There's a silence to a murder scene that ink can't capture.
Even the birds had stopped singing by the time I reached Willow Alley. The wind tugged gently at the red paper lanterns above, swaying them like mourners in slow motion.
The smell of wet paint still lingered.
Lu Fang stood near the alley entrance, arms crossed, expression locked in that quiet fury he wore only when something had gone deeply wrong. Beside him, Erlong hovered nervously, glancing at passersby as if the killer might still be watching from the crowd.
The body lay flat against a wooden panel propped up against a stone wall.
Painted.
Literally.
The victim—a young woman in her twenties—was posed like a muse from a scholar's scroll. Her arms arranged delicately, her eyes closed, lips tinged with rouge. Only the blood seeping from her throat betrayed the performance.
And on the wall behind her… a painting. Half-finished. A stunning likeness of her face, but with subtle distortions—her eyes were slightly larger, her expression more sorrowful. The brushwork was masterful. Almost too perfect.
"Third victim in Hubei district," Lu Fang said without turning. "Same technique. Same alley. Same calling card."
"Let me guess," I said, crouching down. "Each victim positioned like a character from a classical Tang painting?"
Lu Fang nodded. "This one mirrors 'The Mourning Orchid'—a famous court scroll by Zhao Dusheng. The second one was 'Lady Beneath the Plum Blossom Rain.' We couldn't identify the first until last night—it matched 'Silken Song of the Lotus.'"
I looked at the brush strokes.
These weren't crimes of passion. They were rehearsals. Rituals.
"He's not just painting them," I murmured. "He's recreating them. Obsessively. As if correcting the past."
Bi Yao stepped out from the shadows, sword at her side, her eyes grave.
"I checked the rooftops," she said. "No sign of entry or exit. No witnesses. Whoever he is, he's a ghost."
"No," I said, standing up. "He's not a ghost. He's an artist."
And artists always leave something behind.
Lu Fang raised a brow. "You think you can catch a killer who hides behind canvas?"
I smirked. "Only if I look closely enough at the frame."
The body was taken away, but I stayed behind. I always stay behind.
Erlong tried not to step too close to the painted wall. "Why recreate scrolls? What kind of murderer does that?"
"The kind that wants to be seen," I murmured. "Not just for his crime—but for his craft."
I stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the wall painting. The strokes of ink were bold in places, but feather-light in others. There was elegance in the execution—an almost painful reverence.
Lu Fang frowned. "You see something?"
"Yes," I said, pointing. "Here. The edge of the brushwork—see this?"
He leaned in. "It's smudged."
"Not just smudged," I said. "Corrected. That means hesitation. Painters of this caliber don't hesitate unless they're working from memory."
Bi Yao crossed her arms. "So he's not copying scrolls he owns?"
"No," I replied. "He's recreating from obsession. Maybe from scrolls he saw once, long ago. Or maybe they were taken from him. Destroyed. Hidden."
I ran my fingers just above the drying paint. My mind ticked.
"He's not just killing," I said. "He's rebuilding a gallery—one victim at a time."
Lu Fang grimaced. "That's not art. That's madness."
"Sometimes," I said, "the two look the same."
Erlong perked up. "Should we check with court painters? Or art sellers?"
"Too early," I replied. "We need to look smaller. Local studios. Independent apprentices. Places where a brilliant painter might go ignored… or dismissed."
Bi Yao tapped the hilt of her sword. "I know someone. Ran a calligraphy shop near Stone Street. Got shut down after a dispute over a 'forged masterpiece.' He's been bitter ever since."
I looked at her, impressed. "Perfect. Take Erlong. Dig."
Lu Fang handed me a folded list—three more names scrawled hastily.
"Scholars who once wrote on Tang portraiture," he said. "Two live in Hubei. The third is a recluse in West Garden Temple."
"And I'll speak to them," I said, tucking the scroll into my sleeve. "If our killer's using ancient scrolls as his blueprint, someone out there knows which ones he's imitating… and why."
Lu Fang placed a hand on my shoulder. "Be careful. He's escalating."
I smirked. "So am I.".
