My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

The bells of Jinguang Temple echoed in the twilight.

At the end of the mountain road, the sedan chair was still slowly going uphill.

On the other side of the mountain, on the official road leading to Jingyang Prefecture, a green horse was galloping towards them.

The man on horseback was dressed in a black close-fitting outfit, with a matching cloak over it, a goose-feather knife hanging at his waist, and his hair was tied tightly with a blue cloth, not a single strand of it showing.

He had delicate features, a slightly dark complexion from years of travel, and a sharp jawline, making it impossible to tell whether he was male or female.

The woodcutter who was resting at the entrance of the mountain road looked up and saw the man dismount his horse with a swift and clean motion, landing silently.

He led the horse a few steps up the mountain path, looked up at the temple with gray tiles and red walls in the twilight, and then stopped.

"May I ask, sir," the voice was clear and emotionless, "is that the Golden Light Temple ahead?"

The woodcutter nodded, then asked, "Young master, are you here to offer incense?"

"Seek justice."

Upon hearing those four words, the woodcutter dared not ask any more questions, picked up his bundle of firewood, and hurriedly went down the mountain.

The man ignored them, tied his horse to an old pine tree by the roadside, untied the leather pouch from his waist, took out a dry biscuit, and ate it while gazing at the mountainside.

His gaze was calm, as if he were looking at prey that he had been waiting for three days.

Her name is Shen Zhaoyue, a seventh-rank official in the Six Doors (a government agency).

She is also the only woman to have been appointed as a head constable in the 100-year history of the Six Doors.

Three months ago, the Jingyang Prefecture reported eighteen cases of missing persons.

At first, it was just ordinary.

Every year, missing persons reports from various places fill the archives, but most of them are never resolved.

But these eighteen cases are different.

The missing persons include both men and women, ranging in age from twelve to forty.

Some were farmers coming to the city to sell vegetables, some were peddlers going from street to street, and some were widows going to the temple to burn incense.

They came from different counties and towns and had never crossed paths with each other. The only thing they had in common was that the last time they were seen by someone was near the east gate of Jingyang Prefecture.

When Shen Zhaoyue took over, the files were already covered with a thin layer of dust.

The former head constable wrote four words: suspected human trafficking.

After reviewing the case file, she crossed out the word "suspected".

Over the next three months, she traveled to all seven counties under the jurisdiction of Jingyang Prefecture, visited twelve families of victims, and saw six unrecognizable corpses.

Every time the investigation reaches a crucial point, the clues are deliberately cut off.

Witnesses changed their stories, insiders happened to be away on a long trip, and even two victims suddenly moved out, leaving their houses empty.

Someone didn't want her to continue the investigation.

That person held a high position and had a very long reach.

The day before yesterday, she met with her informant at a teahouse in the prefectural city. The informant only said four words: "Jinguang Temple".

The informant disappeared that night.

Before dawn, Shen Zhaoyue left the city alone on horseback.

......

The green horse snorted.

Shen Zhaoyue snapped out of her thoughts, stuffed the last bite of the dry biscuit into her mouth, and swallowed it along with the water pouch.

She looked up at the mountain path in the twilight and saw two women escorting a small sedan chair slowly going uphill.

A woman in red was sitting in the sedan chair, her face veiled.

She squinted.

If you're not going to escort a bride to her home, why would you escort her to a temple halfway up a mountain?

My hand is already on the knife handle.

But a moment later, she relaxed.

She had seen far too many women like that.

In this land, each village has its own rules; some rules are written on paper, while others are ingrained in the very bones and blood.

The sword of the Six Doors can cut through iron chains, but it cannot cut through the chains in people's hearts.

Now is not the time to take action.

She took two steps back and disappeared into the shadow of the pine tree.

The sedan chair passed by her hiding place at a distance of three zhang (approximately 10 meters). The heavy breathing of the sedan chair bearers, the rustling footsteps of the woman, and the motionless red veil of the woman in the sedan chair were all heard.

Shen Zhaoyue watched the sedan chair disappear into the temple gate.

She tightened the leather pouch around her waist and slowly chewed the dry biscuit crumbs in her mouth.

She suddenly looked down at her hand holding the knife.

These hands have handled thirty-seven major cases, captured notorious bandits, and slain mountain demons and wild monsters.

Some people in the Six Doors secretly called her "the reincarnation of Commander Zuo"—a legendary figure from a hundred years ago who, with a mortal body, slew thirteen demons in succession.

