Futile Devices Scans

Xiling, the royal capital Fengdu.

The Wuben Pavilion on the southern side of Fengchen Hall was where the monarch usually held court discussions, yet the place Zhong Yi knew best was the Xianxiang Palace in the Western Palace.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he caught a trace of rough gentian mingled within the sandalwood incense. Passing the screen, he saw a long couch by the southern window. Two figures sat idly across from each other, engaged in a game of chess; wide sleeves in pale yellow and light crimson brushed across the board in turn.

“This humble servant, Zhong Yi, pays his respects to Your Majesty.”

Zhong Yi’s bow was crisp and efficient, but before his knees had bent even three inches, Mu Heng had already waved him off. The young man to the right, clad in a crimson court robe, rose to yield his seat, inclining his head slightly in greeting. In a smooth, gentle voice, he said with feigned warmth:

“I was just thinking the palace felt like it was missing something. So it turns out we haven’t seen Commander Zhong in quite some time—how deeply he’s been missed.”

Meeting his smiling gaze, Zhong Yi arched a brow.

“What’s with the sarcasm?”

Mu Heng ordered a seat to be brought, placing a black stone on the board as he spoke. With that move, he captured five white pieces and voiced Zhong Yi’s unspoken thought:

“Chui Yun didn’t offend you, did he?”

The young noble in red lazily dragged out his tone:

“Nothing at all—”

Turning to gaze out at the clear sky, its brilliant azure reflected in his eyes, he sighed deeply with theatrical melancholy:

“It’s just a pity… such splendid rivers and mountains, such beautiful scenery, such a flourishing age of prosperity—and I, alas, am fated never to enjoy them.”

Zhong Yi accepted a teacup from an attendant, lowering his gaze to savor it intently, as if he had suddenly gone deaf.

“Chui Yun is going out on official business. If we let you roam free, would anyone even be able to find you again?” Mu Heng was completely unmoved, ruthlessly exposing him. “And Wei Shu Chen, don’t think you can dodge defeat just by changing the subject.”

Wei Fu remained staring out the window, utterly motionless, as though he too had suddenly gone deaf.

Mu Heng tapped the table. “If you can’t win, then—”

“I have lost.”

A soft, lingering sigh suddenly drifted from the window:

“Your Majesty is right. I have been utterly defeated…”

He admitted defeat so readily that Mu Heng almost suspected he had misheard. The next moment, Wei Fu somehow produced a handkerchief, dabbed at the nonexistent tears at the corner of his eyes, and began reciting with great emotion:

“I am unable to toil for Your Majesty and share in Your burdens, nor can I even accompany Your Majesty in a satisfying game of chess. I receive the court’s salary in vain, yet achieve nothing—truly I have failed the state and shamed Your Majesty’s cultivation.”

“The Wei family has long received imperial grace; our reputation must not be ruined in my hands. Ancestors above, this unfilial descendant shall now descend to pay his respects—”

Mu Heng: “……”

Throwing a tantrum after failing to cheat at chess was Wei Fu’s usual trick—but Mu Heng had not expected his bottom line to sink so low as to threaten death over it. Exchanging a glance with Zhong Yi, Mu Heng waved his hand wearily, signaling: you deal with him.

Zhong Yi watched him with a silent smile. Only after he had laughed enough did he slowly speak:

“Your Majesty, at the beginning of this month, the Egret Guards stationed in Xianglian City reported a suspicious arson-murder case. I was ordered to leave the capital to investigate, and have now roughly grasped its course. However, the case is deeply entangled, with several unclear points remaining. Since Attendant Wei happens to be here today—and he is always cautious and meticulous, and ever eager to, ahem, serve Your Majesty—perhaps he might postpone filial duties for now and assist in examining this case?”

Mu Heng still remembered Zhong Yi’s earlier smile. Before Wei Fu could speak, he said flatly:

“Oh? You command sixteen divisions of the Egret Guards, with so many capable men under you, and yet there are still details you cannot see through?”

