Lu Jianwei handed it over.
“Wait a moment.” Yue Shu covered his eyes with both hands. “Innkeeper, could you unfold that very crumpled banknote?”
Lu Jianwei seemed thoughtful and complied, smoothing out the folded banknote until the details on its surface were fully visible.
At the top center of the banknote was printed the words “Ministry of Revenue Official Note,” followed by the denomination. The rest of the space was filled with intricate patterns and inscriptions, including the date, serial number, and official seal.
“It’s unfolded. What did you want to say?”
Yue Shu said, “Could you check the last stroke of the character ‘note’—does it look slightly longer than the standard version?”
Banknotes were printed under strict government regulations; even the slightest smudge or damage rendered them unusable.
“He’s right!” Jin Poxiao, never one to shy away from stirring trouble, pulled out a hundred-tael note of his own for comparison before declaring loudly, “Innkeeper Lu, is that a counterfeit in your hands? The esteemed master of Leisurely Cloud Manor, resorting to fake money to swindle people?”
“N-no, that’s impossible!” Song Xian’s shock was unmistakable as he reached to snatch the note, only for Lu Jianwei to deftly evade him.
Han Xiaofeng, sharp as ever, sensed something amiss and stepped forward, blocking Song Xian. His piercing gaze fixed on Yue Shu. “Yue Shu, what do you have to say?”
“I…” Yue Shu lowered his hands, his eyes red-rimmed as he glared venomously at Song Xian. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I am. You’re the murderer! You killed my father! I’ll avenge him!”
Despite his fury, he didn’t recklessly charge forward. Instead, he turned to Han Xiaofeng.
“This banknote has deep creases. If you don’t believe me, follow the folds—you should be able to fold it into a paper crane.”
Han Xiaofeng took the note. Sure enough, the creases were deeply ingrained, as if it had been folded the same way for years.
With deft fingers, he folded it swiftly. In mere moments, a delicate paper crane perched on his fingertip, as if ready to take flight.
The truth was undeniable.
Song Xian had produced a banknote whose creases Yue Shu recognized at a glance—enough to identify the last stroke of the character “note” as slightly elongated and to pinpoint the origin of the folds. What did that mean?
It meant the money in Song Xian’s possession was unmistakably from White Crane Manor—money Yue Shu knew intimately.
Song Xian had stolen from White Crane Manor!
If anyone still doubted his involvement in the massacre at White Crane Manor, they were a fool.
“Well, well! So it really was you who killed Master Yue!” Jin Poxiao’s booming voice was loud enough for spies outside to hear. “Master Song, you hid your crimes well.”
Han Xiaofeng locked eyes with Yue Shu. “How did you know?”
Yue Shu answered plainly, “When I was a child, I was mischievous. I once played with a banknote and tried tracing the character ‘note’ because it looked complicated. I messed up the last stroke—it ended up slightly longer than the standard. The rest of the strokes matched the printed text, so unless you looked closely, you wouldn’t notice.”
“My father scolded me, and I cried so hard he comforted me by folding the banknote into a paper crane to cheer me up. Later, that crane became my bookmark. I remember—before I left the manor, it was tucked inside a travelogue on the second shelf of my father’s bookcase.”
His explanation was so precise that everyone present was convinced—this banknote undeniably belonged to White Crane Manor, and Song Xian was the thief who had murdered and looted!
Who could have imagined his greed ran so deep that he’d even ransack a book for a hidden paper crane?
“You’d never find that crane unless you flipped through the book.” Tears streamed down Yue Shu’s face as he choked out, “He was after the treasure map!”
The paper crane carried childhood memories. Seeing it now unleashed a flood of grief for his father, an unstoppable torrent of longing.
“Officer Han, I beg you—bring this murderer to justice. Give my father, and the dozens of lives lost at White Crane Manor, the fairness they deserve!”
He didn’t appeal to the other martial factions for help. His earnest gaze was fixed solely on Han Xiaofeng.
The Thousand Miles Tower and Black Wind Fort cared only for profit. Golden Blade Trading Company had no ties to White Crane Manor. Young Master Wen’s poison hadn’t even been cured yet—he didn’t want to trouble them further.
After the tragedy at White Crane Manor, only the Mystic Mirror Bureau had tirelessly pursued the truth. Only they were willing to uncover what really happened.
“I came here for one purpose—to arrest the culprit.” Han Xiaofeng’s expression was grave.
