Chapter 5
1378words
Maxwell stood outside that wall.
No—he was the wall.
His voice remained calm, like a master carpenter building a coffin. Each word a nail, each sentence a plank. This coffin was meant for Claire Faye.
"Let's start from the beginning."
He looked at no one, his gaze fixed on the three corpses, as though addressing the dead.
"First victim: Mitchell Morgan. Throat cut by a single stroke—wound extremely fine, edges smooth and clean. The weapon must be extraordinary—a blade that could split a hair or slice through iron like butter."
His gaze finally lifted from the dead to settle on the silent woman—or more precisely, on the cloth-wrapped sword she clutched.
"Among us, only Miss Faye carries a sword. And not just any sword—an exceptional blade she keeps carefully concealed."
Emma's heart skipped. She remembered Claire drawing her sword against Sterling—that lightning-fast flash of cold steel. Though brief, that chilling display remained vivid in her memory.
"Second victim: Sophia White," Maxwell continued evenly. "Poisoned. I've examined everything—no poison in the tea or incense. The toxin was in her own cosmetics."
This revelation shocked Emma and William.
"A rare compound—colorless and odorless. Harmless when mixed with rouge, but deadly when it contacts skin and combines with a specific floral scent. That scent came from last night's incense."
Maxwell's voice carried an icy omniscience. "This poisoning method is both insidious and brilliant—knowledge lost to most for generations. Only someone widely traveled or deeply versed in ancient poisons would know it."
His gaze, like twin daggers, pierced toward Claire.
A woman of mysterious origin, extraordinary skill, and extensive travels—everything aligned perfectly.
"Third victim: Richard Sterling." Maxwell's voice dropped lower, almost appreciative. "Murder in a locked room, using hidden architecture none of us knew existed, descending from above, killing with precision. This requires intimate knowledge of the temple and exceptional stealth. Only Miss Faye fits this profile."
Everyone held their breath.
William stared at Claire with naked hostility and fear. What had been mere suspicion now seemed irrefutable under Maxwell's methodical analysis—all evidence pointing to one person.
Emma's mind raced. She searched desperately for flaws in the reasoning but found none. Each of Maxwell's words fit perfectly with the next, building an unassailable fortress of "truth."
And that truth named Claire Faye as the killer.
"Motive." Maxwell pronounced the word like a final judgment. "Three victims, different identities, seemingly unconnected. But what if they shared a common thread?"
His gaze sharpened to a razor's edge.
"They were all connected to the Qinghe Massacre from ten years ago."
"Morgan was among the bandits who raided the Xu family; Sophia provided false testimony that framed an innocent man; and Sterling"—Maxwell gave a cold laugh—"was the merchant who fenced the stolen goods."
BOOM—
The revelation exploded in their minds like thunder.
"A perfect revenge." Maxwell's voice carried a hint of cold admiration. "The killer gathered all enemies in this isolated temple and executed them one by one, like a judge passing sentence. After each death, a character for 'judgment' remained. Exquisite design. Absolute resolve."
He looked at Claire, his eyes showing emotion for the first time—a complex mixture of pity and cruelty.
"Only one person could harbor such hatred and risk everything for it."
"The daughter of Charles Thompson—the judge driven to suicide by this miscarriage of justice."
Maxwell enunciated each word deliberately, his quiet voice earth-shattering.
"Claire Faye. Or should I say... Claire Thompson!"
Claire's body trembled violently, as though struck by lightning.
She raised her head. In those eyes—calm as ancient pools for so long—cracks appeared for the first time. Shock, pain, and unbearable memories surged through like a breaking dam.
She didn't speak, but her face confessed everything.
Emma gasped. An invisible hand seemed to squeeze her heart. So that was it! Behind everything lay a decade-old injustice! Revenge to clear her father's name! The motive was tragic yet... understandable!
She looked at Claire with conflicted emotions—righteous anger toward a killer, yet sympathy for a woman driven by tragedy.