West Garden Temple wasn't easy to find, nor was it eager to welcome strangers. Tucked deep into the mossy cliffs beyond Hubei district, its stone paths were barely visible through the fog, as if the mountain itself had tried to forget the temple was ever built.
I liked it immediately.
The monk who opened the door studied me with tired eyes and a brush in his hand. No prayer beads, no chanting—just the smell of rice paper and old ink.
"You're not here to pray," he said.
"Not unless prayer helps solve murders," I replied.
He stepped aside.
Inside, scrolls hung like ghosts from the wooden beams. Paintings of royal banquets, misty lakes, sorrowful courtesans, and warriors frozen in time. And among them—all familiar.
The three paintings the killer had mimicked… were here. But they were slightly different. Older. Cracked with age. Originals?
"You know the works," I said.
"I studied them. I lived through them," the monk replied. "Before I came here, I taught art history at Luoyang's Imperial Archive. But the court forgot the value of stillness… and I forgot the taste of politics."
I nodded. "Tell me about 'The Mourning Orchid.' The one the latest victim was posed like."
He shuffled toward a stack of scrolls. "It was painted by Zhao Dusheng, court artist of Empress Wu. Tragic painter. Obsessed with grief. Each portrait he painted… the subject died shortly after. Rumor says the empress banned his name."
I frowned. "That's not superstition—it's a pattern."
The monk fixed me with a look. "Art and death have always danced together, Sheriff Su. But if someone is reviving Zhao's visions… they are either a madman, or a student who wishes to finish the master's final work."
"Final work?" I echoed.
He nodded and pointed to a sealed scroll at the back of the altar.
"Zhao Dusheng was painting a series called The Last Beauties of the Empire. He died before completing the eighth."
"How many have been killed so far?" I asked.
"Three."
"And how many paintings in that series are known to survive?"
"Seven," he whispered. "But the eighth… was never found."
A shiver crawled down my spine.
That meant the killer wasn't just recreating the past. He was finishing it.
One victim for each painting.
Seven scrolls. Seven women.
Seven deaths.
And maybe—just maybe—he would stop… if I could find the eighth painting first..
By the time I returned from West Garden Temple, the afternoon sun was beginning to dim. The shadows in Hubei district had a habit of creeping in earlier than the rest of the city, as if the streets were tired of the light.
Bi Yao and Erlong were waiting in the small teahouse we'd chosen as our unofficial meeting spot. I caught the glint in Bi Yao's eyes before she spoke.
"You're going to like this," she said.
Erlong dropped a rolled-up scroll on the table. It was slightly torn, ink-stained, and smelled like it had been buried in damp rice husks.
"The calligraphy shop you told us about?" Erlong said. "Turns out the owner, Master He Ren, had a very promising student—until he was accused of forging a tribute scroll. The scandal ruined the shop's reputation. Master He disappeared soon after."
Bi Yao continued, "The student's name is Yun Caisheng. Talented, quiet, obsessive. He painted portraits of noblewomen for side income. One of his clients was the first victim."
My jaw tensed. "And nobody thought to mention this before?"
"The client list was hidden," she said. "Under the floorboards. Erlong found it."
The boy grinned. "Rat instinct."
I unrolled the scroll. Names. Payment dates. And at the top, a symbol repeated beside several entries—a red orchid in a tiny brushstroke. Familiar.
"'The Mourning Orchid,'" I muttered. "He marked each painting tied to Zhao Dusheng's original works."
Bi Yao leaned forward. "We also found a letter. Half-burnt. From someone calling himself 'The Last Apprentice.' No name, just a passage."
She unfolded a scrap of paper and read aloud:
> "Where the brush fails, the blade finishes. I will paint what Master Zhao could not. Seven beauties, one for each breath of glory the Empire forgot."
Lu Fang arrived just in time to hear the final words. His face darkened.
"This is a ritual," he said. "And he's halfway through."
I nodded. "Three are dead. That means four more."
I glanced down at the scroll again. One name was circled in red ink.
Lady Xu Wenlan.
"She's still alive," I said. "And she's next."