Yue Shu bowed deeply.
“Thank you.”
“No need for thanks.” Han Xiaofeng turned sharply toward Song Xian. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Song Xian: “…”
He never imagined his downfall would come from a single banknote.
“A scoundrel like this should kowtow before Master Yue’s grave in apology.” Lan Ling twirled a lock of hair around her finger, her laughter lilting. “Elder Chai, don’t you agree?”
Chai Kun declared righteously, “Miss Lan speaks wisely. Song Xian, you betrayed Master Yue’s years of trust and friendship—all for a treasure map! You slaughtered everyone at White Crane Manor, and if not for Young Master Yue’s luck in escaping and providing the Mystic Mirror Bureau with clues, witnesses, and evidence, how much longer would you have kept up this act?”
“Hah! And what about you, acting so noble?” With no defense left, Song Xian dropped all pretense. “When rumors of the treasure map first spread, you all circled this inn like vultures. How are you any better than me? If any of you had known White Crane Manor held the map, you’d have done the same—killed for it!”
“You’re the murderer. Spare us your excuses.” Chai Kun snorted. “I’ll make sure the entire martial world knows of your crimes. Don’t think you’ll escape punishment.”
Song Xian threw his head back and laughed. “You think you can stop me?!”
His sword flashed from its scabbard, a blazing arc of light forcing the crowd back as he leaped toward the courtyard wall.
A slender golden thread coiled around his right ankle.
Lan Ling extended her arm—the bangle on her wrist had shot out the thread, its tensile strength far beyond what an ordinary blade could sever.
“Innkeeper Lu, this isn’t a fight—it’s apprehending a criminal. You can’t fine me for this.”
Her eyes shimmered like autumn waters, her crimson lips curved in a bewitching smile.
For once, Lu Jianwei was at a loss. “Miss Lan, you jest.”
Her attack tools had been upgraded to the sixth tier—more than enough to suppress Song Xian. But each use cost a fortune. If someone else was willing to step in, all the better.
Trapped in the golden thread, Song Xian realized escape was impossible—and reacted swiftly.
He pivoted, seizing Wei Liu by the collar and pressing his sword to her throat.
“Let me go, or I’ll kill her!”
Tao Yang cried out, “Shimei! Shifu!”
His mind was in chaos.
One was the man who had raised him, taught him martial arts. The other was his junior sister.
How had his shifu become this monstrous?
How had things come to this?
“Using your own disciple as a hostage—how desperate can you get?” A’Nai rolled his eyes. “Miss Wei, Brother Tao, with a shifu like this, you might as well cut ties and leave the sect.”
The crowd: “…”
Crude, but not wrong.
Wei Liu had long seen through Song Xian’s nature. Nothing he did surprised her now.
She stood motionless, numb, feeling the unsteady breaths of the man behind her.
How pathetic—the man she once revered had sunk to such cowardice.
"Master, I was already an orphan when you brought me to the manor, fed me, and taught me martial arts. Even if you kill me now, I would never hold a grudge," Wei Liu murmured with downcast eyes. "But could you at least tell me how Lan Shijie and Mei Shijie really died?"
Song Xian froze.
"Shimei, what do you mean by that?" Tao Yang asked, disbelief coloring his voice. "Didn’t they die in an accident while on a mission?"
He understood Wei Liu’s implication but refused to accept it.
Wei Liu lifted her gaze, her eyes hollow and desolate, offering a bitter smile.
"Tao Shixiong, sometimes I truly envy you."
"Hah," Song Xian sneered, pressing the blade closer to Wei Liu’s throat—a hair’s breadth from drawing blood. "Xiao Liu, you’ve always been my prized disciple. I’ve never wronged you."
Wei Liu shut her eyes. "You only valued me because of my martial talent—because I could handle more important tasks. To you, my skills mattered more than my body."
But for her less-talented shijies, their only worth had been their flesh.
This man had no heart. He was nothing but scum.
The others listened in stunned silence. Who could have imagined that Manor Lord Song, aside from slaughtering his sworn friend’s family, had also been running a flesh trade under the guise of taking in disciples?
*Slap!*
A sharp strike landed on Song Xian’s face, leaving a red mark that quickly swelled.
Lan Ling retracted her hand, her expression icy as she flicked her wrist disdainfully. Then she turned to Lu Jianwei, her gaze turning sweetly coy. "Proprietress Lu, this humble one couldn’t restrain her anger and gave that beast a little lesson. Surely that doesn’t count as fighting, does it?"
