Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
The room was in the western part of the city, more secluded and older than the previous one. Several gray bricks on the wall had fallen off, exposing the adobe inside, like a person who had lost teeth and hadn't had them replaced yet. There was standing water on the ground; stepping on it made apatter, patter sound, just like in the alley. As I followed Zhu Zhanji inside, several men were already standing there, all Jinyiwei, dressed in those black uniforms, squatting on the ground prying up floorboards. No one spoke; there was only the sound of wood snapping,thud, thud, like bones breaking. Zhu Zhanji stood in the middle of the room, saying nothing, just watching. His expression was very calm, just like every time. But I knew he was waiting. Waiting for those men to find something, or find nothing. A lamp hung from the beam, light shining down from above, casting everyone's faces in half-light and half-shadow. The air was stuffy, carrying an indescribable smell—mold, dust, and—something else.
I stood in the corner, watching those men search. They moved boxes, pried up wooden planks, dug out soil. Item by item, very carefully. But I knew they wouldn't find anything. Because the smell was wrong. I walked forward a few steps and lowered my head to sniff the root of the wall. Mold smell, dust smell. And—medicinal smell. Very faint, like it was covered by something. I frowned and sniffed again. Still medicinal. Not the kind that heals, but the kind thatcovers up. The same smell as the medicine on the white sheet last time. But this time it was fainter, so faint it seemed like just a residue. Like a person washing their hands, but there's still blood under the fingernails. He thinks it's clean, but I know it's not.
I stood up, walked to the middle of the room, and sniffed again. The medicinal smell was even fainter here, almost undetectable. But at the root of the wall, in the corner, in the cracks of the floorboards, it was still there. Like someone hiding there, not daring to come out. I squatted down, lying on the floor, nose close to the crack. Medicinal smell. And—scent of blood. Very faint, so faint it was just a trace. But I knew it wasn't. Someone used the same medicine, sprinkled it here, to cover the scent of blood. Same method as last time. But different. Last time the medicinal smell was heavy, heavy enough to smell as soon as you entered. This time it was faint, so faint you couldn't smell it without sniffing carefully. Someone didn't want people to discover. Or—someone wanted onlyspecific people to discover.
"Wait," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet room, everyone heard it.
Those men stopped, looking at me. Someone still held a crowbar, someone squatted on the ground, holding a handful of soil. Zhu Zhanji looked over. "What is it?"
I didn't answer. Lowered my head again to sniff the floor crack. Medicinal smell, scent of blood. And—something else. I couldn't describe what it was. I just felt that this smell was different from last time. Last time was covering up; someone had sprinkled it hastily after the incident, the medicinal smell was heavy, the blood smell was heavy, like a person who did something wrong, frantically wiping, the more they wiped the messier it got. This time was not. This time was traces. Someone did it, didn't want people to discover, but didn't completely cover it. Like a person who walked away, leaving footprints. He looked back once, thought it was fine, and left. But he didn't know the footprints were still there. The wind didn't blow them away, the rain didn't wash them off. They were there, waiting to be discovered.
I spoke slowly: "This smell... was added later."
The person beside me frowned. "What do you mean?"
I thought for a moment. In Australia, a batch of samples in the lab had been tampered with. The professor asked me to check, saying:"You look, is it originally like this, or changed later?" I looked. Original samples, the smell was uniform, the same from inside to out. Changed later, the smell only floated on the surface; inside was still the original. Like a person wearing new clothes, but the clothes underneath are still dirty. You can't smell it, but you know. This smell was added later. Someone sprinkled medicine on it to cover the blood smell underneath. But it couldn't cover it. The blood smell was still there, seeping up from below, mixing with the medicinal smell. Like a person wearing new clothes, but the clothes underneath are still dirty. You can't smell it. But you know.
"It seems like it's to cover up another smell," I said.
The air went quiet for a moment. Those men stopped their actions, looking at me. Someone frowned, some exchanged glances. Zhu Zhanji said nothing. Just stood there, looking at the ground. For a long time. The lamp shone from above; his shadow was cast on the ground, motionless. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish, faint under the lamplight. His fingers hung by his side, slightly curling, then relaxing. Curling, then relaxing. Like counting something. Like counting those clues, those smells, those things he thought he found himself but were actually placed there by others.
I couldn't help asking: "Is there a problem?"
He suddenly spoke. His voice was very low, so low it was like talking to himself. "It's not him."
I paused. "What?"
He looked up. His eyes were a bit cold. Not angry, not furious, but the kind of cold where—he is excluding an option, then realizing the remaining options are scarier. Like in the Northern Desert, standing on the high ground, watching cavalry charge, saying "Wait a bit longer." He knew someone would come, but didn't know who. Now he also knew. Not Second Prince. Someone else. His fingers clenched slightly inside his sleeve, fingertips gathering, then relaxing. Then hung down, just like before. But I saw it. His fingers were trembling. Not the kind of tremor that couldn't be suppressed, but the kind where—he was suppressing, but couldn't quite. Same as in the Northern Desert. Same as in the alley. He suppressed it. But I knew, he was in pain. Not hand pain, but somewhere else.
"Doesn't look like his method," he said.
