The Ministry of Rites was a beast that slept on a bed of paper. By day, it was a hive of activity, its corridors buzzing with the rustle of silk and the murmur of a thousand bureaucratic voices. But by night, it was a tomb. The silence was not empty; it was heavy, saturated with the stagnant qi of centuries of secrets, ambitions, and unfulfilled decrees. It was the perfect place for a ghost to work.
Yingluo moved through its darkened halls like a wisp of smoke. Her feet made no sound on the polished stone floors. She was not merely hiding; she was resonating with the silence, becoming a part of it. The spiritual retreat on the mountain had taught her more than just calm. It had taught her to feel the world not just with her five senses, but with her spirit. She could feel the flow of qi in a room, the residual energy of the people who had passed through, the faint, glowing signature of a lie.