Lu Jianwei smiled. "Did it hurt your hand?"
"Ah, Proprietress Lu is so considerate." Lan Ling extended her fair, delicate palm. "It *does* sting terribly."
"Let Ping Wu massage it for you."
"That rough, unrefined man? How could he compare to Proprietress Lu’s gentle touch?"
Ping Wu: "…"
The crowd: *While Proprietress Lu is kind and lovely, Ping Wu might still be the gentler one here.*
Han Xiaofeng rubbed his temples in exasperation.
This was supposed to be a tense moment of apprehending a murderer—why were they still bantering like this?
For once, Song Xian’s thoughts aligned with his.
He felt utterly humiliated.
From the start, they had treated him with contempt, as if his guilt or escape meant nothing.
He was the esteemed lord of Leisurely Cloud Manor! And yet, he’d just been slapped in front of everyone!
Such indignity—he hadn’t suffered this in years.
"Han Xiaofeng! If you want another corpse on your hands, go ahead and try arresting me!" he bellowed, desperate to reclaim their attention.
Han Xiaofeng considered for a moment. "Tell me who sent you that letter, and I might let you go."
*Whether others allow it… that’s not my problem.*
Lan Ling had just slapped him effortlessly—stopping him wouldn’t be difficult. The only reason she hadn’t yet was because she wanted more entertainment.
As for Chai Kun, despite his grand moralizing, he showed no intention of intervening.
Both wanted to eliminate competition, but they’d rather let the Mystic Mirror Bureau deal with Song Xian.
If Han Xiaofeng pardoned him, these two would undoubtedly step in.
"What letter? I know nothing!" Song Xian’s blade bit into Wei Liu’s neck. "I know that cripple paid a fortune for the inn’s protection, but my disciple—"
His words cut off abruptly as he stared at his sword in shock.
No matter how hard he pressed, the blade refused to sink deeper. Not a single drop of blood marred Wei Liu’s skin.
"How?!"
He’d investigated thoroughly. Eight Directions Inn was a den of thieves—its proprietress cared only for money. Pay her, and everything would be settled.
Everyone knew Wen Zhuzhi had paid for protection, and the inn had proven its reliability time and again, ensuring his safety.
Ten thousand taels a month—an impossible sum for most.
His disciple certainly couldn’t afford it.
So why?
Why would Lu Jianwei, who treasured wealth above all, protect Wei Liu?
Every time Song Xian strained, the clatter of coins echoed in Lu Jianwei’s ears.
*Her money!*
Wei Liu was equally astonished.
She’d been prepared to die, so long as Leisurely Cloud Manor’s filth was exposed to the martial world.
Yet… *Jiejie* Lu had shielded her.
"Proprietress Lu is so unfair," Lan Ling pouted. "With me, it’s all ‘Pay up’ and ‘Show me the silver.’ But for Wei Guniang, you’re so generous!"
Lu Jianwei replied, "She calls me *jiejie*. I couldn’t just stand by."
"This humble one can call you *jiejie* too," Lan Ling purred, swaying closer.
Lu Jianwei retreated a step. "No need. You’re older than me."
Lan Ling: "…"
*"Pfft—"* A'Nai couldn’t hold back his laughter.
Done with delays, Lu Jianwei cut to the chase.
"Officer Han, if I help you capture Song Xian, does the Mystic Mirror Bureau offer a reward?"
Han Xiaofeng: "…We do."
*Of course. Even now, Proprietress Lu’s mind is on money.*
"How much?" She needed to see if the reward would cover her expenses.
Using attack tools wasn’t free.
After a brief pause, Han Xiaofeng ventured, "Five hundred taels?"
That was the highest he could authorize. The Bureau’s coffers were tight.
Given that everyone else here had paid tens of thousands just to enter, he worried it’d seem paltry.
Lu Jianwei did the math—five hundred taels equaled five hundred thousand copper coins. More than enough to crush Song Xian.
"Deal."
The moment she spoke, Song Xian channeled his full strength and lunged for the courtyard wall.
*I can’t die here!*
Then—
An invisible force descended like a divine hand, its overwhelming power slamming into him. A sixth-rank martial artist was but an ant before a towering tree.
Blood gushed from his mouth as he plummeted, crashing to the ground like a broken kite. His face turned ashen.