I froze. Second Prince's method—in the alley, arrows flying over, knives raised, people charging. Direct, brutal, leaving no leeway. That was his method. But here was not. Here the medicinal smell was very faint, so faint you had to sniff carefully to smell it. Here the blood smell was covered, not very cleanly, like someone did it, wanted to wipe, but didn't wipe clean. The method here—subtle, steady, unhurried. Like someone in the dark, watching you walk over, saying softly:This way, then this way. Arrived. Not Second Prince. He couldn't be this subtle. He couldn't wait this long. He couldn't wait. He would act directly in the alley, not here, using medicine, using blood, using those faint smells that you could only detect by sniffing carefully. He couldn't wait. But someone could.
My heart tightened. "Then who is it?"
He didn't answer. Just fell silent for a moment. Stood there, looking at the ground. For a long time. The lamp on the beam swayed slightly; his shadow swayed with it. His fingers clenched again inside his sleeve, then relaxed. He looked up at me. His eyes were very cold, but not cold at me, but cold at those things he didn't want to see but had to see.
Then he said a sentence. "Someone is using him as a shield."
My entire body froze. Using him as a shield. Using Second Prince as a shield. Making everyone think it was him. Making clues point to him, making marks point to him, making wax point to him, making blood point to him. Making everyone think he was the one moving. But actually not. He is the knife. A knife handed out by someone. The person holding the knife is in the dark. Watching him cut, watching him kill, watching him be discovered. Then smiling. When everyone thinks the knife is the killer, the knife is still in hand, the person holding it has already left. I suddenly remembered what the Third Prince said. "You wouldn't find Second Brother, would you?" "That would be interesting." He said it smiling. Like joking. But I knew it wasn't. He knew we would find Second Brother. Because he handed out the knife. He knew where we would go every step. Because he paved the road. He knew Zhu Zhanji would discover it wasn't Second Prince. Because he wanted him to discover it. He wanted him to know someone was using him as a shield. Then see what his next move was. He was waiting. Just like every time. Smiling, waiting.
I stood in the middle of the room, looking at those pried-up planks, pried-up floorboards, things being packed into bags. Those men were still searching, still looking, still digging. They didn't know the things they dug out were placed there by others. The clues they found were paved by others. They thought they were investigating a case, but actually walking on a path drawn by others. Every step just right. Not more, not less. I suddenly felt a bit cold. Not the cold of weather, but the kind where—you walked a road, walked for a long time, thought you chose it. Then you look back, and realize the road is full of other people's footprints. Every step you took, you stepped where others had stepped. You don't know when he started walking, don't know how long he walked, don't know why he chose this road. You only know he walked in front of you. You can never catch up. Because when he walked, you were sleeping. He was in the dark, you were in the light. He sees you, you can't see him.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"When did you know?"
He didn't answer. Stood there, looking at the ground. For a long time. Then he turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. The table was temporarily brought in; case files were spread on it, all found in these past few days. He picked up the files, turned a page. Then another. His fingers paused on the edge of the paper, then continued turning. Just like every day. Just like when reading memorials. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish, faint under the lamplight. He flipped through those files, those names, those marks, that wax, that blood. He flipped, looked, thought. Just like every day.
"Just now," he said.
I looked at him. He sat at the table, files spread across it, lamp on the table, light bright. His expression was very calm, just like every day. But I knew it was different. When he said "It's not him" just now, his voice was very low. So low it was like telling himselfThe answer you always thought was wrong. The person you always investigated is not the killer. The road you always walked is drawn by others. He knew just now. Now he is thinking. Thinking who that person is, thinking how big that net is, thinking where he should go next. He sat there, flipping through files. Just like every day. But I knew he was thinking. Thinking about those things he didn't want to think but had to think. His fingers paused on the edge of the paper, didn't turn over. That page had Second Prince's name written on it. He stared at that name, for a long time. Then turned over. The next page was blank. He stared at that blank page, for a long time too. That page had no name. But he knew there was a person standing there. In the blank place, in the unseen place, in the dark. Waiting. Smiling. He stared at that blank page, for a long time. Then closed the file. Stood up.
"Let's go," he said.
I followed him out of the room. Moonlight shone on my body, cool. He walked in front of me, pace neither fast nor slow, just like every day. I stepped on his shadow, step by step. He didn't speak. I didn't speak either. The alley was narrow, walls high, stone slabs slippery. Just like every time. But different. He knew. Someone was using Second Prince as a shield. That person, in the dark. Smiling. Waiting. He knew. But he didn't say that person's name. He didn't say. I didn't ask either. Because I knew he was waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for that net to close itself. Waiting for that person to walk to him on his own. He was waiting. Same as in the Northern Desert, same as in the alley, same as when interrogating Lord Zhao. He was waiting. I walked beside him, stepping on his shadow. His hand hung by his side, fingers still stained with mud, black. My hand hung by my side, fingers empty. But I smelled it. Medicinal smell remained. Blood smell remained. Brought out from that room, sticking to clothes, sticking to hair, sticking to memory. I could smell it. He could smell it too. He just didn't say it. He was waiting. I was waiting with him.
(End of Chapter Thirty-Nine)