like an icicle piercing their hearts.
"We're trapped in here."
"And the murderer," he paused, his gaze sharpening to a knife's edge, "is among us."