As he lay there, despair gripped him.
Unable to harm anyone. Unable to flee. What could he do?
"Proprietress Lu, I still need him alive for questioning," Han Xiaofeng reminded her.
That letter proved someone else was pulling the strings. Song Xian couldn’t die yet.
Lu Jianwei nodded and struck again.
The inn’s tools operated at peak efficiency for their rank. At sixth-rank, the attack tool was at its zenith—Song Xian, barely sixth-rank, stood no chance.
*"Mmph! Mmph!"* Song Fu, the servant with a mole on his eye, writhed on the ground after long silence, his glare fixed on Song Xian.
Blood trickled from Song Xian’s lips, staining the earth. At the noise, he turned to Song Fu, his eyes brimming with resentment and refusal.
After enduring so much hardship to reach this pinnacle—how could he let it end like this?
*Heaven is unjust!*
Song Fu choked out another muffled cry, veins bulging in his temples.
"Such loyalty," Jin Poxiao remarked.
Lu Jianwei studied their expressions and arched a brow, unconvinced.
It *looked* like a master-servant bond, but something felt off.
Before she could ponder further, a sudden cry rang out.
Chai Kun abruptly retreated several steps, pointing at Song Xian: "He's trying to—"
Self-detonate!
For a martial artist, self-detonation meant channeling all their inner energy and life force into a single explosive burst of destructive power. The outcome was inevitable—complete annihilation, leaving not even ashes behind.
Of course, there were limitations.
Martial artists below the fourth rank couldn’t self-detonate, as their mastery over inner energy was insufficient.
A sixth-rank martial artist’s self-detonation could devastate an area of a hundred zhang—roughly three hundred meters in modern terms. The closer to the epicenter, the more devastating the impact.
The detonation was instantaneous, capable of momentarily elevating one’s inner energy to terrifying levels. Even an eighth-rank Martial King would think twice before confronting it.
Chai Kun was the first to leap over the wall, fleeing the inn at breakneck speed.
Once Song Xian detonated, the Eight Directions Inn would be reduced to dust—or so he believed.
Lan Ling wasn’t far behind, abandoning even Ping Wu as she bolted in the opposite direction.
Han Xiaofeng could have escaped, but he chose not to.
"Young Master!" A'Nai desperately shoved Wen Zhuzhi into a room, shielding the wheelchair with his own body, his back turned to Song Xian.
Whether the inn’s hidden expert was the mysterious figure or Lu Jianwei, there was no guarantee they could protect everyone from the blast.
Uncle Zhang, Yue Shu, Xue Guanhe, and even Yan Feicang, who was in seclusion—they were all staff of the inn. If anyone was to be protected, priority would naturally go to them.
A'Nai couldn’t afford to gamble this time.
Wen Zhuzhi tightened his grip on his jade flute, his usually gentle eyes turning icy. He raised his right hand, index finger hovering over the Yinlingquan acupoint on his calf, poised to strike.
"Xiao Ke," Lu Jianwei ordered decisively, "activate the defensive artifact to protect everyone in the inn. Activate the offensive artifact to counter Song Xian’s self-detonation. Deduct the copper coins as needed."
The defensive artifact had been upgraded to the seventh rank. With enough funds to sustain it, it could shield over a dozen people present.
The same went for the offensive artifact. If the money was there, it could unleash a force even more overwhelming than the self-detonation.
The public ledger’s balance plummeted, losing several zeros in the blink of an eye.
Han Xiaofeng braced himself, channeling every ounce of his strength to resist the coming blast, already resigned to severe injuries—or worse, shattered meridians. Just as despair took hold, an invisible, indomitable barrier materialized, absorbing the full force of the explosion. A miracle at the brink of death.
And it wasn’t just him. Everyone in the courtyard felt it—a protective presence both gentle and invincible.
Shocked glances were exchanged.
Lu Jianwei hadn’t moved. That meant it was the inn’s elusive expert.
Eyes darted around, searching for the hidden master.
Lu Jianwei chuckled. "No need to look. The protection fee is already on your tab."
"Rest assured, Innkeeper Lu," Wen Zhuzhi lowered his hand, a faint smile on his lips, "ten thousand taels is hardly enough to repay a life-saving favor."
To effortlessly shield over a dozen people from a sixth-rank martial artist’s self-detonation—what kind of monstrous power was this?
Han Xiaofeng clasped his fists. "Innkeeper Lu, I owe you my life. Five hundred taels feels… inadequate."
