I froze, a strange prickle catching in my chest.

  “…Left for me? A former vice-master who’s been missing for years suddenly sets a table of wine just to lure me in—what for?” I eyed Lian with deep suspicion. “It’s not like I owe him money.”

  Lian didn’t answer at once. He lowered his gaze, thinking, then said quietly, “He may have vanished, but he did not disappear without leaving threads behind. And if anyone might have an idea of what he intended…”

  He lifted his eyes, voice slow and clear. “We should ask the current Prefect.”

  I blinked. “The Prefect? You mean the one who’s been watching the whole city without making a move—the man who took office three months ago?”

  “He inherited a mess left by his predecessor, yet still managed to stabilize the city after a year of West Altar unrest.” Lian folded the map and slid it back into his sleeve. “A man like that may not speak truths, but he certainly sees them.”

  “…So you’re saying we’re just—going to visit a Rank-Four official?” I muttered. “That’s quite a jump in difficulty.”

  Hua frowned. “The city’s still unstable. West Altar rebels are tied to old cases and strange rumors. Meeting local officials now—isn’t that asking to be counter-investigated?”

  “No concern.” Lian’s tone was calm, almost certain. “The anomaly at Qingyin Cemetery—you witnessed it. The ‘dog-spirit’ dream of the former Prefect and the subsequent execution—that’s in the archives. We’re not probing new crimes, merely tracing old land records. Perfectly legitimate.”

  He paused, lashes lowering slightly. “As for the remaining West Altar insurgents—they’re already weakened. They won’t trouble us for the moment.”

  I was still digesting that when the Deputy Envoy suddenly blurted, “I… have a sworn brother working in the Prefect’s office. If you want to meet the Prefect, I can call in a favor.”

  I stared at him. He looked earnest—alarmingly earnest.

  “He insisted on making me his sworn brother,” he added solemnly. “Said I have a blessed face.”

  I glanced at his large earlobes, then at his broad back, and muttered, “So even oath-brothers choose by looks…”

  Dawn had barely broken; mist still clung to the street corners. Breakfast stalls had only just lit their stoves, and shopkeepers were still sweeping their thresholds.

  We left the inn as pale light crept over the sky. The streets were empty except for the Deputy Envoy’s boots clacking loudly on the stone.

  He chewed his last bean-candy as he walked, speaking around it, “My sworn brother’s on duty now. He’ll get you in. No need to present a visiting card—just a word from me.”

  We waited outside the Prefect’s office for the length of an incense stick before the Deputy Envoy came jogging back, breathless. “He agreed. You can go in—just don’t press too hard.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What exactly did you tell him?”

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  He blinked innocently. “That you’re all out-of-towners here to look at—”

  “…To look at what?”

  “…Land.”

  I looked at Lian. He nodded serenely. “Not inaccurate. We are here to look at land.”

  The Prefect sat behind a bamboo couch, wearing a pale gray robe. His age was hard to place; his expression polite, voice slow and measured. Behind him were rows of brush racks—and a war map on the wall.

  “Looking at land?” he repeated, sipping his tea. “That depends on which piece of land you intend to see.”

  We exchanged glances. Lian stepped forward and unfolded the map. “Mostly the area around Qingyin Cemetery. There are many rumors regarding it. We wish to know—what was that land originally used for?”

  The Prefect looked over the map, his eyes sweeping across the marks, finally tapping a spot with a fingertip. “Five years ago this was barren ground. A few households lived at the foot of the hill, but they later moved. The relocation papers cite ‘disturbance by wildfire,’ though in truth… it was drought.”

  “Drought?” I echoed blankly.

  “That year was the driest in a decade.” The Prefect smiled lightly. “But writing ‘drought’ or writing ‘fire’—either works. Much in this world is half-truth, half-lie. The reality depends on the hand that records it.”

  I recalled the system’s words—when false becomes true, true becomes false—and found myself unable to respond. I switched topics abruptly. “Has my lord ever heard an old rumor—that the former Prefect dreamt of being… hacked down by a ‘dog spirit’?”

  The Prefect’s eyelids lifted slightly; the polite smile faded.

  “How did you hear of that?” His voice dropped. “That dream only circulated within the office. It never spread to the public.”

  I stayed silent and looked to Lian.

  “We learned it by chance,” Lian said with a calm bow. “But the dream seems tied to what we’re investigating.”

  The Prefect studied us for a long moment, weighing the risks, then said, “He indeed spoke of such a dream. Even in the capital, I heard whispers of it.”

  “And he was executed soon after,” I murmured. “So the dream—coincidence, or…?”

  “In an empire where case after case is overturned, how much do you and I really know?” The Prefect shook his head lightly, clearly unwilling to dwell on it. He shifted the subject. “Since you’ve asked about Qingyin Cemetery, I assume you’ve also heard… the rumor of the pig-spirit?”

  I nodded. “They say West Altar’s Shangguan Fengliu encountered a pig demon near a Wang family’s sty and vanished thereafter.”

  Something flickered in the Prefect’s eyes, as though some old memory surfaced. He didn’t answer directly. After a pause, he said in a slow tone, “West Altar had already begun to fracture then. Rumors were everywhere. As for Shangguan Fengliu… yes, he disappeared at that very turning point. People said all sorts of things.”

  Another pause. His gaze swept over us. “Pig spirits, dog spirits—those embellishments are the work of the masses. Whether true or false, who can say?”

  Lian stepped forward, “There are three events: the dog-spirit leading someone at Qingyin Cemetery; the former Prefect’s dream of the dog-spirit; and Shangguan Fengliu meeting a pig-spirit and vanishing. On the surface unrelated, yet they share one thing.”

  The Prefect raised a brow. “And that is?”

  I copied Lian’s tone. “Every story names a specific place. A cemetery. A Prefect’s estate. A Wang family’s sty. If these places aren’t fabricated… the stories might not be coincidences at all, but deliberate markers someone left behind.”

  The Prefect fell silent for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he asked—still mild, but probing, “What exactly are you investigating?”

  I didn’t speak. Lian met his gaze without hesitation. “The whereabouts of an old man. And the origin of an old matter.”

  The Prefect looked at him, then unexpectedly smiled—like he understood, yet didn’t reveal it. Setting down his tea, he changed topics with deceptive casualness.

  “The former Prefect you mentioned—the man’s surname was Wang. Wang Zhiyong. Born of a noble house, keen mind, decent judge… but timid. If he’d truly done something shameful, it’d be stranger if he didn’t have nightmares.”

  “…Wang?” My breath caught. I turned to Lian.

  He was already looking at me, gaze as calm as ever, but now edged with certainty.

  My lips parted soundlessly.

  ‘A Wang family at the foot of the mountain.’

  The phrase from the legend suddenly had a place to land.

  And the shadow that slipped into the pigsty—

  the “demon” that had always felt strangely solid—

  at last, took shape.