Mirror Dream Tree-V.4.167. The First Mission
Merin remains by the doorway, watching.
Morning light filters in through the carved windows, washing over the courtesans who now stand in plain clothes, faces bare of powder and paint.
Without makeup, many look younger.
Some look older.
All look tired.
The guests who stayed the night gather uneasily in the hall, hair dishevelled, robes hastily adjusted, irritation and unease written plainly across their faces.
Brothels like the Blood Spring Pavilion are closed at this hour, and no one likes being delayed when dawn has already arrived.
Low voices rise.
“When can we leave?”
“This has nothing to do with us.”
“I paid good money—”
Merin watches quietly.
He notes posture.
Breathing.
Eyes that avoid looking at the stairs.
None of them carries the weight of a killer.
After a moment, he speaks.
“Zhu Jie. Ming Li.”
The two men straighten immediately.
“Take down the identities and addresses of the guests,” Merin says calmly.
“Then let them go.”
The tension eases at once.
Zhu Jie and Ming Li exchange a glance, then nod.
“Yes, Lord.”
They move into the crowd, voices firm but courteous, guiding the guests one by one.
While he stands there, Merin’s spirit has already moved.
Silently, it probes the first-floor bathroom.
The corpse lies there, covered now, but the imprint remains.
The man’s neck is broken.
Not snapped by accident.
Crushed.
Finger marks are faint, but present—five points of pressure, precise, decisive.
The victim’s cultivation is Fourth Stage Bloodline.
To break his neck so cleanly, the murderer must possess at least Seventh Stage Bloodline strength.
Merin’s spirit sweeps outward, cataloguing auras.
Guests.
Courtesans.
Pavilion guards.
None exceeds Fifth Stage.
No one here could have done it.
The murderer is already gone.
An older woman approaches Merin cautiously.
Her hair is neatly pinned, her expression controlled, but worry flickers in her eyes.
“Lord,” she asks, “may we open the pavilion tonight?”
As she speaks, footsteps echo from the stairs.
Gong Qiu and Zhang Shan emerge from the bathroom, descending together.
Zhang Shan’s face is tight, her brows drawn.
Merin considers the question.
There is no reason to close the brothel.
The crime scene is contained.
The murderer is not present.
But this is not his decision.
His gaze shifts to Gong Qiu.
“Go ask him,” Merin says evenly.
The woman looks confused for a heartbeat, then nods and walks toward Gong Qiu.
Merin remains where he is.
Minutes later, Gong Qiu approaches him, lowering his voice.
“The man’s neck was broken,” Gong Qiu says.
“Cleanly. Strength required would be Seventh Stage Bloodline or higher.”
“No one here meets that requirement.”
Merin nods.
“Then the murderer is not here,” he says.
“And your first step should be to identify the victim.”
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Gong Qiu’s eyes sharpen.
“Yes, Lord,” he says.
“That will tell us motive, connections, enemies.”
Merin nods again.
“Then continue leading the team,” he says.
“I’ll take my leave.”
Gong Qiu freezes.
For a moment, he thinks he misheard.
He had assumed Merin delegated leadership so he could observe—
learn procedure,
understand flow,
establish authority quietly.
Now Merin is leaving.
Does that mean—
A hand-off captain?
Someone here only for rank and monthly merit?
Before Gong Qiu can speak, Merin has already turned.
He walks out of the Blood Spring Pavilion, stepping into the street as the city fully wakes.
Merchants open shutters.
Vendors shout morning prices.
Life resumes.
As he walks, Merin’s gaze flicks briefly to a teenage beggar leaning against a wall, bowl in hand, eyes dull, posture lazy.
Their eyes meet.
Merin does not stop.
He merely tilts his head slightly.
The beggar’s posture changes instantly.
Alert.
Focused.
Years ago, when Merin’s father died, Merin became the head of the Duan household.
A year later, he opened an orphanage.
Children with no names.
Teenagers sleeping in alleys.
Runaways.
Forgotten.
He gave them food.
Shelter.
Choice.
They did not beg to survive.
They begged to listen.
Information flowed faster through the streets than through any official channel.
The money they received was theirs.
Their loyalty was not bought.
It was earned.
Merin turns into a narrow, dark alley and walks to its end.
He stops.
Waits.
Footsteps approach softly.
The teenage beggar slips into the alley, bowl gone, eyes sharp now.
“Lord,” he whispers.
Merin speaks quietly.
“A man died in the Blood Spring Pavilion,” he says.
Fourth Stage Bloodline. Neck broken.”
“Find me his name—or anything.”
The boy nods without question.
“I’ll have it by nightfall.”
Merin nods once, then turns and walks out of the alley.
The noise of the street swallows him immediately—vendors calling out, hooves striking stone, voices rising and falling in endless layers.
He moves with the crowd, unhurried, his steps steady, his mind already elsewhere.
The Divine Guard Headquarters rises ahead, a stern stone structure with clean lines and sharp edges, built to intimidate as much as to function.
Merin passes through the main doors, flashing his insignia without slowing, and climbs the stairs to the second floor.
The corridor is wide and well-lit, sunlight filtering through high windows, footsteps echoing faintly along the polished floor.
As he walks, a door to his right opens.
A woman steps out, wearing the same captain’s uniform as his own.
Her posture is relaxed but alert, her expression sharp, eyes assessing him in a single glance.