Lu Fang snapped to action. "She's the daughter of Minister Xu, living near Plum Blossom Garden. He'll never allow guards to stand watch unless there's undeniable proof."
"Then we don't guard her," I said, standing. "We paint the bait."
The ink had barely dried on the killer's warning before we found ourselves standing before the grand gates of the Xu manor. Plum Blossom Garden, as it was politely called, was less a home and more a fortress of silence wrapped in silk curtains. Gilded cranes stood in the courtyard, their eyes hollow. The scent of camellias hung in the air, thick enough to make a man forget why he came.
But I never forgot.
Lady Xu Wenlan—the next intended victim. If our deductions were correct, she wasn't just next. She was critical. She might even be the pivot point in the killer's progression: the fourth subject, the center of the artist's twisted symmetry. With three dead and three more presumably after her, Wenlan could be the balance that tilted the killer's pattern forward—or broke it completely.
"Do you think she knows?" Bi Yao asked, standing beside me as we waited to be received.
"If she does," I said, "then she's hiding it well. But more likely, she suspects something is wrong without knowing why."
The door creaked open, revealing a servant dressed in muted linen. He glanced at us with a mix of curiosity and caution before bowing deeply.
"Lord Su. Commander Lu. My lady awaits you in the painting room."
That caught me off guard. "Painting room?"
The servant gave a shallow nod. "She resumed her brushwork last week. A recent obsession."
My thoughts itched.
We were escorted through high halls where sunlight slipped through latticed windows, scattering the light like fragmented thoughts. At last, we reached a room where the scent of ink and rice paper was almost overpowering.
And there she was.
Lady Xu Wenlan.
Dressed in a flowing robe of pale silver, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, a brush held delicately between her fingers like it might vanish if gripped too tightly. Her face was calm, elegant—untouched by fear. But her eyes told a different story.
Eyes always tell the truth when mouths won't.
"My lady," Lu Fang greeted respectfully. "We come with difficult news."
She set the brush down and turned to face us. "I suspected as much. After Lian's death, I knew something followed. I just didn't know it had my name on it."
I studied her. No tremble in her voice. Not arrogance, not denial. Just… resignation.
"Did you know Yun Caisheng?" I asked.
The faintest flicker passed through her expression. "The painter? Yes. He sketched a portrait of my mother when I was a child. And another of me, three years ago."
"Do you still have it?" I asked.
Her lips pressed together. "I… did. But I burned it."
"Why?"
She hesitated. "Because I began dreaming of it. Every night. The version he painted… it wasn't me. It stared at me. Smiled when I cried. I woke in sweats."
Lu Fang and I exchanged a glance.
"The killer has been mimicking those scrolls," I said. "We believe he's using the portraits as references. You were painted in Zhao Dusheng's style, weren't you?"
She nodded slowly.
"And now you're in danger," Lu Fang said. "We believe you're the next intended victim."
A long pause followed.
"Then let's not wait for him," she said softly. "Let's draw him out."
It was my turn to hesitate.
"You're volunteering as bait?"
She nodded. "Better than waiting to die."
I admired her. I'd met warriors who flinched more than this noblewoman.
We spent the next hour coordinating a plan. The Xu Manor had a rarely used garden pavilion with open walls and minimal exits—a perfect stage. Wenlan would paint in the moonlight as she often did. Guards would be hidden along the perimeter. Lu Fang would position himself above the beams. Bi Yao and Erlong would alternate patrol in and out of the courtyard.
And me?
I would play the quiet observer. Shadows are my natural element—especially when I need to listen more than speak.
Night fell like a judge's gavel.
Wenlan sat before her scroll, brush in hand. Her wrist glided gracefully over the parchment, though her movements were stiffer than in the morning. Fear had finally crept in. Even so, she did not waver.
Time passed. The brush of the wind was louder than the sound of the ink strokes.
Then—movement.
A faint scrape. Barely audible.
My eyes darted to the trees.
The figure emerged from the far side of the pavilion wall. Black robes. Face masked. He moved like a dancer, silent and slow, a rolled-up scroll strapped across his back. Not a sword.
