Chapter 93

Chapter 93

The prison of the Capital Prefecture lacked the gloom of the Listening Terrace's imperial prison, carrying instead a stale air of bureaucratic paperwork.

The interrogation room was not an underground stone chamber but a side chamber, with high, small windows, letting in a few weak rays of daylight that illuminated the dust motes floating in the air.

The room was simple, with mottled plaster walls, a long table, and two chairs—that was all.

Wen Buchi sat in one of the chairs. He was not in shackles or prison garb, still wearing his uniform as Seal Keeper of the Listening Terrace, with his outer cloak removed and folded beside him.

He sat upright, back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees, his eyelids slightly lowered.

Across from him, the Capital Vice Prefect Wang Zhigong sat on pins and needles.

This case had originally been handled directly by the Capital Prefect Yan, but that morning, the highest executive officer of the Capital Prefecture had been summoned to the palace and had not yet returned, leaving this hot potato for his deputy, Wang Zhigong.

Wang Zhigong, in his early forties, had a round face covered in a fine sheen of oily sweat. Before him lay the case files, along with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, but he had yet to write a word.

Wang Zhigong felt like a lump of cotton was stuck in his throat. He cleared it again and again before finally speaking, his voice hoarse: "Lord Wen... Lord Wen, today... today I am to interrogate—" He quickly corrected himself: "Inquire! Inquire of you..."

Wen Buchi looked up. "Vice-Prefect Wang is only doing his duty. Please, ask away."

That gaze was clear and cold, like early winter well water, sending a shiver through Wang Zhigong.

He adjusted the collar that seemed to choke him, sat up straight, and said in a businesslike tone, "I wouldn't dare, I wouldn't dare. I'm just following procedure to go over a few more details..."

He cleared his throat again and continued, "On the night when Third Master Wen... when Master Wen Shuyi met his end, you, my lord, were indeed on duty at the official residence and did not leave?"

"Yes." Wen Buchi answered succinctly. "All the clerks and guards on duty that day can testify to that."

"Yes, yes, I have checked. The witnesses hold up..." Wang Zhigong said hastily.

"As for Master Wen Shuyi's habit of favoring incense, do you know...? The investigation says the last batch of incense he used was bought from the south a month ago and shipped via—"

"The distribution channels for goods in the capital are controlled by the Ministry of Works via the waterways," Wen Buchi cut him off. "Otherwise, the Xue and He families run the docks. Could I have tampered with it en route? Did I even have the chance?"

His tone was steady, betraying no emotion, but it made Wang Zhigong's back even damper.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," he said, wiping his sweat and forcing himself to state the motive: "It's just... Lord Wen's complaint mentions that you and Master Wen Shuyi have long had... some friction... At last year's Wen family banquet, you even argued over some matter?"

Before the words had fully died away, the room fell silent for a moment.

Everyone in the capital knew that the Wen family's fourth son had been estranged from his family since childhood, suffering countless slights. A quarrel at last year's family banquet? It was far more than just a quarrel at that banquet.

Wen Buchi didn't answer right away. He looked deep into Wang Zhigong, his gaze seeming to pierce through him, landing on some distant, frozen point in space.

Hatred? Naturally, there was hatred.

Those open and veiled belittlings, the countless humiliations, had all come from his so-called blood relatives. Wen Shuyi was just one of them, not the only one. Now that he was dead, Wen Buchi could only remain silent, without a sound.

That hatred was fate's fatal joke—on the Wen family, on Wen Shuyi, and on himself.

Then, his own biological father, in the most decisive and public way, thrust him into this trial for fratricide.

Behind him was the family's long-standing aversion and now their kicking him while he was down. Before him was the emperor's unfathomable silence and the cold gaze of the whole court.

Empty, all alone.

It had always been empty, all alone.

A wave of deep weariness washed over him. Defend himself? To whom? Why bother? The air in this room reeked of the Wen family's nauseating, selfish hypocrisy.

Slowly, quietly, he let out a soft breath, and his voice dropped.

"The family banquet... there was indeed an argument."

He paused, as if gathering the last of his strength to continue.

"I shouldn't have gone."

That was it. No further explanation.

No account of the reasons, no defense of the motive, just a statement of fact—a simple 'discord' between blood relatives who were little more than strangers. As to whether this 'discord' was enough to constitute a motive for murder, he left it for the listener to decide.

As for the complex schemes requiring months of preparation over a thousand miles, he didn't even bother to refute them. That was too tiring, and it gave too much credit to this 'accusation.'

Wang Zhigong was stunned. He had anticipated that Wen Buchi would respond with cold rebuttals or watertight counterattacks, but he never expected such a weary, desolate air of giving up.

Beneath the simple words 'I shouldn't have gone' lay a bone-deep chill and a deadened heart. This was more painful to Wang Zhigong than any threatening official authority. The pain came not only from the unexpectedness of it but also from the most instinctive human compassion.