As everyone reeled from this revelation, Maxwell produced his final evidence.
The most damning piece of all.
"I searched the secret passage in Sterling's room. At its exit, I found this."
He slowly withdrew something from inside his coat.
A silk handkerchief. Once pristine white, now stained with dark brown blood. In one corner, a small, delicate character embroidered in light cyan thread.
Qing.
Maxwell gently placed the handkerchief on Sterling's cold corpse.
Bloodstains. Handkerchief. The character "Qing."
Testimony. Physical evidence. Motive. Everything formed a perfect closed loop—a net woven from death and logic from which no one could escape.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" Maxwell looked at her, his voice betraying neither triumph nor anger.
Claire's face turned ghostly white. She stared at the handkerchief as though facing her executioner. Her lips trembled, trying to form words that wouldn't come.
She didn't confess.
But neither did she deny her connection to the Qinghe Massacre or being Thompson's daughter.
Despair.
A bottomless despair rose from the depths of her eyes. As though she'd walked alone through darkness for ten years, revenge her only light. But reaching the end, she found herself lost in an even deeper abyss.
She couldn't understand.
Why was her handkerchief there? Her mother's only keepsake, something she'd guarded closely for years. Why was it bloodstained, in a passage she'd never entered?
This was a trap.
A trap she couldn't comprehend or escape.
She looked at Maxwell, the man who had unveiled all this "truth." His gaze remained calm, rational—a perfect mirror reflecting her dishevelment, her despair, her very soul.
Before this mirror, any defense seemed futile.
"Why?"
Maxwell stepped forward. His voice suddenly gained weight, piercing her wounded heart like an awl.
"Ten years ago, your father was framed and driven to suicide. You knew the truth, knew who was responsible. Why didn't you speak? Why choose silence?"
Claire swayed slightly, her knuckles white around her sword hilt.
Speak up? How? To whom? As the daughter of a disgraced official who "killed himself for dereliction of duty," who would believe her? She would have been silenced, buried alongside those fabricated "evidences."
"You watched as the Xu family—thirty innocent people—were slaughtered because of your father's wrong judgment and your silence. Don't you feel any guilt?" Maxwell's voice grew colder, closer.
Guilt?
The word branded her heart like hot iron.
For ten years, guilt had gnawed at her soul like a venomous snake. She couldn't forget the Xu family's faces, couldn't forget the inferno, couldn't forget her father's eyes—still open when she found him hanging in his study.
It wasn't that she wouldn't speak—she couldn't, dared not. She could only flee, wander, numb herself with swordplay and punish herself with endless journeying.
"To clear the 'false charges' against your father—who killed himself from guilt—you transform yourself into a demon? Slaughtering those you judge guilty?"
"You call this revenge?"
Maxwell's voice rose like thunder.
"No! You're using their blood to wash away your own guilt!"
"You think you're judging them? You're judging your own weak, selfish heart!"
Puff!
Claire couldn't bear it. Blood suddenly spurted from her mouth, staining her white clothes crimson—like a desperate plum blossom blooming in snow.
Her eyes dimmed completely. All light drained away, leaving only silence, darkness, and pain.
Maxwell looked at her without triumph—only a cold gaze, as though peering into an abyss.
He turned slowly to the stunned Emma and William. "Restrain her."
Emma responded automatically, "Yes, sir." She picked up the chains and approached the swaying figure. Looking at Claire's deathly pale face and the bottomless despair in her eyes, she felt an inexplicable chill in her heart.
The cold clanking of chains echoed through the hall.
Maxwell didn't look at Claire again. He walked to the statue, took out a soft cloth, and began methodically polishing his ever-present dagger.
The blade caught the dim light with an eerie gleam.
When spoken by Felix Maxwell in a tone so calm it bordered on cruelty, these words became an invisible form of death by a thousand cuts—slicing precisely into the most vulnerable parts of the soul.
