Chapter 7
1848words
At the horizon, dawn finally tore through the leaden clouds that had suppressed it for days. A faint, almost surreal golden ray penetrated the sky, shining obliquely upon the ice-sealed world.
Complete silence prevailed.
The world resembled a massive tomb carved from white jade—clean, pure, beautiful, yet utterly lifeless in its cold perfection.
Emma stood before the temple's dilapidated gate, breathing deeply. The knife-cold air filled her lungs, bringing clarity to her chaos-filled mind.
It was over.
Everything was over.
The murderer had been brought to justice, the case closed. Though the process had been brutal enough to make her heart tremble, at least it was finished. She glanced at the cloth-covered bodies of Sterling and William in one corner, then at Claire's lonely form lying in congealed blood on the other side.
Her heart filled with mixed emotions—sorrow for the dead, relief that justice had prevailed.
She began packing her belongings, filling her water flask with melted snow and checking her replacement blade. Though the snow had stopped, the mountains remained impassable—they would need to wait days for a rescue party to find them. But at least they no longer lived in constant fear, no longer shared space with an invisible killer.
Her gaze drifted involuntarily toward the hall's depths.
Maxwell sat beneath the weathered deity, legs crossed, spine straight as an arrow—like a spear piercing the heavens.
Morning light streamed through the roof's hole, falling perfectly upon him, creating a faint golden halo around his figure. In his hands, he held a soft white cloth, methodically polishing his ever-present dagger.
His movements were slow, gentle, almost ceremonial—as though polishing not a weapon but a sacred object embodying his very soul.
In Emma's heart, that irrepressible admiration welled up again.
This was her boss, Felix Maxwell. A man who maintained perfect composure even in the darkest abyss. A divine detective who used logic and wisdom to unravel the most complex mysteries, revealing truth to the world.
How fortunate she was to be his subordinate, to witness firsthand his extraordinary methods.
Emma was about to report her preparations when Maxwell suddenly spoke.
His voice was soft, yet in the vast, silent hall, it rang clear as a bell, striking Emma's heart like a hammer.
"Emma Lawrence."
Maxwell didn't turn, nor did he pause his polishing.
"Would you like to know how I killed Mitchell Morgan?"
Emma's body froze as if struck by lightning.
Her expression transformed from relief to confusion to absolute, disbelieving shock. She must have misheard. The stress of recent days must be causing hallucinations.
What was he saying?
Killed Mitchell Morgan?
Wasn't Morgan killed by Claire using some impossible method?
"B-Boss..." Emma's throat felt filled with sand, her voice dry and cracked. "Are you... joking?"
Maxwell finally stopped polishing.
He slowly raised his head, turned, and looked at Emma.
His face remained expressionless. But his eyes had changed. No longer the ice-cold gaze that saw through everything, but something deeper—a darkness that could devour souls. The indifference of one who viewed all life from above, godlike in its detachment.
"I never joke," he said flatly.
He placed the mirror-polished dagger on his knee. The blade caught the morning light with a cold gleam, like a serpent's tongue.
"Aren't you curious?" He looked at Emma like a patient teacher with a slow student. "A man bound by heavy chains, locks intact, no signs of tampering. How did the killer cut his throat without touching him?"
Emma's mind went blank. She could only follow his logic. Indeed, this question had troubled her from the start. She'd assumed it was some lost martial art technique.
"It's quite simple." Maxwell's voice carried a hint of calm, as if explaining a puzzle. "You need a thread—strong yet thin. Silk thread soaked in oil works best, allowing it to slide smoothly through an unexpected place."
"The keyhole."
The two words pierced Emma's ears like needles.
"That's a special Six Gates chain lock with a complex mechanism. But for practical use, its keyhole must be a through-hole." Maxwell's tone suggested he was explaining simple arithmetic. "With patience, you thread silk through the keyhole, loop it around Morgan's neck, then back through the other side. You create a movable, deadly garrote with both ends in your control."
"And then?" He looked at Emma with evaluating eyes. "You tie this dagger to one end and slowly, forcefully pull the other. The thread guides the blade like an invisible scalpel, precisely slicing open the throat."
"He has no time to scream before dying in his sleep. It happens too quickly, too gently—like a feather brushing across the neck."
Emma listened in horror as an image formed in her mind: a dark figure in the dead of night, patiently executing this bizarre procedure with the precision of an embroiderer.
Her stomach churned violently.
"No... that can't be right..." Emma's voice trembled as she grasped at straws. "What about Sophia? She was poisoned! And Sterling choked on gold! And Claire's handkerchief! All that evidence..."
"Evidence?" For the first time, Maxwell's mouth curved slightly. Not a smile—a mockery cold as winter.
"Evidence can be manufactured."
"Sophia was vain and narcissistic. She used face powder daily. On her arrival, I merely needed to mix something into her cosmetics case—a slow-acting Western poison, colorless and odorless. In small doses, it merely weakens the nervous system. The final catalyst was the incense I lit that night, containing a special flower whose fragrance triggered the poison's lethal effect."
