Mo Jiyue’s gaze met Duan Wujiu’s, holding steady. Her mind raced, a frantic abacus clattering through probabilities. Retreat was impossible. Denial was futile. He had the pigment on his thumb, incontrovertible. She had built this fragile fortress on a foundation of lies, and now the first crack had appeared, not from an outside assault, but from a quiet, internal discovery. Without a word, Wujiu turned and strode out of the tent, pushing aside the heavy felt flap. The biting wind immediately snatched at the warmth, carrying with it the scent of snow and burning wood. Jiyue noted with cold precision that he avoided his guards, heading instead toward the frozen stream that marked the settlement's eastern perimeter, where the wind tore through the brush. He wanted no witnesses. Suo Ning hovered near the threshold, fingers resting on her concealed blade, lifting her chin in question. Jiyue gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of her head. *No, not yet.* She pushed the wheels of her chair, following Wujiu out into the frigid night. The fine, crystalline snow crunched under her chair’s narrow tires, a whisper in the vast quiet. Wujiu stood at the edge of the ice-sheathed stream, his back turned to the huts, shoulders square under heavy wool. The snow had begun to fall again, soft flakes swirling around him, catching in his dark hair. He was a stark silhouette against the pale, wind-whipped landscape. Jiyue stopped a few paces behind him. The frost settled against her bare throat while she watched his boots sink into the drift. He slowly raised his left hand, the thumb still stained with the vivid red pigment. He didn’t look at her, but his voice, when it came, was a low, precise murmur, carrying easily on the wind. “Crimson powder, derived from the Jianguo berry, crushed and mixed with sap from the ironwood tree for adhesion. A common component in the cosmetics of the southern pleasure houses, and certain temple rituals. It would never flake. It would always smear.” He paused, then continued, “The lesions on the child’s cheek, the swellings, the mottled discoloration of the skin… All of it, a careful, theatrical illusion.” Jiyue said nothing. Her breath plumed white in the air. The gamble had failed. Or perhaps, the true game had only just begun. Wujiu finally turned, skin pale beneath the moonlight, jaw set in rigid scrutiny. “The entire ‘Rending Fever’ of Kuyao. A grand deception. A masterpiece of staged horror. You convinced an empire that your outpost was rotting from within, all to keep the Emperor’s forces at bay.” He took a step closer, holding up his thumb. “High treason, General Mo. Punishable by the slow dismemberment of every soul within these walls.” “And yet,” Jiyue’s voice was steady, devoid of panic, “you did not call your guards. You did not demand my execution. You followed me out here, into the snow, alone.” She inclined her head slightly. “You have a purpose, Inquisitor. One that outweighs the truth of my ‘treason’.” Wujiu lowered his hand. The red smudge seemed to pulse on his skin. “Governor Pang. He ordered the Imperial Army to burn Kuyao to ash at daybreak.” The iron rims of her wheels bit into the freezing mud beneath her palms. Jiyue gripped the wheels of her chair, her knuckles white. “Purge? Why? The grain was delivered. He had his tribute, his fabricated ledger.” “His tribute volume,” Wujiu said flatly, “was an amateurish fraud cobbled together to conceal systemic theft. The phantom who wore your molded prosthetics swapped it out for records detailing a bumper northern harvest, then returned the original when the court couriers arrived. Pang’s initial reaction was fury, then panic when the Emperor’s own auditors began to raise questions after the capital treasury heist. Now, the auditors are demanding to inspect the northern harvest records directly. He needs to eliminate Kuyao, and everyone in it, to make it appear as though the plague truly consumed the region, thus explaining the missing grain and covering his theft.” Jiyue absorbed this, her mind already racing through scenarios. Pang wasn’t just a corrupt official; he was a desperate cornered rat. “So, he’s using my plague against me. A convenient cover story for his own crimes.” “Precisely,” Wujiu said, his gaze unwavering. “He needs every ‘infected’ soul here to disappear. He cares nothing for the fever; he wants only the accounting book that documents his private sales.” He paused, then added, “By warning you, General Mo, *I* have now committed treason. We are now bound by this shared secret, this impending doom.” A bitter laugh escaped Jiyue, a dry, brittle sound in the cold. “So, my survival no longer depends on maintaining the illusion of sickness, but on weaponizing it. Turning a painted plague into a real deterrent. We need this valley to resemble an open charnel house, without a single fresh corpse.” “No actual graves,” Wujiu echoed, a flicker of something in his eyes, a mirroring of her ruthless logic. “And you have less than a full night to do it.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The army will be here with the sunrise. They will not be looking for survivors. They will be looking for a final, permanent quarantine.” Gale-force snow whipped between them, stinging her cheeks. If Pang's cavalry arrived at dawn, greasepaint and gum resin would be their only artillery. A thrashing sound broke the tree line across the water. A dark shape pitched through the brambles, boots catching on root knots, and collapsed into the drift before Wujiu. It was Suo Ning. A synthetic duplicate of Governor Pang's jowly features hung in shredded ribbons from her temple, exposing torn skin and real blood beneath. Her glove clamped around an iron-clasped register, dark fluid soaking into the vellum cover. She dropped it with a dull thud, right at Wujiu’s polished boots.

The Honest Treason