His throat went dry. The next question he had prepared lodged in his throat, almost impossible to voice.

"I understand... but... the plaintiff has lodged his complaint... I have no choice but to..."

Wang Zhigong's voice grew weaker, almost a murmur to himself.

This was not an attempt to secure a way out by seeking the powerful minister's forgiveness. When he said 'I understand,' he meant it. He had heard clearly what was behind Wen Buchi's resigned 'I shouldn't have gone'—an admission that he had poor relations with them, that he was alone, that they were like enemies despite being blood kin.

Wang Zhigong understood: Wen Buchi wasn't 'admitting guilt,' he was 'letting go.'

Wen Buchi no longer looked at him. His eyelids drooped again. The dim light cast a small, solitary shadow on the side of his bowed face.

He seemed to be sitting alone in the midst of ruins, surrounded by the rubble of his family, with a sword dangling overhead, and he didn't seem willing to lift a hand to brush away the dust.

After a very long time, Wen Buchi spoke again, as if to himself.

"The petitioner is my own father," he said, his tone weary through and through. "He's accusing his own son. He has his reasons. Vice-Prefect Wang need only handle the case according to the law. You don't need to consider my status, and even less should you speculate on His Majesty's mind."

The last four words were slightly emphasized.

Wang Zhigong's heart raced. He didn't dare meet Wen Buchi's eyes.

Not speculate on His Majesty's intentions? Who in the court didn't speculate these days?

After Wen Buchi was imprisoned, the emperor had neither inquired nor issued an order for a thorough investigation, nor hinted at release. This attitude itself weighed like a great stone on everyone's chest.

Was it disfavor? A strategic maneuver? Or a deeper test?

He was just a mere vice prefect, caught in this towering wave. One misstep and he would be crushed to dust.

"Lord Wen, you go too far..." Wang Zhigong said, his voice weak, forcing himself to calm down. "I... I just think this case is suspicious. The 'Drunken Incense' is potent, and when mixed into burning incense, it works even faster. But according to the coroner's examination, Master Wen Shuyi's... um... remains showed no sign of great suffering, as if he died suddenly while lost in a hallucination. In my humble opinion, if someone really planned to harm someone with such forethought, why not pick a more covert, more painful method? This is so conspicuous..."

He stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

But Wen Buchi raised his eyes slightly and looked at him for a moment. That gaze seemed to see right through him, making Wang Zhigong feel utterly exposed.

As an official, especially one serving under the emperor's watchful eye, extending an olive branch required extreme caution. You couldn't just throw out a line. Perhaps it was because Wen Buchi's situation was truly heartbreaking, or perhaps because Wang Zhigong was kind by nature, that he inadvertently let slip a hint, revealing his desire to lend Wen Buchi a hand.

"Vice-Prefect Wang means to say that this method doesn't look like murder," Wen Buchi said slowly. "It looks like a show of force. Or... a setup."

This remark terrified Wang Zhigong, sweat pouring down his face, and he dared not utter a single word in response.

Just then, a soft knock came at the door of the interrogation room.

Wang Zhigong, as if given a reprieve, said, "Enter!"

A constable in black robes bowed and entered, quickly stepping to Wang Zhigong's side. He leaned in and whispered a few urgent words.

Wang Zhigong's expression changed several times, finally settling into a complex mix of fear and unease. He then instinctively glanced at Wen Buchi.

Wen Buchi had already withdrawn his gaze, lowering his eyes to stare at the tabletop as if utterly indifferent to everything.

The constable withdrew, and the room fell silent again, but this silence carried a new weight.

Wang Zhigong returned to his chair but could no longer regain his earlier composure. He picked up his brush several times only to set it down again, the words on the case files seeming to waver before his eyes.

"Lord Wen... my subordinates just reported that Marquis Nan... went to your residence to visit your father..."

That Nan Wuxie had gone to the Wen household to see Wen Jiucheng was news that was expected yet still seemed unreasonable.

Wen Buchi didn't even flutter an eyelash, only uttering a faint, "Oh?"

"He... also brought many precious medicinal herbs and tonics," Wang Zhigong added, carefully observing Wen Buchi's reaction.

Wen Buchi was sparing in his response, merely sitting there with lowered eyes, neither anxious nor hurried.

"The Marquis of Nan always does as he pleases."

Another single sentence, eight words, without even a glance. Wang Zhigong felt a chill creep up from the soles of his feet.

Who was Nan Wuxie? Everyone in the court knew how much he had contributed to the downfall of the Ji family—a man who truly lived on the knife's edge, fearing nothing. For him to visit the Wen residence at this juncture—what did it mean?