The ruler of Xiling commanded two personal guard forces: one called the Crow Guards—symbolizing the ominous warning of crows—who operated in the shadows year-round, handling tasks unfit for the light; the other called the Egret Guards—symbolizing the white egret craning its neck in watchfulness—stationed across the sixteen cities of Xiling, independent of local officials and answering only to the central authority.

The Egret Guards held extraordinary status. Outside, they could act with near impunity. For Zhong Yi, their commander, such a question from the emperor—if asked in another setting—would amount to a stern warning:

“We are incompetent; we ask Your Majesty’s forgiveness. The case is complex, and the Egret Guards are still investigating. I merely thought that by pooling ideas, we might uncover new leads.”

Even if Wei Fu wished to feign ignorance, he could not allow Zhong Yi to shoulder the blame of “incompetence.” He immediately interjected:

“If there is any fault in Commander Zhong, it is excessive modesty. Your Majesty reproaches him out of deep regard. The Egret Guards are Your Majesty’s right hand, with countless merits to its name. If that counts as incompetence, then we idle ones ought to find a beam to hang ourselves from.”

Mu Heng nodded approvingly. “Rare that you possess such self-awareness. In future, don’t use your ancestors as an excuse.”

Zhong Yi barely suppressed a laugh. Wei Fu’s expression shifted instantly; with a flick of his wrist, his folding fan snapped open. Elegant and composed, he said:

“Your Majesty’s lesson is just. Since ancient times, loyalty and filial piety are hard to fulfill together; naturally, personal feelings must come after affairs of state. Since Commander Zhong has spoken thus, I will certainly devote myself fully to sharing Your Majesty’s burdens.”

Mu Heng leaned back slightly from the cool breeze of the fan. “You really know how to give yourself a way out.”

“That is only thanks to Your Majesty’s tolerance,” Wei Fu replied with a smile, covering his mouth with the fan. “That is why this servant dares to be so presumptuous.”

Zhong Yi sat to the side, cradling his teacup as he watched the spectacle. Perhaps he had been away too long—returning to familiar surroundings, he relaxed without realizing it, even letting his thoughts drift for a moment at such a time.

The Wei family had been a noble house for generations. When Mu Heng was young and in poor health, he had been sent there to be raised. Zhong Yi served as his personal guard. The three had grown up together, childhood companions with a bond far from ordinary. Mu Heng’s tolerance toward them sometimes bordered on indulgence—otherwise, how could a minister get away with cheating at chess and throwing tantrums, with even the emperor smoothing things over?

Yet origins differed, positions differed; even among ministers, there were differences. After Mu Heng ascended the throne, Zhong Yi gradually learned to consider matters from a subject’s standpoint, instinctively maintaining the proper distance. But the ever-smooth Wei Fu was uniquely inept in this regard—just as carefree as before, as though Mu Heng were still that fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy, veins throbbing in his forehead from annoyance.

Had he never once suspected that the naive bonds of youth might one day be worn away by suspicion?

It was nearly the season for padded jackets. Fearing he might fan himself into illness, Mu Heng flicked a chess piece at him. “Put that away.”

Wei Fu caught it casually, closed his fan with grace, and tapped it lightly against his palm before returning the white stone to the box.

“I am also curious—what kind of peculiar case could possibly trouble the all-capable Commander Zhong?”

“Chui Yun?”

“This servant is here.”

Zhong Yi gathered his wandering thoughts and, after a brief pause, finally found a thread in the tangled mess to begin:

“The case occurred on the twentieth day of the eighth month. A residential house in Xianglian City caught fire. After the blaze was extinguished, officials discovered two corpses in the ruins. According to investigation, one of the deceased was a silk merchant named Song Man, originally from Dongyu.  He settled in Xianglian City three years ago. Under his name were six branches of Dongfu Cloth House, with business spanning four southern cities. His wealth was considerable. It is said he was mild-mannered and low-profile, with little interaction with neighbors—somewhat reclusive.”

