Chapter 4
1628words
They'd moved Sophia's body beside Morgan's. Two corpses, two blood-drawn characters for "trial"—like brands seared into the survivors' minds. The air inside felt colder than the blizzard outside. Only the fire's crackling broke the silence, yet it only made hearts race faster.
Trust is like glass—once shattered, it can never truly be restored.
The words "Qinghe Massacre" had shattered whatever fragile trust remained.
It bound these strangers together with invisible cords of blood and vengeance. Each person eyed the others with raw suspicion, as though any might transform into their executioner at any moment.
"It's her! It has to be her!"
Sterling's voice rose to a hysterical pitch. His pudgy finger jabbed toward the silent woman in plain clothes.
Claire Faye.
"Think about it! Morgan was a bandit, Sophia a courtesan, and I'm a merchant—we all have known histories!" Sterling's voice cracked with fear. "Only her! This mystery woman! She carries a sword, acts all mysterious—who knows what she's hiding? The underworld's crawling with avengers hiding behind false identities!"
His accusation hit Claire like a bucket of filth.
Fear makes reason fragile. Sterling's baseless accusations planted doubt in Emma and William. Claire had seemed out of place from the beginning—too quiet, too detached, almost inhuman in her stillness.
All eyes turned to Claire like blades.
Claire slowly raised her head.
Her eyes remained still as ancient pools, bottomless and unreadable. These accusations, enough to break most people, seemed to her like mere gnats buzzing.
"What evidence do you have?" Her voice came soft yet cold, like snowflakes settling on ice.
"Evidence? What more do I need?" Sterling roared. "You're from the martial world! With your skills, killing silently would be child's play! Who else could have done this?"
"Me?" The corner of Claire's mouth curved in a barely perceptible, cold smile. "What makes you think I'm capable?"
"I—" Sterling faltered, then shouted more frantically. "I don't care! You're the killer! Officer! Arrest her now! We'll be safe once she's locked up! Kill her! Just kill her!"
He lunged toward Claire like a rabid animal.
SHING!
A clear, ringing sound split the air like lightning.
Claire had drawn her sword.
No one saw the movement—only a blur before their eyes, then a blade gleaming like autumn water. The sword's cold aura seemed to drop the temperature further.
The blade stopped precisely at Sterling's throat.
One inch away.
One inch closer and blood would have painted the walls.
Sterling's roar died instantly. His jowls quivered, pupils dilated in terror, Adam's apple bobbing uselessly. He felt the blade's bone-chilling cold seeping into his skin.
Deathly silence fell over the hall.
Everyone froze. Emma's hand had already moved to her weapon, but she hesitated, unsure whether to intervene.
She glanced at Maxwell.
Maxwell stood motionless, like a statue observing from another realm. He watched the blade at Sterling's throat, watched Claire's bloodless face, his eyes showing no emotion, no intention to step in.
He simply watched.
Like a detached observer who already knew the play's ending.
Time seemed suspended.
Finally, Claire's wrist moved slightly. The blade vanished back into its sheath with a whisper, as if it had never existed.
Without another glance at Sterling, she returned to her corner, clutched her sword, and closed her eyes—as if the woman who had just threatened a man's life was someone else entirely.
Sterling's legs buckled. He collapsed with a thud, gasping for air. A dark stain spread across his groin, releasing a sharp ammonia smell.
He'd been frightened to the point of incontinence.
The brief, intense confrontation ended as suddenly as it began. But the tension in the room only thickened.
The night stretched endlessly.
For Sterling, each moment was torture. Death's shadow coiled around his neck like a constrictor, tightening with each breath. He watched Claire with naked terror, as though she might execute him at any second.
Finally, he broke.
He crawled to Maxwell, groveling like a beaten dog.
"Officer... Mr. Maxwell..." He pulled a heavy pouch from inside his coat, fumbling with the strings. When it opened, a dazzling golden light spilled out—a bag full of gold ingots.
"Officer, save me! Please!" He shoved the gold at Maxwell's feet, kowtowing repeatedly. "It's all yours! I have more—much more in my trunk! Just protect me, keep me alive, and all my wealth is yours!"
He glanced at Emma, producing another gold ingot and pushing it toward her. "Young officer, please, help me..."
Emma frowned, shoving the gold away with disgust.
Maxwell glanced down at the gold at his feet with the same interest he might show a pile of pebbles. "Money can't always buy life."
"I'll buy it! I can buy anything!" Sterling cried. He turned toward Claire, dropping to his knees and kowtowing desperately. "My lady! Forgive me! I was blind! My words were vile! I deserve death! Please show mercy to this worthless man! I'll never cross you again! I beg you!"
