The Weight Of Paper.

The day began with paper cuts.

Bai Ningwei sat cross-legged by the low table, sorting through what remained of the half-burned journal. The ink had run in places. The paper smelled faintly of smoke, rain, and something older, like betrayal left too long in a sealed box.

Yuling entered with her usual hush, carrying a tray of cold breakfast and warmer suspicion. She placed it down without comment, but her eyes flicked toward the papers.

"Leave it," Ningwei said, without looking up. "I'm cultivating fear."

A pause. Then the quiet scuffle of footsteps obeying.

The pages in her hand felt like a hand-me-down curse. Bai Ningwei's handwriting, no, the other Bai Ningwei's, looped across the torn parchment, neater than expected for someone dying slowly. Most of it was useless. Observations about the weather. Notes about which maids to trust (none). Sketches of unfamiliar herbs. But near the bottom of one page, scrawled quickly and pressed hard into the paper:

"Mother said I should never trust her. But what choice do I have? The medicine tastes wrong again."

Her fingers stilled.

Her? Which her? There were too many hers in this house. And too many mothers telling their daughters who not to trust.

Another line, scribbled in a corner, half-faded:

"Third bell. West wall. If she's not there, I'll take it myself."

The System pinged gently:

[Memory Fragment Located.]

[Emotional Deviation: Within Parameters.]

Ningwei didn't respond. Her eyes narrowed. She reached for the oil lamp and held the page close. Something shimmered faintly near the ink - a residue of cinnabar, just like the pendant.

"She was going to meet someone," Ningwei murmured. "Or confront them."

She glanced over her shoulder. The curtains hadn't moved. The room was still.

But the walls felt like they were listening again.

She folded the page carefully and slid it into her sleeve.

Then she reached for the bowl of congee. Cold. Bland. Slightly overcooked.

"I could poison myself faster than this," she muttered.

From the doorway, Yuling said softly, "Should I bring something else?"

Ningwei blinked. She hadn't heard her return.

"Bring me someone who tells the truth," she said, deadpan. "Or tea. Whichever's easier."

Yuling bowed and vanished again.

Ningwei didn't move. Her fingers tapped once against the table.

Third bell. West wall.

She had six hours.

————

Third bell came with a lazy clang from the temple tower, a sound that always seemed too slow for anything urgent.

Ningwei reached the west wing of the Bai estate just as the bell finished its final echo. No one else was there. Just a cracked stone bench, a row of dead camellia bushes, and the wind tugging at the hem of her robe like a bored child.

She glanced around. No shadows, no footsteps. Just the faint scent of burnt incense from the servants' quarters.

"How silly," she muttered. "Dead girl schedules a secret meeting and doesn't survive long enough to attend."

She paced once along the wall. Dust clung to the corners. A faint footprint in the mud, narrow, delicate, facing inward. Then another, deeper, as if someone had stopped and turned back. They weren't hers.

Ningwei knelt. One of the bricks looked recently disturbed, the soil beneath it darker than the rest.

She dug with a hairpin.

What emerged was a small lacquered box, no bigger than a palm. She opened it carefully, expecting poison or paper.

Inside: a dried sprig of bingxin leaf, brittle and silvery-blue. A rare medicinal herb used to slow heart palpitations or, in excess, to induce them.

And a single slip of folded parchment, wrapped in red thread.

She didn't open it yet.

The System buzzed faintly.

[Toxic Agent Identified: Bingxin.]

[Pharmacological Use: Dual – Stabilizing/Disruptive.]

[Suggested Action: Cross-reference with medical dosage records.]

"I'm aware," she whispered, tucking the note into her sleeve. "You're just late to the party."

As she stood, a shadow moved behind the camellias.

She didn't turn. "You've got a habit of sneaking."

Yuling stepped out, gaze lowered. "I came to bring your tea."

Her tone was neutral. Her tray was empty.

"Were you watching me?"

Yuling blinked. "I was… following your instructions."

Ningwei said nothing. She let the silence sharpen between them.

Finally: "How long have you worked in this estate?"

"Two years," Yuling said. "Assigned to the laundry at first. Then the west wing."

"Before that?"

"I was purchased from the outer city. I don't remember much."

That answer came too quickly.

Ningwei studied her for a moment, then reached out and gently took her wrist. No protest.

"You're not afraid of me," she said.

"I'm not sure you're the one I should fear," Yuling replied, eyes flicking up for just a second. Then she looked down again, and added, "Miss."

Ningwei let her go.

"You're either a very bad spy, or a very good one," she said mildly.

Yuling gave a shallow bow. "I can be both, depending on who's watching."

———

Ningwei didn't return to her courtyard immediately. She took the long way, past the lotus pond, through the cold corridor behind the ancestral hall. No one liked this route. Too quiet, too many memorial tablets.

She didn't mind.

The old spirits had better manners than the living.

By the time she reached her room, Yuling was already inside, stoking the brazier like nothing happened. The girl really did have a gift for unnerving composure.