A brush.
He held a brush in his hand.
He stepped into the moonlight, eyes locked on Wenlan. And in that instant, she turned—not with surprise, but with fury.
"You," she said.
It stopped him in his tracks.
I emerged from the shadows. "Drop the brush, Yun Caisheng."
He turned sharply. I saw his eyes now—red-veined, sunken, manic.
"Do you understand what he left incomplete?" he snarled. "Zhao Dusheng was silenced before he could finish the eighth. But I remember the way the strokes curved. I hear them. At night. When it's quiet."
"You murdered three innocent women," Lu Fang growled from above, leaping down to flank him. "This ends now."
Yun laughed, unhinged. "They weren't murdered. They were transformed. Immortalized! Even Zhao couldn't trap beauty like I have."
"You didn't trap beauty," I said, stepping closer. "You caged your obsession. And you killed everything that didn't fit inside."
Wenlan stood, eyes blazing. "You painted me… like a ghost."
His hand trembled.
And for a moment, I thought he would surrender.
But instead, he plunged the brush forward—not toward Wenlan, but toward his own throat.
Bi Yao was faster.
Her dagger flew, slicing the brush midair. Erlong tackled him from behind, pinning him with the precision of a hunter who'd been waiting for hours.
Yun screamed. "You don't understand! It's not finished! I still hear him!"
He thrashed like a mad animal, but we had him.
It was over.
Or… was it?
As the guards hauled him away, I picked up the scroll that had fallen from his back.
It wasn't one of Zhao Dusheng's.
It was new.
Painted by Yun himself.
And on it—an eighth woman.
She looked like Wenlan, but… different.
Eyes closed. Hands folded. A lotus blooming from her chest.
It wasn't a murder he had planned tonight.
It was a memorial.
But why?
The real question wasn't who he had killed… but who he hadn't killed yet.
And the answer, I feared, was someone we hadn't even found.
The ink on the scroll was fresh. Too fresh.
I held it in my hands, the eerie weight of Yun Caisheng's obsession bleeding through the rice paper. The portrait was masterful—meticulous brushwork, haunting shadows, delicate shadings in gray and red. But it was more than a portrait. It was a message.
Lu Fang leaned over my shoulder, his expression carved in stone. "That's not just a painting of Lady Xu."
"No," I muttered, narrowing my eyes. "It's not."
Bi Yao stood at the ready, dagger still in hand from the scuffle. "What do you see, Su Wuming?"
The details whispered to me. The background of the painting wasn't Plum Blossom Garden or the Xu Manor. It was a studio—walls covered in hanging scrolls, incense burner glowing near the corner, and shelves stacked with jade carving tools. Odd, for an artist to include jade tools in a painting.
Except… jade carving wasn't Yun's trade.
But someone else's.
I placed the scroll on the table and pointed. "This isn't Yun's fantasy. It's a clue."
Erlong, ever eager, chimed in. "To what?"
"To who the final victim is supposed to be," I said. "Look here—on the edge of the scroll. A stamp. Half smudged, but clear enough. That's not a signature. That's an artist's studio seal."
Lu Fang's brows furrowed. "You're saying this isn't his work?"
"I'm saying it's a copy of someone else's workspace," I said. "Whoever owns that studio—whoever used that jade toolset—is likely the true final target. Yun was obsessed, yes. But he didn't choose his victims randomly. He followed a trail—portraits painted by Zhao Dusheng and those connected to them."
Bi Yao stepped closer. "So this... might be the only clue we have to find the last intended victim before it's too late?"
I nodded. "We need to find out where this studio is. And we need to find it fast."
---
We split the work.
Lu Fang took the scroll to the Bureau's archives, where old artist studio records were kept, including imperial registry of licensed artisans.
I returned with Bi Yao and Erlong to Zhao Dusheng's former residence. His house had long been converted into a small museum, guarded and largely untouched since his death ten years prior. But the mystery had brought his legacy back into sharp light.
As we entered the gate, a faint autumn wind whispered through the garden, carrying with it a subtle floral scent—osmanthus, sweet and fleeting. I paused. Something about that scent prickled at the edges of my memory.
