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墨書 Inktalez
As the pipe of the Copper Basin Hat Man struck the window frame for the third time, I was stuffing the jade disc from Yu Ji's sword tassel into my waistband.
Voices of Martial Actors arguing over who would go first echoed from backstage, while Boss Lu's carriage rolled over the bluestone pavement, leaving behind a trail of crimson water—just like the blood that had spread across Boss Mei's skirt that day.
Troupe Leader Zhang's residence crouched at the corner of the French Concession, its Baroque-style columns entwined with honeysuckle vines. I squatted on the second floor of the Tailor Shop across the street, my nose pressed against a musty curtain.
At a quarter past the hour of the rabbit, the brass door creaked open a crack, and an aide emerged carrying a food box. Steam wafted from the basket inside, filled with Crab Roe Soup Dumplings—Troupe Leader Zhang only ate breakfast from Wang Ji at Chenghuang Temple; Boss Mei had mentioned this seventeen times during her lifetime.
"Have you seen enough, Xiao Chi Lao?" The proprietress of the Tailor Shop suddenly grabbed me by the collar, her manicured nails digging into a wound I had sustained yesterday from a Coffin Board. "The materials in this room are precious; be careful your poverty doesn't offend our guests."
The jade bracelet on her wrist clinked against the measuring tape, identical in quality to the pair of earrings in Boss Mei's Makeup Box. As I crouched and slipped into the backyard, a dark green Qipao hung on the clothesline, its back hem stained with specks of cinnabar—exactly what Boss Mei had worn when she sang Youyuan Jingmeng that day.
The washbasin bubbled with eerie indigo soap foam; I reached in to stir it, and my fingertips instantly burned with a sharp pain. Ten years ago, when my Legitimate Mother mixed lime powder into my food, my throat had felt just as searing.
Inside the theater, Chief Inspector Chen arrived earlier than usual, his leather boots echoing against the floor. He struck Boss Mei's vanity with his baton, revealing a hidden compartment where gold paint had chipped away.
"You little brat," he suddenly turned around, his finger adorned with a Panlong Pattern pointing directly at my forehead. "I heard Troupe Leader Zhang ordered Capture Sanlang yesterday?"
My pale face reflected back at me in the copper mirror. The hidden compartment was empty except for a half-broken nail caught in its seam—Boss Mei's red nail stain, her pinky missing a crescent shape.
Feigning to wipe down the table, I brushed past the mirror with my sleeve; that remnant of red suddenly began to writhe and formed the character "Lan" in the morning light.
"The official is joking," I tightened my grip on the rag; yesterday Boss Lu had stuffed a Tiger Tally into my sock tube and it was now burning hot against my leg. "Troupe Leader Zhang loves listening to Boss Lu's Night Run; he says it’s more invigorating than cannon fire."
Chief Inspector Chen abruptly kicked over the makeup stool; at that moment when the copper mirror shattered, I caught a glimpse of half a dark blue garment flitting past in the attic—it was Master Zhou, who performed as an old scholar.
The incense ash in the mourning hall had piled up three inches thick. As I knelt to refill Boss Mei's eternal lamp with oil, I heard rustling behind me.
Master Zhou's thick-soled boots crunched over paper money; mingled with Soap Pod incense was a heavy smell of smoke.
"You brat," he said hoarsely, a fresh scar visible on his throat. "The night before Mei Girl took her last breath, she stuffed this into my smoking pipe."
Wrapped in oiled paper was a pocket watch that had stopped at three quarters past Hai Time, its chain entwined with deep blue silk thread—the same color as the bruise left around Boss Mei's neck that day.
The inner side of the lid was painted with a flower, Yu Meiren, its stamen inscribed with tadpole script, exactly matching the symbols on the edge of the jade disc.
“She always said there were hidden truths in the scripts,” Master Zhou dug his nails into the seams of the coffin. “After singing ‘Mu Ke Zhai’ that night, she mentioned wanting to meet a ‘True Overlord.’”
Suddenly, a candle flared up, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end—half of a gun barrel emerged from behind the spirit banner, its muzzle engraved with Troupe Leader Zhang’s personal seal.
As the night watchman struck the second hour, I slipped into Master Zhou’s chamber.
Underneath the floorboards lay a yellowed copy of ‘Mu Dan Ting,’ each page annotated in different handwriting. Flipping to the fold marked “Ethereal Judgment,” I found a faded photograph tucked inside—a soldier embracing a girl in student attire, a White Begonia pinned in her hair.
“That was back in the third year of the Republic of China,” the door curtain was suddenly drawn aside, revealing Old Qin Master, hunched over with age, pointing at the youthful Mei Lan in the photo with his smoking pipe. “The legitimate daughter of the Duke's Office, quarreling with her family over an actor...”
He suddenly broke into a violent cough, blood flecking his spittoon. “That actor was called Yun Sheng, a Martial Actor who sang ‘Lian Huan Tao...’”
I traced my fingers over the numbers on the back of the photograph, recalling the engravings inside the jade disc. Outside, fine rain began to fall, and the sound of sirens from the Police Station grew closer.
Old Qin Master trembled as he lifted his pillow, revealing a Browning—the grip wrapped in faded silk sleeves, just like what Boss Mei had lost on the day he sang ‘Guifei Drunk.’
“Kid,” he shoved the gun into my waistband, his palm cold as ice. “On the night that Yun Sheng died at Troupe Leader Zhang’s hands, Mei Girl was on stage singing ‘The blossoms bloom in every shade...’”
A shadow suddenly reflected in the copper mirror; when I turned around, I only caught a glimpse of a gray fur coat—identical to that of the figure who had escaped from the attic that night.
As morning mist crept into the Stage, I crouched in the restroom and unwrapped a Tiger Tally.
From within oiled paper fell out a land deed, its address next to Zha Bei Smokehouse. A number circled with an eyebrow pencil marked a page in an account book—perfectly matching with what could be spelled out from the tadpole script on my pocket watch.
Suddenly, car horns sounded from outside—three long and two short notes, matching Boss Lu’s driver’s signal. The tassels of Yu Ji’s sword were scattered without me noticing; the jade disc had vanished.
When I reached backstage, Chief Inspector Chen was prying open Boss Mei’s Costume with his gun barrel; reflections of bloody handprints glimmered on the makeup mirror—those fingerprints were familiar; I had seen them yesterday on Troupe Leader Zhang’s aide’s food box...
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