Chapter 3
1568words
A night after death always feels longer, colder.
The fire still burned, but its flames seemed to carry no warmth, unable to thaw the fear in their hearts. Morgan's body had been moved to a corner and covered with a tattered cloth, but the metallic scent of blood hung in the air like an invisible specter.
No one could sleep.
Suspicious glances crossed and clashed in the dim light. Each person bristled like a cornered animal, eyeing the others with wary distrust. There were no allies here—only potential killers and potential victims.
"This can't continue."
Maxwell's voice shattered the silence. He sat cross-legged beneath the statue, his ever-present dagger across his knees, as still as carved stone.
"None of us will sleep tonight. Fear kills more surely than any blade." His gaze swept across them. "We'll take watch shifts. One hour each until dawn."
The proposal was sensible. No one objected. Even Sterling, trembling like a cornered rabbit, seemed to find some comfort in the arrangement.
"I-I'll take first watch!" Sterling raised a shaking hand. William immediately positioned himself protectively at his master's side.
Maxwell glanced at them. "You and your man count as one shift."
He quickly organized the rotation: Sterling and William first, Emma second, himself third. Finally, his gaze settled on the two women.
Claire continued polishing her sword in silence, apparently accepting the arrangement.
Sophia, however, broke into a lilting laugh that echoed strangely through the vast hall.
"Sir, you're being rather hard on a lady," she rose and glided toward Maxwell, trailing perfume. "I'm just a delicate woman—I couldn't overpower a kitten. Staying in this dark hall with these... statues... terrifies me."
She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, eyes wide with practiced vulnerability.
"Aren't there side rooms down that corridor?" She pointed one delicate finger toward a dark passage. "I'd rather not keep watch. I'd prefer finding a clean room to rest in, rather than staying here frightened out of my wits. Would that be acceptable, sir?"
Her words carried a practiced pout, a plea for special treatment. After a murder, such a request from a "helpless woman" didn't seem unreasonable.
Emma frowned, thinking the woman spoiled and tone-deaf to their situation.
Maxwell studied her silently, his gaze penetrating, as though trying to see through her alluring facade.
Finally, he nodded.
"Fine," he said simply, then turned to Emma. "Check the room. Make sure there's no other exit."
"Yes, Chief." Emma grabbed a burning branch for light and headed toward the dark corridor.
Sophia shot Maxwell a smug smile—like a cat with cream—and followed Emma with a deliberate sway of her hips.
Sterling watched her go, a flash of hatred crossing his features. He seemed about to speak, but after glancing at Maxwell's impassive face, thought better of it.
The hall fell silent once more.
*
The watch hours dragged endlessly, each minute stretching like taffy.
By Emma's shift, it was well past midnight—when fatigue peaked and the mind grew most vulnerable.
She sat by the fire, knife clutched tight, as flames cast shifting patterns across her face. She dared not close her eyes, feeling unseen watchers in every shadow. The image of Morgan's violent death kept flashing before her.
She couldn't make sense of it—was the boss right? Had Sterling really hired someone to kill Morgan over some betrayal? But the method was so impossible...
Her thoughts turned to Sophia White. Every gesture the woman made seemed calculated. The tension between her and Sterling couldn't be coincidental.
Could it be that...
Emma shook her head violently, trying to clear her racing thoughts. She glanced at the hourglass—Sophia should have come to relieve her by now.
But no one came.
She waited what felt like an eternity, but the hallway remained deathly quiet.
A sense of dread crept up her spine. She stood and, after a moment's hesitation, decided to investigate.
The corridor stretched dark and cold. She held her torch high, but its light barely reached three feet ahead. Ancient murals on the walls twisted into grotesque shadows in the flickering light.
She found Sophia's room.
The door stood slightly open, a faint glow seeping through the crack.
"Miss White?" Emma called softly, her voice jarring in the silent corridor. "It's your watch."
No response came from within.
Emma's unease deepened. She pushed the door open gently.
The hinges creaked softly.
As the door swung wide, a strange fragrance mixed with burning candle wax wafted out. The scent was rich and floral, with an underlying sweetness that made her head swim slightly.
A single candle burned inside, its flame dancing, casting a sickly yellow glow.
Sophia White sat at the table.
She sat motionless, her back to the door. In the dim light, her crimson dress looked like freshly spilled blood.
"Miss White?" Emma called again, stepping inside.
