Elder Liu's courtyard was not what Li Fan expected. It was not a place of harsh power, but of cultivated tranquility. A stream trickled over artfully placed stones. Ancient, twisted plum trees cast delicate shadows. The air smelled of ink and old parchment. It was the sanctuary of a scholar, not a saboteur.
Li Fan was shown in by a silent attendant. Elder Liu sat at a low table beneath a wooden awning, a pot of tea steaming before him. He looked up, his face breaking into a smile that touched his eyes but left them unchanged.
"Advisor Li. Please, join me." His voice was warm, avuncular. "The Empress's command reached me. You wish to see the Vein Logs. A prudent step in your investigation."
"I am grateful for your assistance, Elder," Li Fan said, taking a seat on the offered cushion. He kept his back straight, his posture respectful but not subservient.
"Not at all. We all serve the stability of the dynasty." Liu poured a cup of tea and pushed it across the table. The gesture was flawless. "The logs are a point of personal pride. I have maintained them myself for three centuries. Every fluctuation, every tremor."
He gestured to a side table where three massive, leather-bound volumes sat. They were pristine. Liu nodded, and an attendant brought them over, placing them before Li Fan.
The logs were works of art. The calligraphy was breathtakingly precise, every column perfectly aligned. Numbers recorded spiritual energy output from every major and minor vein, hour by hour, day by day, for the last year. Li Fan began to turn the heavy pages, his mind—still sharp from the lingering effects of the memory enhancement and a final, subtle 3-Favor-Point purchase of [Focused Scrutiny]—absorbing the data.
At first glance, it was impeccable. The decline was charted, a smooth, tragic curve downward. The convulsions were noted as sudden, unpredictable dips. It all fit the narrative of natural decay and instability.
But that was the problem. It fit too well.
Li Fan's earthly mind, trained on polls and data sets, screamed at him. Natural systems had noise. Random variation. A healthy vein's output should flutter with the time of day, with celestial alignments, with ambient spiritual weather. These logs showed a mathematical progression of decline. The 'convulsions' were identical percentage drops at neatly spaced intervals. It was data sanitized of life. It was a story, not a record.
He looked up. Elder Liu was sipping his tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.
"A tragic picture, is it not?" Liu sighed, the model of concerned stewardship. "The lifeblood of our land, fading before our eyes."
Li Fan chose his words like stepping stones across a river of knives. "The recordkeeping is… remarkably consistent, Elder Liu. The precision is almost supernatural."
A faint, pleased smile. "One must be meticulous."
"Indeed." Li Fan traced a column of numbers with his finger. "In all my studies, I read that natural spiritual flows possess inherent variance. Minor pulses. Like a heartbeat. Yet here… the readings from the Whispering Stem vein, even during its stable period last year, show no pulse. Just a flat, constant line until the decline begins. It is as if the vein itself were… commanded to be consistent."
The air in the courtyard did not change. The stream still trickled. But the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Elder Liu set his teacdown down. It made no sound on the polished wood. His smile remained, but it was now a carving on a stone mask. "You have a keen eye for detail, Advisor Li. For a mortal with no cultivation, your insights are… remarkably sharp. Almost unnaturally sharp." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, what is your cultivation level? I sense no qi from you. And yet, you speak of spiritual pulses with the confidence of a Core Formation master."
The question was a trap wrapped in silk. To claim hidden power was absurd. To admit to none was to highlight the impossibility of his insight.
"I have no cultivation, Elder," Li Fan said, meeting that glacial gaze. "Only the ability to read what is written. And sometimes, what is not written. The absence of noise… is itself the loudest signal."
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. The pretense of tea and tranquility evaporated. In Liu's eyes, Li Fan saw not anger, but a cold, recalculating assessment. The annoying gnat had just proven it could read the ledger. The gnat was now a liability.
"The logs are as they are," Liu said finally, his voice still pleasant, but every word now a shard of ice. "You may take them for your review. I trust you will present your findings… accurately to Her Majesty." The unspoken threat hung in the air: Misrepresent them, and you will regret it.
"I seek only the truth, Elder," Li Fan said, closing the heavy volume. He gathered all three. Their weight was immense, both physical and symbolic.
"Truth is a delicate thing," Liu murmured, looking past him at the plum trees. "It can be uprooted by the slightest wind. Be careful it does not blow you away, Advisor Li."
The dismissal was clear.
Li Fan bowed, clutching the forged logs to his chest, and backed out of the courtyard. He felt the Elder's gaze on his back until he turned the corner, a pressure more chilling than any aura.
In the safety of a deserted corridor, he leaned against the wall, his heart pounding. He had done it. He had the evidence—not of the crime, but of the cover-up. The perfect, impossible logs were proof of guilt as sure as a signed confession.
But the victory tasted like ashes. He had looked into the serpent's den and shown the serpent he could read its tracks.
Elder Liu was no longer merely obstructing him. The polite, veiled hostility was gone, replaced by a clear, professional recognition of a threat. Li Fan was no longer a nuisance to be crushed at the deadline. He was a variable that needed to be deleted before the final act.
He had the proof. Now he had to survive long enough to use it. And the most dangerous man in the palace now knew he had it.