The keeper of the residence, an old man named Yan who had worked under Zhao, met us with cautious eyes.
"Another disturbance?" he asked, voice rasping with age.
I showed him the scroll. "Do you recognize this room?"
He took it gingerly, squinting.
His mouth tightened. "Yes."
"Where?"
"That… was Zhao's apprentice studio. But not here. He had a secondary workshop. Secret. Only a few ever saw it."
"Why secret?" Bi Yao asked.
Yan hesitated. "He said true inspiration needed silence. The place wasn't listed under his name. It was a tea house once. Near the Silver Carp Bridge."
"Do you know who owns it now?" I asked.
He nodded grimly. "Zhao's cousin. A jade carver."
I turned to Bi Yao and Erlong. "That's our link."
---
By the time we reached the Silver Carp Bridge, the sky was bleeding gold and rust. The workshop stood across the narrow river, hidden behind walls of flowering wisteria. Elegant. Unassuming. Dangerous.
We approached carefully.
No signs of forced entry. No lanterns lit. The gate was locked from the inside.
Lu Fang met us at the end of the bridge, breath short but eyes sharp. "You were right. The seal on the scroll belongs to Zhao's cousin—Lu Yunjie. He runs a small artisan guild under the name 'Carved Petal Hall.' Never registered his personal workshop, though."
Bi Yao tested the gate. "Then he's hiding something."
I scanned the perimeter, then spotted it: a side passage leading down toward the rear courtyard. Overgrown, but not forgotten.
"Let's not announce ourselves," I said.
We slipped through the side, Erlong prying the wooden grate loose. Inside, the scent of old ink and jade dust greeted us—along with a strange, chilling calm.
The main chamber looked just like the scroll.
Everything matched. Every brush, every carved seal, every burning incense holder.
It was the place Yun painted—the one he'd seen.
But there was no one inside.
Until we heard it.
A soft humming.
From below.
We followed it through a trapdoor concealed beneath a rug. Down stone steps into a basement room glowing with candlelight.
And there he was.
Lu Yunjie.
An old man now, hunched and pale, but with the steady hands of an artisan. He was kneeling before a half-completed painting.
The eighth painting.
Not of Lady Xu.
But of a young girl. One I didn't recognize.
She was smiling.
And behind her… was a burning building.
Yunjie didn't look up. "So. You found me."
"You're not surprised?" I asked.
He dipped his brush into ink. "Yun Caisheng thought he was reviving Zhao's vision. But he didn't know the truth. Zhao didn't leave the eighth unfinished because he died. He left it unfinished because he feared what he'd painted."
Lu Fang stepped forward. "What is this painting supposed to be?"
"A memory," Yunjie whispered. "My daughter. Mei. Killed in a fire at the temple when she was ten. Zhao painted her the day before. Said he saw something in her—something tragic. After the fire, he refused to paint again. Said the art had cursed her."
Bi Yao's breath caught. "So this is… revenge?"
"No," Yunjie said. "It's legacy."
He turned, revealing the edge of a scroll pinned behind him—Zhao Dusheng's original eighth sketch. Half-completed. The same face. The same girl.
"She was supposed to be immortalized," Yunjie said, tears welling in his eyes. "But he stopped. So I made sure someone finished the cycle."
I stepped forward. "So you manipulated Yun Caisheng?"
"He came to me, obsessed with Zhao. I fed the fire. Gave him names. Showed him old sketches. And he did exactly as I knew he would."
Lu Fang was silent. "You killed three women."
"I gave them art," Yunjie said. "And my daughter… a place among them."
"No," I said. "You turned your grief into madness."
He smiled faintly. "And yet you found me."
Before he could move, Erlong closed the distance and struck him across the jaw with a swift blow, knocking the old man unconscious.
Lu Fang tied his hands, while Bi Yao extinguished the candles.
As we left the studio, scrolls rolled under our arms, I looked one last time at the eighth portrait. At Mei.
She smiled at us from the paper.
A girl forever trapped in memory.