Still no answer.
She moved forward, reaching to touch the woman's shoulder. But as her hand neared the crimson fabric, her eyes fell upon Sophia's face.
Emma's pupils contracted to pinpoints.
Ice shot from her feet to her scalp. All color drained from her face as she froze in place.
Sophia White was dead.
Her head lolled to one side, eyes wide open like Morgan's, filled with terror and disbelief. But her death was infinitely more horrifying than his.
Seven crimson trails flowed from her eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, drawing sickening rivulets across her chalk-white skin.
Her throat had swollen grotesquely, displaying an unnatural purplish-blue hue, as though an invisible hand had crushed it, silencing any cry for help.
Her body showed no other wounds.
"AHHH!"
A scream tore from Emma's throat. She staggered backward, crashing into a chair that toppled with a loud clatter.
*
Maxwell appeared almost simultaneously with the crash.
Unlike Emma, he showed no panic—not even surprise. He stood quietly in the doorway, his cold gaze methodically dissecting every detail.
Sterling, William, and Claire came running at the commotion. Upon seeing Sophia's corpse, Sterling let out a shriek more piercing than Emma's. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed in a dead faint.
William rushed to catch him, his own face ashen.
Claire's body swayed slightly before she steadied herself. She glanced at the corpse once, then looked away. Her face grew even more impassive, her knuckles whitening around her sword.
"Everyone out," Maxwell commanded quietly but firmly.
He entered and knelt beside Sophia's body, prying open her mouth to examine her tongue, then feeling the skin of her neck.
"Poison," he concluded with clinical detachment. "From the throat swelling, I'd say a powerful neurotoxin that paralyzes breathing almost instantly."
He stood, scanning the table. A half-empty teacup sat before the corpse.
He ignored the cup, looking instead beside the body.
His pupils contracted slightly.
Next to the fallen chair, drawn on the cold floor in blood, was a symbol.
An incomplete character for "trial."
Identical to the mark left by Morgan's killer.
A second victim. The judgment continued.
Maxwell's attention shifted to a small incense burner on the table. The strange fragrance filled the room from this source. Inside lay partially burned ashes.
"Boss... what happened here?" Emma's voice trembled. "How did the killer poison her? Was it in the tea?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Maxwell didn't answer directly, turning instead to examine Sophia's belongings.
Her small bundle lay beside the bed—just cosmetics and a few changes of clothes. Maxwell used his knife tip to carefully sort through the items.
Suddenly, he paused.
At the bottom of the bundle, he'd found something.
A letter. Mostly burned.
The yellowed, curled paper retained less than a third of its original content, the writing blurred.
Maxwell carefully lifted it with his knife tip, bringing it to the candlelight.
All eyes fixed on that fragile scrap.
A few words remained faintly visible.
"...Qinghe...false evidence...Charles Thompson...will not let go..."
"The Qinghe case?" Emma read aloud, confusion evident in her voice. "What's that?"
Maxwell didn't answer immediately. He turned, the charred letter in hand, his cold gaze sweeping across them all. When he spoke, his voice seemed to rise from the depths of hell itself.
"Ten years ago, a massacre occurred in Qinghe County. The wealthy Xu family—over thirty people—slaughtered in one night, blood flowing like rivers. The case shocked the nation. Imperial authorities demanded a swift resolution."
He spoke deliberately, each word dropping like a stone into the silent pond of their collective consciousness.
"The presiding judge was Charles Thompson, mentioned in this letter. Based on 'critical evidence' from local gentry, he tortured a confession from the Xu family's business rival, sentenced him to death, and closed the case."
His voice grew colder after a brief pause.
"Later, the Six Gates Bureau discovered the evidence was fabricated. The real killer had escaped. The wrongfully executed merchant's family vanished—homeless, destitute, lost to history."
Maxwell held up the charred letter like a judge presenting a verdict.
"Now it seems Morgan's death wasn't random vengeance. Neither was Sophia's. From the beginning, the killer has targeted those involved in the Qinghe Massacre from a decade ago."
His words hung in the air.
A silent thunderclap exploded in everyone's mind.
Sterling, who had regained consciousness, suddenly trembled violently in William's arms. The last trace of color drained from his face.
Claire, silent as stone until now, suddenly tightened her grip on her sword. In the firelight, a single bead of sweat slid down her temple.
Blood.