He’d have to consider which of his properties to sell to settle this debt.
Wei Liu, Tao Yang, Feng Yan, and the others snapped out of their daze, each expressing their gratitude. Even A'Nai beamed. "Innkeeper Lu, aside from my Young Master, you’re the greatest person in the world!"
Lu Jianwei: "…"
Her voice turned stern. "Everyone, get inside and close the doors and windows."
Confused but compliant, they obeyed.
Han Xiaofeng didn’t forget Song Fu—the crucial "witness"—dragging him into the main hall.
Doors and windows sealed, they waited in tense silence.
No one dared disturb her. Wide-eyed and uneasy, they exchanged silent glances, their worry palpable.
In the courtyard, Song Xian’s self-detonation was suppressed by the artifact. As the two forces clashed, the sixth-rank energy weakened, and the inn’s public ledger took another massive hit.
Lu Jianwei’s heart ached.
At this rate, her ninety thousand taels would vanish into thin air.
"Xiao Ke, if I absorb some of that inner energy, could we save money?"
Xiao Ke: "You’re only third rank. He’s sixth. Aren’t you afraid of backlash?"
"The artifact’s suppressing it," Lu Jianwei steeled herself. "Fortune favors the bold. If I take the safe path, I’ll never leave this inn in my lifetime."
Her current rank didn’t guarantee death or injury if she ventured out, but she refused to gamble on even the slimmest odds.
She feared death, yes—but she’d rather die on the thorny road she chose than under another’s blade.
Xiao Ke: "Be careful."
Lu Jianwei took a deep breath. "Open a small gap in the defensive barrier. Let’s test it."
The invisible wall split open, and sixth-rank energy surged through like a raging tide, barreling toward her.
"Close it!"
The barrier sealed.
Her nameless cultivation technique whirred into motion.
With Song Xian’s self-detonation masking her actions, no one inside would notice her using inner energy.
Having previously helped Niu Xiaoxi neutralize a fifth-rank martial artist’s energy, she wasn’t entirely unprepared for the violent influx.
The rogue energy, now detached from its source, gradually weakened. Lu Jianwei directed her own inner force like a flood, engulfing and subduing it until it yielded, merging into her nameless energy and returning to her body.
Her rank progression bar jumped forward.
A grin broke across her face. It worked!
She repeated the process—open a gap, let energy in, close, absorb, repeat.
The energy was like premium nourishment. In moments, she surpassed 100,000 experience points, her progression bar maxing out. She broke through to the fourth rank—Martial Master.
The scales tipped further.
Now stronger, she handled the sixth-rank energy with greater ease, increasing the amount she absorbed—from droplets to a trickle, then a rushing river. Her progression bar soared, and her capacity for digestion grew.
Between the artifact’s suppression and Lu Jianwei’s voracious absorption, Song Xian’s self-detonation was confined to a tiny radius, never fully forming.
He wasn’t reduced to ashes—but his meridians were obliterated. A cripple, limp as a ragdoll, sprawled on blood-soaked earth.
"Pain" couldn’t describe his state.
Trapped between life and death, unable to do either.
But no one cared.
As the sixth-rank energy neared depletion, so did the inn’s funds. Ninety thousand taels evaporated like smoke. Lu Jianwei winced—but the exhilaration outweighed the sting.
No matter. The dozen people inside owed her their lives. Even if they couldn’t repay the full ninety thousand, surely half was manageable.
The real prize was her cultivation. Having digested a portion of the energy, she’d now broken through to the fifth rank.
A fifth-rank martial artist could hold their own in the jianghu.
With "Unaging Years" as her support, mastery of sword and blade techniques, and an arsenal of poisons for defense, she might not dominate the scene—but escape was always an option.
The gnawing fear in her heart eased considerably.
With the crisis resolved and the ledger’s deductions halted, Lu Jianwei withdrew her energy-absorbing hand.
Song Xian’s face was a mask of blood, his unblinking eyes fixed on the sky above. His mouth gaped, but only a gurgle of crimson emerged.
Aside from this, the Eight Directions Inn remained completely unscathed.
Lu Jianwei withdrew her aura, returning to a state of tranquility as she stood poised in the courtyard. Her elegant robes bore not a single drop of blood, untouched by the wind and dust, with not even a strand of hair out of place.
Inside and outside the inn, a dead silence fell.