"As for Sterling." Undisguised contempt flashed in Maxwell's eyes. "A man hollowed by greed. He loved money above all else—even life itself. I simply told him the safest place in the temple was beside his treasure chest. The killer wanted people, not valuables. By guarding his chest, he'd guard his life."
"When he was most frightened, most vulnerable, I appeared before him. I claimed to have discovered a secret that would ensure his safe escape with all his wealth. But this secret required a small 'price' in exchange."
"I made him swallow a piece of gold to prove his 'sincerity.'"
"No sane person would do something so mad. But he did. In his world, nothing mattered more than gold. He obeyed in terror. I helped him swallow the first piece, then another, then another... until those cold, bright objects blocked his throat completely. When he died, his eyes still shone with greed and desperate survival instinct. How ridiculous. How tragic."
Emma was speechless. She stared at Maxwell—the boss she had so admired—as though facing a devil straight from hell.
All her understanding, all her beliefs, shattered in that moment by this man's calm, cruel revelations.
"What about Claire?" Emma forced out the final name. "Was she innocent? Why frame her? She clearly..."
"Because she was the perfect scapegoat." Maxwell's tone finally showed emotion—a complex mixture of pity and cruelty.
"She wasn't innocent. During the Qinghe Massacre, she was a cowardly bystander. She saw the truth yet chose silence out of fear. For ten years, she lived in guilt and self-torment. Her heart was already hollowed by remorse—needing only a gentle push to collapse completely."
"The handkerchief? I didn't forge it. It was truly hers. I took it from her pocket when she confronted Sterling and was distracted. I stained it with Sterling's blood, then placed it in the 'secret passage' I 'discovered.'"
"I didn't need much fabricated evidence. I merely directed all clues toward her undeniable core pain—her guilt over Qinghe. I used words as weapons to strip away her façade, forcing her to face her decade of cowardice. I was judging her soul."
"So she chose suicide. Not to escape punishment, but to atone. She used her death to acknowledge her 'guilt' in this bloodbath. A perfect ending, wouldn't you say?"
A perfect ending.
Emma felt the world spinning. She staggered backward, her back hitting the cold wall, preventing her collapse.
Everything had been a scheme. A flawless, deadly trap woven by her respected boss, using human lives as pawns.
And she, Emma Lawrence, self-proclaimed servant of justice and Six Gates constable, had been nothing but a stupid, deceived prop in this scheme. An unwitting accomplice who helped the real murderer send his victims to judgment.
What bitter irony!
"Why?" Emma's bloodshot eyes fixed on Maxwell, her voice raw with pain and rage. "Why would you do this?! They might have been guilty, but you had no right to judge them! You're a Six Gates officer! How could you..."
"Six Gates Bureau?" Maxwell rose slowly, towering over Emma, looking down with the cold compassion of a god.
"I chose you as witness because you still believe in it."
He reached up, removed his official hat, and tossed it aside. Then he began unfastening the black robe that symbolized law and order.
"My surname is Zhang."
He said.
"My name is Fiona Thompson."
"Ten years ago, in the Qinghe Massacre, the judge who was falsely accused, framed, and driven to suicide in prison was my father, Charles Thompson."
"And I am the youngest son of the Zhang family—believed to have perished in that vengeful fire alongside my mother and sister, reduced to ashes."
"Felix Maxwell is merely a cold mask I wore for revenge. I spent ten years infiltrating the Six Gates, rising through the ranks, becoming a detective—all for this day."
"My purpose: to gather everyone involved in that wrongful case—Morgan, Sophia, Sterling, and that cowardly bystander, Claire. To bring them together and deliver my own righteous judgment."
Emma stood stunned. Her mouth hung open, but no sound emerged. Her soul seemed to float above the temple, watching this absurd scene unfold as if from a distance.
Felix Maxwell. No—Fiona Thompson.
He removed his black uniform, revealing white mourning clothes beneath.
He adjusted his attire with unhurried, deliberate movements—solemn, ceremonial. Not repenting, but proclaiming. Proclaiming his revenge complete, his judgment delivered.
Then, step by step, he walked toward the open temple door.
The morning sun had dispelled the gloom. Golden light poured across the snow plain, creating a dazzling, blinding radiance.
Thompson stood in that light, half his silhouette bathed in sunlight, half in the temple's shadow.
He turned his head, taking one last look at Emma.
"Now," he said calmly, "the case is truly closed."
After speaking, he didn't look back.
Step by step, he walked into the vast, boundless snow. His sunlit silhouette stretched long behind him, like a solitary pilgrim walking toward destiny.
And just like that, he gradually disappeared into the pure white, dazzling light.
In the vast Temple of Silence, only Emma Lawrence remained, standing in shock.
She looked at the cold bodies on the ground, at the discarded black robe, and then at the blindingly bright, snow-white world beyond the door.
Her world had collapsed.
And the person who had shattered that world had vanished without a trace, like a gust of wind or a flurry of snow.
Leaving only her and this bloody truth forever behind in this temple called "Silence."