Ningwei placed the lacquered box on her writing table and finally opened the note.

No signature. Just a string of sentences written in cramped, slightly slanted ink:

"They said she was ruined. That she slept her way into favor. But she never had the chance.

The wine was drugged. The cook disappeared. The door was never locked.

If I die, it won't be from shame. It'll be because they don't like girls who speak.

Ruolan watches me too closely.

Mother said I should never trust her. But what choice do I have?"

The edges of the paper were worn, as though it had been folded and unfolded too many times. Ningwei ran her thumb along the final sentence.

"Mother said I should never trust her…"

It wasn't just a warning. It was the sound of someone trying to stay alive.

Behind her, the System pinged softly:

[Fragment Authentication: 92% Match – Bai Ningwei Emotional Signature Detected.]

[Token Compatibility: Pending Completion.]

[Update: Emotional Deviation — within acceptable range.]

"Don't pretend you care," she murmured. "You're just here to ensure I do what you want."

Yuling spoke from behind the screen. "Did you say something, Miss?"

"Only that tea would be nice."

The girl stepped out with a tray she'd already prepared.

For a moment, Ningwei just stared at her.

Most girls flinched when caught lying. Yuling folded towels with military precision and brought tea before being asked.

She accepted the cup, noting how steady her maid's hands were. No trembling. No sweat. Just calm, smooth movements.

"I think I'm beginning to understand something," Ningwei said softly.

"About what?"

"People who smile too much."

Yuling blinked. "Should I smile less?"

"No. Just less convincingly."

———-

Ningwei didn't expect the knock.

It came soft and polite not the usual maid's rhythm. Yuling stood, glanced at her once, then went to open the door.

A breeze swept in first. Then Bai Ruolan.

She wore a pale green robe stitched with pear blossoms. Her hair was coiled into two perfect knots, each secured with silver pins shaped like butterflies. The kind of beauty that required effort, but looked effortless, practiced grace with a blade underneath.

"Sister," she said, tone syrup-sweet. "You've recovered. I was beginning to worry."

Ningwei inclined her head. "I imagine that was difficult for you."

Yuling tensed. Ruolan didn't.

"Oh, terribly," Ruolan said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We all missed your presence at last month's poetry gathering."

"Did you host it in the ancestral hall again?" Ningwei asked, deadpan. "How festive."

Ruolan laughed, a polite little trill that didn't touch her eyes. "The ancestors were quite moved."

She strolled to the table, trailing one delicate hand across Ningwei's notes as if inspecting them for dust. "I thought I might bring you something."

From her sleeve, she pulled a folded cloth. Inside it: a small glazed box.

"Bird nest soup," she said. "Good for the complexion. Cooked it myself."

Ningwei didn't reach for it.

Ruolan watched her, smile never flickering. "You seem hesitant."

"I was just wondering," Ningwei said slowly, "how often you cook for people you don't like."

Ruolan tilted her head. "Who says I don't like you?"

"Besides the entire household?"

A beat of silence.

Then Ruolan's smile widened, not with warmth, but with teeth.

"You always were funny in a quiet sort of way," she said. "It's a shame more people didn't appreciate that."

Ningwei folded her hands, calm as still water. "People usually don't appreciate what they tried to bury."

That hit. Just barely. A flicker in Ruolan's gaze, not surprise, but calculation.

"I suppose it's true what they say," she murmured, turning toward the door. "Near-death changes a person. Makes them… bolder."

She paused at the threshold.

"But boldness," she added, "can be mistaken for arrogance. And arrogance, well… that's a luxury not everyone can afford."

She left without waiting for a reply.

When the door shut, Yuling let out a slow breath.

Ningwei picked up the box of bird nest soup, examined it, then placed it gently beside the pills Physician He had given her.

Then she smiled.

——-

Later that evening, the room was quiet again. Too quiet.

Yuling had gone to fetch water. Or report. Maybe both.

Ningwei didn't care.

She sat at the low table, fingers resting lightly on a scroll. The lamps burned low. The pendant sat in its box, still and silent.

Her wall of names had grown. Half a dozen parchments now, herbal notes, family timetables, guest records from the physician's clinic. She pinned each piece in place with a deliberate hand, her brush tapping softly against the table.

Physician He - manipulated or cowardly. Likely both.

Old Madam Bai - still watching, still holding her judgment like a knife tucked into silk.

Bai Ruolan - smiling too much. Speaking too little. Threatening just enough.

That last name she circled twice.

The bird nest soup remained untouched.

She opened Bai Ningwei's journal again. The single surviving page fluttered under her hand. One corner had burned, but the ink on the other side still read clearly:

"Mother said not to trust her. But what choice did I have?"

No name. But she knew.

Ruolan.

It wasn't proof. Not yet. But it was personal.

She folded the note, slid it into a sleeve pocket. Then she stood.

Her shadow stretched across the floor, long and thin in the lamplight.

The system pinged softly.

[Soul Token Progress: 22%]

[Warning: Emotional Deviation Rising. Recommend Caution.]