“New captain?” she asks.
Merin stops briefly and nods.
“Yes. I joined today. My name is Duan Merin.”
Recognition flashes across her face.
“From the Duan Marquis mansion?”
Merin nods again.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then smiles faintly.
“Then should I call you lordship?”
Merin raises his hand slightly, signalling her to stop.
“No need for that,” he says calmly.
“When we’re not in front of others, you can call me by my name.”
He pauses, then adds evenly, “And you are?”
He does not explain his reasoning aloud, but both of them understand it.
Calling a noble by name in public could invite trouble, especially from those who cling to status like armour.
“I’m Ye Ran,” she says.
Before either can continue, a voice echoes from the stairway.
“Captain!”
A guard stands halfway up the stairs, clearly calling for her.
Ye Ran glances over, then back at Merin.
“Let’s talk later,” she says.
“I’ve got a mission.”
Merin nods.
She turns and heads toward the stairs, her stride brisk, already shifting into work mode.
Merin continues down the corridor.
He reaches his assigned office area and enters through the outer door.
The first room is large, furnished simply, with long tables and chairs where his team members usually sit.
At the far end, separated by a wall and a single door, lies his personal office.
He crosses the room, opens the inner door, and steps inside.
The office is modest.
A desk.
A chair.
A window overlooking the street.
Merin walks across the room and sits down, leaning back slightly as he waits—either for his team to return, or for the sun to set.
Hours pass.
Paperwork remains untouched.
He listens instead to footsteps outside, distant voices, the rhythm of the headquarters as it breathes and moves.
Before sunset, voices rise beyond his door.
He recognises them immediately.
His team has returned.
Merin stands and opens the door, the sound drawing their attention.
They straighten at once.
“Lord,” they say together, bowing.
Merin looks directly at Gong Qiu.
“Did you find the victim’s identity?”
Gong Qiu shakes his head.
“No, Lord. But I had an artist draw the victim’s likeness and posted it on all guard boards across the city.”
Merin nods.
“That’s good,” he says.
“Inform me the moment you have his identity.”
“Yes, Lord,” Gong Qiu replies.
Merin closes the door and returns to his office.
Time continues its slow march.
When the sun finally sinks low enough to stain the sky orange, Merin rises once more and steps out into the outer room.
His subordinates are seated around the tables, some speaking quietly, others packing up equipment.
“You can all leave,” Merin says evenly.
They look up, surprised for a moment, then bow.
“Yes, Lord.”
Merin walks across the room and exits the headquarters.
Outside, the street is crowded with carriages waiting to pick up officials and guards at the end of the day.
He scans them briefly, then spots his own.
The driver straightens when he sees Merin.
Merin nods in greeting and steps inside the carriage.
The door closes.
As the carriage begins to move, Merin leans back against the seat, eyes half-lidded.
The case is moving.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Exactly how he prefers it.
—
In one of the city’s lesser districts, where walls lean inward, and sunlight struggles to reach the ground, a man glances around like a hunted rat.
He moves quickly, deliberately, counting breaths between steps.
Reaching a small courtyard house, he raises his hand and knocks.
Not loudly.
Not softly.
Three short taps.
A pause.
Two long taps.
The latch slides open a finger’s width.
An eye appears in the darkness.
A voice follows, low and suspicious.
“Who are you?”
The man swallows.
“I am the rat of the Blue Mountain.”
The eye vanishes.
The latch slides fully open, then the door creaks inward.
The man slips inside.
The one who opened the door is burly, thick-necked, his body packed with scars that speak of blade and fist alike.
His long hair falls freely to his shoulders like a lion’s mane, completely unlike the Song Kingdom style, where men bind their hair into buns and hide them beneath crowns that mark rank.
This man wears no crown.
He wears strength.
The visitor lowers his head slightly and asks in a heavy accent,
“Is the boss here?”
The burly man nods.
“He’s training in the inner garden.”
The visitor—Manul—moves quickly, passing through the outer rooms without looking at anything twice.
The courtyard opens into an inner garden surrounded by high walls.
At its centre stands another burly man.
He wears only trousers, his upper body bare, muscles knotted and thick like forged iron.
In his hands are stone locks—each weighing more than a thousand kilograms.
He lifts them slowly.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
Every motion compresses the air.
Seeing Manul, the man sets the locks down gently, though the ground still trembles.
Boom.
Dust rises.
“Manul,” the boss says.
“Did you find Toga?”
Manul’s face tightens.
He lowers his head further.
“Yes.”
The boss’s eyes sharpen.
“And?”
Manul swallows.
“Toga’s face painting has been posted on all guard boards across the city.”
The stone locks drop fully this time.
Boom.
The ground cracks.
Dust explodes outward.
“What happened?” the boss asks.
Manul’s voice turns thin.
“They say Toga was murdered.”
“The Divine Guards are searching for his identity.”
Silence descends.
Then—
Pressure.
It rolls outward from the boss’s body like an invisible tide, crushing leaves flat against the ground, forcing Manul to his knees without a single gesture.
The air becomes heavy.
Difficult to breathe.
“Murdered,” the boss repeats slowly.
Manul nods, forehead nearly touching the stone floor.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Blood Spring Pavilion.”
The pressure spikes.
The garden walls creak.
Birds flee.
.
!
V.4.167. The First Mission
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