Beicang’s grip remained firm on Mingzhi's wrist. The inquisitor’s calloused thumb rested directly over the radial artery, skin hot against the damp draft of the masonry. Mingzhi logged the contact, categorizing tactile friction as another variable to calculate. “She believes herself untouchable, even now,” Mingzhi observed, his voice level, betraying none of the calculated anticipation churning beneath. “She will not merely retaliate. She will attempt to obliterate.” Beicang’s gaze, stark and unblinking, held his. “Then you must build a fortress of shadows she cannot pierce.” He released Mingzhi’s wrist, the sudden absence of contact almost as striking as its presence. “The Final Selection for Purveyor is in three days. The Grand Assembly in the Obsidian Phoenix Hall. Every rival house will submit their tribute.” Mingzhi gave a minimal nod. Xuehong, exposed, would strike indiscriminately. Yet he had spent weeks steeping counter-agents into her daily habits, waiting for the final distillation to take hold. Over the next seventy-two hours, artisans swarmed the Obsidian Phoenix Hall. Lacquer screens depicting celestial beasts divided the floor between clan delegations, river pearls gleaming beneath hanging lamps. Mingzhi navigated the corridors like a shadow slipped between lacquered pillars. His opportunity came on the eve of the gathering. Madam Xuehong, hollow-cheeked and restless, had grown reliant on a resin compound blended by one of her trusted retainers. That retainer, a gaunt elder named Hu, assumed he was simply taking silver to stretch the stock with cheaper ground root. He did not suspect the corked vial Mingzhi slipped him contained concentrated synthetic terpenes. “Ensure this is ground into her evening censer before the feast,” Mingzhi told him under the eaves of the estate distillery. “She will require fortitude before the court.” Elder Hu, his palm itching with the promised silver, nodded eagerly, his gaze fixed on the small, unassuming flask. The hall gleamed with courtly excess. The sovereign sat high upon the jade throne, expression rigid behind hanging beads. Below, hundreds of nobles and guild petitioners occupied long low tables, the hall dense with steeped mountain tea, roasted cloves, and camphoric waters. Musicians played on zithers and flutes, their melodies weaving through the murmur of polite conversation and strategic laughter. Mingzhi, seated near the clan's low tables, watched Xuehong. She clutched an ebony casket holding her compound, knuckles pale. Her pupils stood wide from days of metered exposure. The volatile distillation Elder Hu had mixed into her personal brazier had begun vaporizing, clouding her optic nerves. She took a sharp breath from her charcoal burner, eyelids fluttering as neural misfires took root. One by one, house representatives carried censers to the steps, displaying their resin arts. Finally, the herald struck a bronze gong: “Madam Xuehong of the Qingshao Clan!” A hush fell over the hall. Xuehong rose, a forced smile plastered on her face, and moved towards the dais. She ascended the steps, her silk robes rustling, clutching the ornate incense box. She halted before the throne, staring up at the sovereign. The terpenoid cascade, boiling through her bloodstream, warped the figure before her into something charnel. Green silk seemed to run with gray rot; the ruler's skin sagged into pitted parchment. Her own smoldering charcoal smelled to her like decomposing flesh. A guttural screech tore from Xuehong’s throat, shattering court protocol. The hall stiffened. She flung the casket backward, its powdered resins spilling over the pearl-inlaid stone. “Filth! Rotting corpse!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Get away from me, you putrid abomination!” She lunged forward, clawing at the air, her hands outstretched as if to ward off a phantom plague. Guards instantly moved, but she was already on the dais, a wild, disheveled figure. “It’s the ghosts! They’ve taken him! The ghosts from the manor, they watch me! They know of the gold, the poisoned silks, the deaths at the Whisperwind Pass! I hid it all! The ledgers in the false wall, the bribes to Minister Ren—he betrayed me!” Her words tumbled out, a frenzied confession, each syllable a dagger plunged into the heart of her clan’s carefully constructed facade. The sovereign rose, brows drawn down in severe wrath. Palace halberdiers closed in, but an elder's shrill voice cut across the commotion. Elder Hu, face white with panic, pointed a bloody index finger straight at Mingzhi. “Witchcraft! He poisoned her spirit! It was the bastard! The demon among us!” The gash on Hu's knuckle leaked fresh crimson from his own frantic teeth, an act to divert execution. The assembly swung round, fixing their stare upon Luo Mingzhi.

The Matriarch's Delusion