Chapter 2
1517words
The snow hadn't stopped. If anything, it fell harder than before.
Emma pushed the door open a crack and peered outside. One glance was enough to crush her hope.
Outside wasn't just snow—it was a wall. A solid barrier of white, completely impenetrable. The snow had reached the eaves, sealing their only exit. With the wind's howl muffled, the temple fell into a silence more oppressive than the night before.
"We're finished... trapped here to die..." Sterling collapsed to the ground, his jowls quivering with despair. His guard stood before him, face grim as death itself.
The Valley of No Life.
Only now did the name sink its roots into their hearts, fear coiling around their throats like vines. This place had become an island of no return—a grave that had swallowed them alive.
Panic spread through the frigid air like poison gas.
"Everyone be quiet."
Maxwell's voice cut through their despair like an ice pick through thin glass.
He stood in the hall's center beside Morgan's still-warm corpse. Pale morning light filtered through a hole in the roof, casting a long shadow across his form. His black uniform seemed darker than the shadow itself.
His gaze swept over each person with undeniable authority—not as a fellow prisoner, but as the temple's sole ruler.
"None of us leaves until we find a way out," his voice remained perfectly steady. "None of us is safe until we find the killer."
He paused, his gaze lingering on the wound across Morgan's throat—thin as a thread of silk.
"From now on, I'll investigate this matter. Everyone will follow my instructions."
No one spoke. Even Sterling, previously hysterical, now stared in mute acceptance. In this desperate situation, Maxwell's unshakable calm became their only lifeline.
"Boss, what's our next move?" Emma broke the silence, her voice carrying a dependence she didn't recognize.
Maxwell didn't answer immediately. He turned to face them all, like a judge preparing to begin a trial.
"First, I need to know what each of you was doing between one and four this morning."
The investigation had begun—beside a corpse, before an ancient deity, among people each harboring their own secrets.
"I was with my master the whole time," the guard spoke first, his voice gruff. "The master gets nervous—I never left his side."
Sterling nodded frantically. "Yes, yes! William can vouch for me. I was too terrified to close my eyes all night, and so was he."
Maxwell turned his gaze to Sophia.
The woman in red stretched lazily, displaying not tension but a languid smile. "Officer, I'm just a delicate flower. I found a corner to curl up in. This awful place is so cold and hard—my back's killing me. How could someone like me overpower a man?" She cast Maxwell a flirtatious glance. "Besides, I had no beef with the dead man. Why would I kill him?"
"Any witnesses?" Maxwell's voice remained glacial.
"That's a bit much, don't you think?" Sophia spread her hands with a helpless smile. "You can't expect that silent one to vouch for me. We weren't far apart, but in that darkness, who could tell if she was awake or asleep?"
She nodded toward Claire.
All eyes turned to the silent woman clutching her sword.
Claire slowly opened her eyes—clear and cold as a frozen lake. "I fell asleep," she said, then closed her eyes again, as if further words would be wasted breath.
"What about me, Chief? I—" Emma began anxiously.
"You were on watch, sleeping fitfully, but you did sleep," Maxwell answered for her. "Otherwise you wouldn't have awakened only after the scream."
Emma's face flushed crimson—partly from shame, partly from being so easily read.
Maxwell's gaze finally turned inward. "As for myself, I was meditating opposite the statue. Anyone awake could confirm I never moved."
A perfect closed loop. Everyone had alibis, yet none had reliable witnesses. The merchant and guard vouched for each other, the women deflected responsibility between themselves, and the constable had neglected her duty.
Maxwell observed their reactions in silence. Sterling's panic, the guard's tension, Sophia's amused interest, Claire's detachment, Emma's frustration—each face a carefully crafted mask.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the scabbard on his knee. In the silence, each tap sounded like a clock counting down.
"Let's try another angle." Maxwell suddenly rose and approached William. "Let me see your sword."
William's expression darkened. He stepped back instinctively, hand tightening on his sword hilt. "What's this about, sir?"
"Your sword requires examination," Maxwell replied in a tone that permitted no argument.
William glanced at Sterling for support, but his master remained silent. Under Maxwell's penetrating stare, William finally unfastened his sword with trembling hands.