He was posthumously granted the title of Earl of Zhongwu, and his portrait still hangs in the main hall of the Criminal Investigation Department.

She never thought she was anything special.

A mortal body is just a mortal body. Even if you cultivate to the top and kill a few insignificant mountain spirits and monsters, you'll still be no match for a truly powerful evil cultivator.

But so what?

She gripped the knife handle tightly.

The evening bell of Jinguang Temple rang again.

Shen Zhaoyue looked up and saw that dusk was falling, and the outline of the temple was gradually merging into the darkness.

The candlelight inside the hall appeared exceptionally bright, like a half-closed eye opening from the darkness.

......

Aunt Wang and the others escorted Ye Qingfeng to a room before leaving.

The footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor, and the door creaked shut.

Ye Qingfeng stood alone by the couch, her face still covered by a red veil.

He didn't move, nor did he rush to lift the lid; he simply stood quietly, listening for the footsteps to completely disappear.

The room was very quiet.

The candlelight burned, occasionally crackling softly.

The night was deep outside the window, and the chirping of insects came from the mountains and fields, sometimes near and sometimes far.

A certain incense was burning in the incense burner in the corner of the room. The scent was strong and had a subtle, almost imperceptible sweetness.

Ye Qingfeng frowned slightly.

This smells off.

Ordinary people will only feel relaxed after smelling it, but will feel drowsy after smelling it for a while.

But his mind was clear, and the sweet taste that had just entered his nostrils was cleansed by the incomparably sharp sword intent.

He didn't make a sound and remained standing.

If you're going to act, then act to the very end.

A quarter of an hour passed.

Half an hour passed.

There was still no movement outside the hall.

Ye Qingfeng wondered to himself—what kind of tricks are these monks playing?

According to Ah Niu, in the past, when girls were sent to the temple, Abbot Huiming would personally "bless" them, without exception.

Today, however, he has been left here alone, never to return.

There must be a demon in the abnormal situation.

Just as he was about to unleash his divine sense to investigate, footsteps suddenly came from outside the hall.

It wasn't just one person's footsteps.

There were five people, their steps unsteady, shuffling, interspersed with suppressed laughter and hiccups.

The door was pushed open.

A wave of alcoholic fumes rushed in, dispelling the sweet and cloying aroma in the hall.

"Hehe, Master said we should have some fun today—"

"Master is so kind!"

"Keep your voice down, don't let anyone hear..."

Several monks squeezed into the hall and clumsily closed the door.

Ye Qingfeng peeked through the gap in the red veil and saw that there were five people who had entered.

They were all wearing gray monk robes, the lapels open, revealing their greasy chests, and their faces showed signs of alcohol and a certain barely suppressed excitement.

The fat man at the front, carrying a wine jug, took a swig and moved closer to the couch.

"Bride, have you been waiting long?"

He reached out to lift the red veil.

Ye Qingfeng sidestepped.

The monk was taken aback for a moment, then laughed even harder: "Oh, you're quite shy? It's alright, you'll get to know each other soon—"

He winked at the people behind him, and the monks surrounded him, scrambling around.

Ye Qingfeng did not resist and let them press him down to sit on the edge of the couch.

The fat monk handed the wine pot to the person next to him, rubbed his hands together, walked closer, and reached out to lift the veil again.

This time, Ye Qingfeng didn't dodge.

A corner of the red cloth was lifted, revealing half a face.

The candlelight illuminated a delicate face, tinged with a hint of timidity—it was Cui Gu's face, Ye Qingfeng's transformed face.

The monks saw it clearly, and their eyes shone even brighter.

"Master wasn't lying to us after all; this village girl is beautiful!"

"Hurry up, hurry up, stop dawdling!"

The fat monk swallowed hard, about to reach out and pull off the red veil—

Ye Qingfeng suddenly didn't want to play anymore.

He was just about to disperse the transformation and teach these drunken monks a lesson when the door was suddenly kicked open!

"Bang--!"

The door slammed against the wall, causing the candlelight to flicker.

A figure in black swept in, as fast as the night wind.

Before the monks could react, the blades were already upon them.

With the first cut, the fat monk clutched his throat and collapsed.

The second stab wound was to the man next to him holding the wine jug; he was stabbed in the back of the neck.

The third, fourth, and fifth slashes—the blades flashed, blood splattered everywhere, and the five monks didn't even have time to cry out before they collapsed haphazardly in front of the bed.