We returned to the Bureau at dawn.
The sky outside was grey, as if it, too, mourned the toll taken by a madman's brush. Rain threatened on the horizon, a drizzle soft enough to blur the streets but not enough to cleanse what had been done.
Lu Yunjie sat shackled in the ironwood chair across from me in the interrogation hall, his wrinkled hands laid calmly atop the stone table. The only sign of discomfort was the faint tremble in his left thumb—an artist's ghost.
Commander Lu Fang stood behind me, arms crossed, silent. Beside him, Erlong leaned against the pillar with arms loosely folded, still slightly red in the face from the earlier pursuit.
A few feet away, Bi Yao lingered near the window, silent. She hadn't said a word since we left the studio. I knew why. The painting of the girl had touched something in her. A sorrow only those who've lost someone too young can understand.
I sat, fingers steepled, watching Yunjie.
"Do you know how many brushstrokes it takes to paint a life, Master Lu?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"You handed Yun Caisheng the ink. The canvas. The delusion. And then watched him kill, as if death could frame grief in gold."
He met my gaze. "And yet you understood. You saw what Zhao did not. That her image would endure."
"She's not immortal," I said coldly. "She's another ghost among the dead. And now, so are you."
Lu Fang spoke up, voice low but firm. "Your confession will be taken to the Ministry. You'll be judged under the new criminal statute for conspiracy to murder under manipulation. Likely death, given your direct orchestration."
Yunjie didn't protest.
"Then let it be death," he whispered. "What is life, when memory decays?"
I leaned back. "In your version of the story, you made your daughter a martyr. But in ours, she became the symbol of a man too broken to heal."
I rose. "Take him."
Erlong nodded and escorted the old man out. His footsteps echoed softly, swallowed by the stone hall behind.
---
Later that day, I walked alone through Plum Blossom Garden. The place had returned to silence. The gardens, once feared, now stood in soft bloom again. Red petals floated lazily in the koi pond. Somewhere nearby, a zither played softly from an open window—life resuming in quiet defiance of all we'd uncovered.
Bi Yao joined me without a word, footsteps matching mine.
"You've been quiet," I said.
She nodded. "It was… hard to see. That painting. The girl. She looked like my sister when she was young. Before…"
Her voice drifted. I didn't press.
"Do you think he truly believed it was for art?" she asked.
I paused. "Grief has a way of twisting purpose. Yunjie wasn't evil in the way Yun Caisheng was. He didn't kill with his own hands, but he set the brush in motion. And watched. That is its own form of cruelty."
Bi Yao looked toward the trees. "But we stopped it."
"Yes," I said. "We stopped it."
A messenger arrived soon after. The court had rendered its judgment with unusual speed, given the nature of the case and the public outcry.
Yun Caisheng, already captured by Lu Fang's agents the night before, was sentenced to execution by strangulation—an act of symbolic silence, for a man whose crimes had been committed in homage to an artist's legacy.
Lu Yunjie would be stripped of all guild affiliations, his studio dismantled, and sentenced to death by poison—considered a lesser form of execution, a rare allowance due to his age and former contributions to the artisan community.
When I heard the verdict, I didn't feel triumph. Only stillness.
---
Later, at the Bureau courtyard, Lu Fang handed me a new document.
An official seal.
"You're not just an unofficial consultant now," he said. "You've been granted formal appointment. Bureau Sheriff of the Central Investigation Division. It's time we made it official."
I looked at the red mark on the parchment. It shimmered in the sun.
"I never thought I'd wear a badge again," I said.
He smiled faintly. "You never wore one the first time."
Fair point.
Bi Yao stepped forward, teasing grin lighting up her face. "Does this mean you finally outrank Erlong?"
From a corner of the courtyard, Erlong groaned. "Please no."
I smirked. "If rank means more tea and fewer assassins, I'll take it."
Lu Fang extended his hand. "One case closed. More to come."
I shook it.
As the bells of Chang'an rang from the watchtower above, the city began its slow, rhythmic pulse again. Merchants hawked goods. Scholars debated in tea houses. Lovers exchanged poems on rice paper.