It was an ordinary blade common among fighters—plain scabbard, no decoration.
Maxwell took it but didn't draw the blade. Instead, he held the scabbard's edge near Morgan's wound, comparing them carefully.
The hall fell so silent you could hear snow settling on the roof.
"Interesting." Maxwell set down the sword and looked directly at Sterling. "The width of this scabbard matches the victim's wound almost perfectly."
The revelation sent a shock through the room.
Sterling collapsed to his knees with a thud, crawling to Maxwell's feet. "Sir! This is madness! I'm just a merchant—how could I dare kill someone? Especially Morgan—even devils fear him!"
"Just a merchant?" Maxwell's lips curled into a cold smile. "Men like Morgan steal and kill. Their goods need buyers. And merchants like you specialize in turning stolen goods into legitimate profit, don't you?"
Sterling trembled violently, like a cornered rat. "You're lying! I didn't do it! I don't even know him!"
"Really?" Maxwell's voice dropped to a whisper that hit Sterling like a hammer blow. "Would you swear that among your silks and teas, there's never been... merchandise that shouldn't exist? Would you swear you've never dealt with outlaws?"
Sterling's face drained of color, cold sweat beading on his forehead. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.
Emma watched in amazement. She never expected this line of reasoning, but it made perfect sense. Morgan was a bandit, Sterling a merchant—criminals and traders had always been two sides of the same coin. If Sterling had killed over a deal gone wrong or a betrayal, it would follow the underworld's logic perfectly.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she studied Sterling.
A soft laugh suddenly broke the tension.
Sophia White.
She leaned against her pillar, shoulders shaking with mirth. "My, my, Sterling. This isn't like you at all." Her voice dripped with mockery. "Aren't you the master of 'greasing the right palms'? Why so terrified in front of the law? Guilty conscience, perhaps?"
Her words, though playful, were like oil on flames—immediately putting Sterling in an even worse position.
Sterling whirled toward her, eyes flashing with fear and hatred. "You witch! Shut your mouth!"
"Nonsense?" Sophia covered her mouth delicately. "Officer, I'm merely stating facts. Everyone knows Sterling's motto: 'Silver solves all problems.' Nothing's ever an issue if you can throw enough money at it."
Her words hammered home the suspicion that Sterling might have hired someone to kill Morgan.
Claire remained silent. She had produced a pristine white cloth and was methodically polishing her still-sheathed sword. Her movements were deliberate and gentle, as though handling not a weapon but a sacred relic. Her presence added another layer of chill to the already frigid atmosphere.
Maxwell ignored their bickering. He spoke suddenly in a casual, storytelling tone:
"I once worked a case. A wealthy merchant and his entire family were slaughtered. The killer? A nobody the merchant had wronged years before. This 'nobody' changed his identity, spent a decade infiltrating the merchant's inner circle, became his most trusted advisor, and then, during a storm, burned the entire family alive—himself included."
He spoke casually, but each word landed like an icicle in the hearts of his listeners.
"Revenge in the underworld follows no rules. You never know how someone you've wronged might come back to collect their due."
After Maxwell finished, his gaze swept across the group before settling on the stiffening corpse.
"Morgan had seventeen lives on his hands. His enemies outnumber the dust motes in this temple. Last night, perhaps one of them finally settled the score."
His words offered a perfect framework for the locked-room murder—revenge.
But who was the true target? Was Morgan just the beginning?
Emma found herself completely convinced by her boss's reasoning. She was nearly certain Sterling had ordered his guard to kill Morgan over some past grievance, taking advantage of the night. But how had they managed such an impossible murder?
Her eyes burned with righteous anger as she glared at Sterling.
Maxwell's eyes, however, had moved past the panicking Sterling and the indignant Emma to the woman in red who watched the drama with such interest.
He noticed that when Sterling glared at Sophia, her reaction wasn't satisfaction but something deeper and colder. Between them stretched an invisible thread of tension.
This wasn't random antagonism.
This was old, unspoken hatred.
Firelight danced across their faces, casting twisted shadows that stretched and writhed against the ancient walls.