“The second deceased is unidentified. Around forty years old, he was referred to by the Song household as ‘Mr. Lin.’ He was very close to Song Man but not involved in the cloth business—likely serving as a private advisor. It is said he was skilled in martial arts, and Song Man treated him with great respect, obeying him in all matters.”

“On the night of the incident, Song Man summoned a troupe of musicians and two courtesan-singers from Zuihong Tower to entertain at his residence. Around the end of the hour of Hai, neighbors discovered the Song residence ablaze. The fire began in the inner courtyard and spread rapidly. All the household servants had been drugged with knockout powder, preventing effective rescue. By the time the fire was extinguished, the inner courtyard had been reduced to ashes, and the bodies burned beyond recognition.”

“Later, when officials interrogated the musicians and courtesans from Zuihong Tower, they unanimously denied ever going to the Song residence that night. The records at Zuihong Tower clearly show that the banquet was scheduled for the night of the twenty-first day of the eighth month.”

Mu Heng traced a clear line through the information:

“In other words, a group impersonated the musicians and courtesans, infiltrated the Song residence, killed the master and his advisor, and then set fire to the estate. What was their motive? Robbery and murder?”

Zhong Yi shook his head lightly. “Aside from what was burned, the Song family’s gold and valuables were untouched.”

Mu Heng asked again, “How are you certain the deceased are Song Man and that advisor surnamed Lin?”

“That concern is precisely what the Egret Guards suspect as well. After all, the trick of ‘shedding the cicada’s shell’ is nothing new,” Zhong Yi replied. “After arriving in Xianglian City, I had several coroners reexamine the bodies and gathered the household servants to identify them. We are now eight or nine parts certain of their identities.”

Elio’s Notes: the idiom meant slipping out of a predicament like a cicada sloughing its skin—escape by cunning maneuvering.

Wei Fu cast him a thoughtful glance.

“If it is not ‘shedding the cicada’s shell’, nor simple robbery, then it must be revenge,” Mu Heng said. “Shu Chen, what do you think?”

For once, the usually talkative Young Master Wei remained quiet through Zhong Yi’s account. Only when called upon did he speak calmly:

“Your Majesty’s reasoning is sound. I share the same view. What is unusual about this case is the method of the ‘avenger.’ The deceased likely offended no ordinary person.”

Mu Heng’s curiosity was piqued. “Explain.”

Wei Fu said, “Since the killer drugged all the servants, it shows he did not want interference. But why choose a night when the Song residence was hosting a banquet? Was he not afraid of alarming other guests?”

Mu Heng froze, turning to Zhong Yi. Zhong Yi answered solemnly:

“Your Majesty, there were no other guests at the Song residence that night.”

Not a festival, no visitors—why would Song Man suddenly summon musicians for a private banquet?

“Let us set that aside,” Wei Fu continued. “Suppose Master Song simply had a sudden whim to hear music. The killer seized this opportunity, impersonated the steward to book Zuihong Tower for the twenty-first, then switched places and entered disguised as musicians—yet here lies another inconsistency.”

Mu Heng: “Why?”

Seeing he had not realized it, Wei Fu gently prompted:

“Your Majesty, the Song household invited not one musician, but a troupe—plus two courtesans. That night, at least six or seven killers infiltrated the residence. Song Man was merely a merchant—what merit did he have to warrant such a force for his assassination?”

“Assassination.”

Mu Heng seized upon the change in wording. Not just anyone warranted an “assassination.” If it took ten men to kill one, then that one man must be tied to interests affecting thousands.

“The killers scouted in advance, infiltrated in disguise, struck decisively, then burned all traces. The operation was disciplined, orderly, and well-staffed—not like a hastily assembled group, but more like professionals,” Wei Fu said leisurely. “Such careful planning, such patience—yet all for a ‘mere merchant’…”

“So, Chui Yun,” Mu Heng said, his gaze sharpening, “what exactly is so special about this ‘Song Man’ you investigated?”

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