At midnight, the blizzard reached its zenith. Wind screamed through Eagle's Sorrow Ravine like a thousand wailing ghosts, battering Cold Crow Keep with such fury that the stone walls groaned under the strain, as if the entire fortress might at any moment be torn from its cliffside perch and dashed into the abyss.
And then—A scream.
Shrill, inhuman, laced with a terror no words could contain. It cut through the storm, through thick stone and heavier silence, piercing the very marrow of those trapped inside. But just as suddenly, it was gone—abruptly silenced, as if someone had crushed the voice in their throat mid-scream.
In the Hall of Righteousness, the half-sleeping guests jolted upright. Su Wanwan gasped in terror, dropping her handwarmer with a clang as her white fox fur slipped from her shoulders. Wang Zhenhai leapt to his feet, toppling his stool, eyes wild.
But Lin Feng was already moving. Without hesitation, the physician's lean figure vanished into the side passage like a streak of shadow, not bothering with the main door. He was heading for the Ink Chamber—Qin Zhenyue's private retreat.
Xia Nan's cloak snapped behind her as she followed. Her mind raced: that scream, cut off mid-pitch, wasn't accidental. The damage had been sudden, violent—vocal cords severed.
Murder. Not accident.
Behind them, Zhou Zheng stumbled to his feet, abacus charm jangling against his jade ornament. "Wh-what's going on?!" he cried, voice breaking.
Zhao Qingyuan's prayer beads slipped through trembling fingers and scattered across the stone floor. He ignored them.
Even Shen Mo stirred, as if rising from a nightmare, his eyes glassy and disoriented.
Wang Zhenhai, still cursing under his breath, followed with heavy steps. Their footfalls echoed in the stone corridors, chopped to fragments by the howling wind.
The door to the Ink Chamber loomed ahead—solid, locked. A single thread of flickering candlelight bled through the seam beneath the door. And from it came a heavy, cloying scent: blood, thick and metallic, mingled with the faint elegance of expensive ink. The mix was nauseating.
Lin Feng arrived first. He pressed both palms against the door. It didn't budge.
"Locked. From the inside," he said.
"Who's in there?!" Zhou Zheng's voice cracked with panic.
No answer.
Only the stubborn flicker of candlelight beneath the door. Like the eye of something watching—dying, but not yet dead.
"Out of my way!" Wang Zhenhai bellowed, anger overtaking fear. He charged at the door like a battering ram.
Bang.A thud deep as a drum.
Bang.The hinges groaned. Dust rained down from the frame.
Crack.With the third blow, the thick iron latch snapped, and the heavy door slammed open, striking the stone wall behind with a resounding echo.
What lay within stopped them all cold.
There, under the dim glow of a solitary desk lamp, slumped in a high-backed chair, sat Qin Zhenyue.
His head was thrown back at an impossible angle. His throat—Slit clean across.
The gash was wide, deep, almost surgical. Blood soaked his embroidered robes, pooling on the floor in a thick, dark stain that glistened like oil. The flickering lamplight caught the edge of his lifeless face—ashen, frozen, unmistakably dead.
Xia Nan was the first to move. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she stepped into the chamber. Her eyes swept the scene with precision honed by countless investigations.
Only one window—sealed from within. Frost sealed the frame; the brass latch unbroken. No one escaped that way.
Only one door—now broken inward.
The small brazier in the wall was cold, the ashes undisturbed.
A perfect locked-room murder.
Her gaze moved to the desk—and her breath caught.
The murder weapon was obvious: a steel calligraphy brush, long and sharp enough to kill, stood upright beside the inkstone. Blood clung to the metal tip.
But it was the corpse's hand that chilled her most.
Qin's right fist was clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Between his fingers, a second brush—a humble brass-handled writing brush—was stabbed into his own palm. Blood oozed from the wound, soaking the handle.
A dying man, forcing a pen through his own hand? Not madness. Not accident.A message.
Her eyes dropped to the tabletop. Spilled ink pooled like a black mirror near his left hand, trailing toward the edge of the desk—twisting into a shape almost like an eye, staring up in silent agony.
Beside her, Lin Feng knelt and examined the wound.
"One clean stroke," he murmured, "from left to right. Deep enough to hit the vertebrae. Smooth. No hesitation. No jagged tear."
He frowned.
"But the width of the wound... doesn't quite match the steel brush. It's close. But not perfect."
Su Wanwan clutched her hands to her chest, trembling. "T-the door was locked, right? The window too... then—then how... How could anyone...?"
Her voice trailed off, swallowed by dread.
The silence returned—dense, suffocating, alive.
And still, the spilled ink on the desk pointed outward. As if something—or someone—wanted them to follow.