His pleas echoed through the silent hall—pathetic and absurd.
Claire didn't even open her eyes.
Sophia watched from the side, a playful smile curling at the corner of her lips.
That night, Sterling barricaded himself in a side room. He piled everything movable—tables, chairs, cabinets—against the door. He instructed William, standing guard outside, never to leave his post for even a moment.
He thought this would keep him safe.
But death often comes from where you least expect it.
Morning arrived without the sun. The sky hung low and heavy, threatening to collapse.
Emma was first to notice something amiss.
"William! Wake up! Where's Sterling?" She shook the guard who dozed against the doorframe.
William jerked awake, mumbling: "Master's inside... no sound all night..."
Emma frowned and knocked on the door. "Mr. Sterling? Are you awake?"
No response came from within.
Dread washed over Emma like an icy wave.
"Boss!" she called out.
Maxwell was already behind her, though no one had noticed his arrival. He studied the barricaded door, a barely perceptible gleam flashing in his eyes.
"Break it down," he said simply.
William and Emma exchanged glances, then threw their shoulders against the door.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Dull thuds echoed through the corridor. The door was solid—after more than a dozen strikes, it finally gave way with a splintering crack.
The scene inside froze them all.
The room was chaos—barricade furniture scattered across the floor. And there, amid the wreckage, lay Richard Sterling.
He was sprawled across his open treasure chest, filled with gold, silver, and jewels.
He was dead.
His eyes bulged grotesquely, his death even more bizarre and grotesque than the others'.
His mouth had been forced open, stuffed with gleaming gold ingots all the way down his throat. The symbols of his wealth had become instruments of his death.
He'd choked to death. Asphyxiated on his own treasure.
The room showed no signs of struggle. All doors and windows remained locked from inside, heavy objects still braced against them.
An impossible locked room.
And beside Sterling's cooling corpse, that blood-drawn symbol appeared once more.
The third character for "Trial."
Incomplete, mocking, a mark of judgment.
Terror peaked. If a locked, barricaded room couldn't stop the killer, what could? This was no human murderer—it was a ghost, a vengeful spirit hunting them down!
William saw his master's grotesque corpse, screamed, and collapsed, babbling incoherently.
Emma's mind went blank. Staring at the impossible scene, at that blood-drawn "Trial," she questioned her own sanity. All logic failed here. How could anyone have entered?
She instinctively looked to Maxwell.
While everyone else descended into panic, only Maxwell remained ice-cold and composed.
He stood examining the room with surgical precision—the dust patterns, wall scratches, beam structures, window latches—missing nothing.
Time stretched and compressed simultaneously.
Maxwell suddenly spoke.
"I know how the killer entered."
His quiet statement hit like thunder, instantly silencing the chaos.
All eyes turned to him.
"This room isn't sealed," Maxwell's gaze lifted to a ceiling beam. "It has a 'door' none of us knew existed."
He walked to a corner and tapped the wall with his scabbard. "Hear that? It's hollow. This temple is ancient, but ingeniously designed. Many side rooms have hidden passages between them—built for the priests' movement and maintenance."
He pointed upward. "The killer came from above."
"From above?" Emma looked up skeptically.
"Exactly." Maxwell's tone brooked no argument. "The killer entered the adjacent room, used a hidden passage to reach the beam, then descended after calculating Sterling's position. Sterling was guarding his treasure, tense and frightened—too shocked by the sudden attack to resist. The killer forced gold into his mouth until he suffocated, then escaped the same way. Quick, precise, ruthless—leaving no trace of struggle."
His deduction sliced through the mystery like a razor. Every link connected perfectly, every detail explained flawlessly.
Emma listened in amazement, filled with sudden admiration. Of course! The killer had used secret passages unknown to them all!
"But Chief," Emma raised a question, "who would know about these passages? And who has the skills to do this silently?"
Maxwell turned slowly.
His gaze cut through everyone present before settling, cold as steel, on the silent woman in plain clothes.
Claire Faye.
"To accomplish this silently requires exceptional stealth and killing technique." Maxwell's voice turned cold and final, like a judge pronouncing sentence.
"And there's only one explanation for someone who knows this temple so intimately, who knows passages we couldn't discover."
"She's been here before."
"Or rather," he enunciated each word deliberately, each syllable landing like a boulder, "she has an inseparable connection to this temple and to vengeance for the Qinghe Massacre!"
All evidence, all logic, all accusations now pointed unmistakably toward one person.
The mysterious swordswoman from nowhere.
Claire Faye.
Sometimes still air cuts deeper than any blade.