Just thinking of this man made Wang Zhigong feel as if the seat of the Metropolitan Deputy Magistrate was burning hot enough to kill him. Especially the latter half of what the constable had whispered: before leaving, the Marquis said to Lord Wen, 'You are blessed, Lord Wen, with four sons and a house full of children and grandchildren. But blessings are like willow catkins in the sky—if you don't grasp them, they vanish.'

Not a single word touched directly on the case, yet none could be more chilling than a direct warning.

Nan Wuxie was coming for Wen Jiucheng—no, he was coming for this case! Already unnerved by facing the man second only to the emperor, Wen Buchi, now this Nan Wuxie had thrown himself into the mix!

How was this case supposed to be tried?

Could it even be tried at all?

He sighed.

Wang Zhigong's Adam's apple bobbed, and he could no longer bring himself to ask further. At this moment, he fervently hoped the Prefect would return from the palace. He wanted nothing more than to avoid this murky water.

Time trickled by under oppressive, silent pressure. The light from the high window shifted gradually from pale to dusky yellow.

Wen Buchi maintained his posture throughout, like a jade carving devoid of warmth. But his inner state was far from the calm appearance—only he knew the storm raging inside him at this moment:

*He still got involved, in that arrogant, domineering, reckless way.*

This stirred a complex mix of emotions within Wen Buchi—a trace of irritation, a deeper bitterness, and even something he was unwilling to admit, like the gasp of a climber catching a vine after a fall.

They were still in a cold war; he should not have intervened. Yet that man had still waded into this mess.

*Fool...* Wen Buchi cursed inwardly.

Such a veiled warning, such an overt action—in the eyes of others, what a blatant piece of leverage it would provide.

*Idiot...* he cursed again.

Wang Zhigong was already restless, frequently glancing toward the door.

Finally, a somewhat hurried set of footsteps approached from afar and stopped outside the door.

A chief clerk pushed the door open, his expression tense, and bowed to Wang Zhigong: "Deputy Magistrate, the Prefect has returned to the office."

Wang Zhigong let out a long breath, nearly collapsing with relief, and scrambled to his feet: "Quick, invite him in..."

Before he could finish, a middle-aged man with a gaunt and stern face had already stepped inside.

Yan Ruzheng's gaze first swept across Wang Zhigong's panicked face, then settled on Wen Buchi, who sat calmly.

Wen Buchi slowly raised his head, meeting Yan Ruzheng's eyes.

Their eyes locked.

Yan Ruzheng clasped his hands in a respectful salute. "Lord Wen, I have kept you waiting."

Wen Buchi gave a slight nod in return, saying nothing.

Yan Ruzheng walked to the main seat and sat down. Wang Zhigong immediately handed over the case files and records before retreating to the side.

Yan Ruzheng quickly flipped through the pages; the only sound was the rustle of paper.

After finishing, he closed the file and looked up.

"Lord Wen," he began, his voice clear in the dim room, "today His Majesty summoned me to inquire about this case."

He paused, studying Wen Buchi's expression.

Yan Ruzheng continued, each word crisp and forceful: "His Majesty has issued a verbal decree—'The case of Wen Shuyi is to be handed over to the Metropolitan Prefecture for thorough investigation according to law, with neither leniency nor injustice.'"

Neither leniency nor injustice.

Four words, like four blocks of ice, crashed into the silent interrogation room.

Wang Zhigong held his breath.

Wen Buchi listened quietly, still offering no reaction.

Perhaps only the gods in heaven knew that deep within Wen Buchi's eyes, reflecting the dim yellow light, something sank gently, falling into an even colder abyss.

Li Sheng had not extended a hand to save him, nor had he even given a hint of "discretion."

He had simply pushed the case entirely back onto the track of law and procedure.

On this track, Wen Buchi was the suspect of fratricide, accused by his own father, the Seal Keeper of the Listening Terrace, under the watchful eyes of all.

Yan Ruzheng's gaze was like a scale, weighing every word: "Since His Majesty has made his intent clear, I will naturally fulfill my duty. Lord Wen, from now on, I must ask you to move to temporarily reside in the mansion's side chambers. Some evidence verification and witness interviews will require your cooperation."

From the interrogation room to the "temporary residence" in the side chambers—though not a prison, it was still house arrest.

Wen Buchi slowly rose to his feet, his robes brushing against the chair.

"That's as it should be," he said, his voice as steady as a placid lake, betraying no ripple. "I appreciate your trouble, Magistrate Yan."

With that, without looking at anyone else, he strode straight out the door.

His steps were firm, his silhouette stark and solitary, merging into the deepening dark.

Yan Ruzheng watched him leave. After a long moment, he finally looked away and turned his gaze to the dossier on the table, his brows deeply furrowed.

Wang Zhigong edged closer, lowering his voice, still trembling with residual fear: "Magistrate Yan, His Majesty's intent—"

Yan Ruzheng raised a hand to cut him off.

He gazed out the window at the last vestiges of daylight, his tone heavy:

"A storm is brewing."

"And it's not just one."