Chapter Thirty-One: A Conspiracy

After listening to Lan Qirou’s account, Feng Yuan nodded. It was the tale of a talented scholar and a beautiful maiden, yet the ending was regrettably tragic, leaving one with a sense of sorrow.

“Miss Lan, my condolences,” Feng Yuan said, looking at her consolingly. “There is something I do not understand—why are you trapped inside the painting?”

“Master Feng, I do not understand it myself. After I regained consciousness, I found I was already imprisoned within the painting. There is a strange power in this picture. Whenever I stray more than a few hundred meters away, that power forcibly pulls me back. Because of this, I have no way to leave and seek out Huang Lang for an explanation. The painting itself cannot be taken far from this room either—should someone try, it is drawn back as well, and I would suffer excruciating pain.”

As Lan Qirou spoke, Feng Yuan became even more perplexed. At first glance, the motive for Young Master Huang to kill Lan Qirou seemed obvious—perhaps he had grown tired of her, wanted to cast her aside after indulging his whims, and killed her simply to be rid of her. Yet, upon closer inspection, this was clearly not a mere crime of passion.

Lan Qirou was killed, then trapped within the painting, and the painting itself was confined to the chamber. This meant that even if someone wished to help her by taking the painting away, it would be in vain—she was meant to be imprisoned, unable to reincarnate, doomed to become a vengeful spirit and remain here forever.

None of this could be coincidence; it was all by design. It was a conspiracy.

If Young Master Huang simply wished to escape Lan Qirou’s entanglement, he could have killed her outright. Why go so far as to imprison her spirit in a painting? Was it not a deliberate act of cruelty?

The two had once been lovers. Even if Huang despised her, surely he would not resort to such a vicious end—killing her and then condemning her soul to eternal torment, to wander as a lonely ghost. Such malice did not befit a scholar. Could it be that Lan Qirou harbored some great enmity toward him, perhaps even the murder of a parent? Impossible.

Something was amiss—gravely so. This Huang Lang was no ordinary scholar. After all, an ordinary man could not possibly trap a spirit inside a painting, nor would he likely know such things were possible. Yet Huang Lang did, and accomplished it. He resembled the sorcerers from tales, those wielders of arcane power.

Of course, one could not conclude for certain that Huang was responsible. After all, Lan Qirou lost consciousness upon her death, and only became aware again once trapped in the painting. She had not seen with her own eyes who had done this. Thus, whether Huang was the true culprit was yet uncertain.

Still, it seemed unlikely he was uninvolved. Only by finding him and asking directly could the truth be known.

With this in mind, Feng Yuan looked at Lan Qirou and asked, “Do you know why Young Master Huang killed you?”

“I do not,” Lan Qirou shook her head. “He always treated me well. The killing came without warning—I never suspected a thing.”

Feng Yuan nodded and continued, “Miss Lan, what do you wish for now? Do you want vengeance—do you mean to kill him? Or do you still love him?”

“I love him, and I wish to kill him!” Lan Qirou replied, her eyes searching Feng Yuan’s face. Her feelings for Huang Lang were a tangled knot of love and hatred, an unwillingness to accept her fate.

“Very well. Then, if I may be so bold, I suspect your death is part of a conspiracy,” Feng Yuan said, explaining his suspicions to her.

“Master Feng, that is what I suspect as well. I simply cannot bring myself to believe that Huang Lang would treat me thus...,” Lan Qirou said, tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks, her face quickly bathed in sorrow.

Feng Yuan nodded in understanding. In his previous life, many men were like Lan Qirou, believing their lovers incapable of betrayal—until the moment they caught another man in the act with their wives, only then realizing the truth. Some, even after knowing, would endure in silence, unwilling to let go, sacrificing everything for a goddess who never truly loved them—men known in his day as “devoted fools.”

“Miss Lan, do not grieve. From the moment he killed you, he was no longer worthy of your tears,” Feng Yuan consoled her.

“Alas, such words are easily spoken, Master Feng. You are not in my place, and cannot know the pain,” she replied, shaking her head.

Feng Yuan had to admit she was right—one cannot truly know another’s suffering until one has endured the wound oneself.

“Master Feng, I have a favor to ask. Help me find Huang Lang and bring him here. I must ask him face to face why he killed me.”

“That is no problem. But do you know where he lives?”

“I do not. I have been trapped here for decades, unable to leave or gather news. I can only rely on you, Master Feng. If you can help me fulfill this wish, I will reward you handsomely—please, I beg you!”

With that, Lan Qirou knelt before Feng Yuan. He hurriedly reached out to help her up.

“Please, Miss Lan, there’s no need for this. I cannot promise I will find him, but I shall do my utmost,” Feng Yuan assured her.

“Then I thank you, Master Feng,” she said. “After you leave, go to the poplar grove outside the west of the city. Find the tree with a carved inscription. Dig beneath the characters, and there you will find a thousand taels of silver as an advance. When it is done, I will give you ten times that amount.”

“Thank you, Miss Lan!” Feng Yuan replied with a grateful nod.

“But Master Feng, if you should deceive me, I will not forgive you!” she warned.

“I would not dare. As a scholar, I have sworn before the sages—my word is my bond. I would never deceive you!”

Feng Yuan hastened to reassure her, wary of angering this ghostly woman. He had little confidence he could defeat her; she seemed full of vitality, and the blow he’d struck her with last night had scarcely harmed her. Caution was best.

“Very well, I trust you, Master Feng. I will trouble you no further in the future. As for these three corpses, please see them disposed of. They were evil men, and I killed them for the good of the people.”

She gestured to the bodies of Feng Fugui and his two companions.

He had nearly forgotten about them. Glancing at the corpses, he quickly asked, “They will not attack me, will they?”

“No, their souls are gone—they are but empty shells. Burn them or bury them as you wish.”

Feng Yuan nodded. “Very well, I shall come back tonight. Daytime is inconvenient.”

“Go, then. And do not bring any more black dog’s blood—it is useless against me. That only works on newly formed, feeble spirits,” Lan Qirou said.

Feng Yuan felt a little embarrassed and quickly concealed the bottle of dog’s blood behind his back. Nodding, he said, “Then I shall take my leave.”

With that, he hurried away, still a little fearful—what if Lan Qirou changed her mind?