The pain in my side was a dull fire that pulled my semi-lucid mind into a memory. I remembered the frustration, the ice packs, knowing I'd miss the spring competitions.

  The thought of competition lingered. The smell of dust and snow replaced by the scent of floor wax and the quiet, intense hum of a school gymnasium. Hundreds of tables were set up in row after row of Go boards. I checked the pairings again, then sat at the table, my fingers resting on a cool, black stone. My opponent across the board was a blur, a shape I couldn't quite make out.

  I tried to focus on their face. I remember trying to remember a face. I was standing on the tiled platform of the subway station, the familiar chime echoing as the doors slid open. She walked out, her face tired but lighting up when she saw me. I smiled, taking her heavy backpack as we started up the long flight of steps. "God, what's in this?" I grunted, shifting the weight. "Work laptop," she sighed, leaning against my arm as we climbed. "My back is killing me. I spent the entire day fixing bugs in that legacy code".

  The scene shifted. We were home, curled up on the couch, the city lights glittering outside the apartment window. We were watching that historical drama she loved, the one about the transmigrator. On the screen, the protagonist was drunk at a banquet, surrounded by stunned ancient nobles, defiantly reciting a hundred classic poems from memory. I turned to make a sarcastic comment about him showing off... but she wasn't there. The couch beside me was empty, the indent where she sat cold. I was alone, just watching the flickering screen in the dark. The weight of the empty room was suddenly crushing me...

  I surfaced from a familiar grey, hazy world of pain to the scent of clean linen and bitter medicinal herbs once again. The dull, persistent ache in my side was a familiar anchor, but the room was not my own. It was spartan, immaculately clean, its only furnishing a simple but comfortable bed and a small, dark wooden table. The light filtering through the paper window was the pale, grey light of a winter afternoon.

  Resting on that table, cleaned and dried, were the three items I had saved from the blizzard of shredded paper: two water-warped ledgers and a single, folded letter. Sitting in a straight-backed chair beside them, watching me with his stern, unblinking eyes, was Censor Wang.

  He saw me stir, his expression softer than I'd seen before.

  “You are awake,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. “My physician says you are lucky to be alive. He also says you are a fool for ignoring his previous advice.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. “Ying's report was… thorough. You are reckless, Scholar Zhang. Dangerously so. You nearly died, and the majority of the evidence was destroyed.”

  His eyes shifted to the table. A flicker of something that might be grudging respect entered his expression.

  “But you delivered. The witness, Merchant Zhu, is safe in my custody and has already confessed to everything he knows. And these…” he gestured to the salvaged documents, “are the first pieces of hard proof against Vice-Director Song I have held in my hands.”

  My own voice was a weak, dry rasp. “You share the same physician as Vice-Minister Feng? I must thank them in person when I get the chance.” My gratitude was genuine; the thought of navigating court politics from a sickbed was exhausting. “I hope that this might at least be enough to restart the Chen Huarong case.”

  The Censor's stern expression did not change, but he seemed to choose his words with deliberate care.

  “There are only a handful of physicians in Chang'an with the skill to treat a wound inflicted by a master of the martial arts,” he said. “It is not surprising their services are sought by those who understand their value.”

  He dismissed the topic, his focus returning to the matter at hand. “Zhu's testimony is a start,” he said, picking up one of the ledgers. “But it is the word of a terrified co-conspirator trying to save his own skin. In a court of law, it is tainted.” He thumbed through the damp, warped pages. “This corroborates a portion of his story. It details six months of discrepancies in grain shipments. But it is Zhu's private record. It does not bear Song's seal or signature. It proves Zhu is a thief, but it does not definitively tie him to his master.”

  He set the book down and picked up the single, folded letter, handling it with a surgeon's care.

  “This, however…” he said, his voice dropping, “is the key.”

  He looked at me, the first glimmer of something approaching victory in his cold eyes.

  “This letter is an order, written in a hand my clerks have preliminarily identified as Vice-Director Song's. It instructs Zhu to prepare a ‘special payment' for the ‘Youzhou matter' and to use the ‘usual Sogdian method' for the accounting. It is signed with a codename Jade Tiger which Zhu has confirmed is the private name Song uses in their dealings.”

  He placed the letter down carefully.

  “Is it enough to restart the Chen case? No. Not directly. Not yet.” He gave me a hard, unflinching look. “But it is enough for me to act. This letter, supported by Zhu's testimony, gives me the legal authority to issue a Censorate Writ. I can officially open an inquiry into the financial administration of the Youzhou military grain supply.” He leaned back, a general planning his campaign. “I can begin to pull on the thread. And I have a feeling that if I pull hard enough, it will lead us right back to the case of Chen Huarong.”

  His tone shifted from that of a judge to a commander. “But I will need your expertise, Scholar Zhang. My auditors are masters of the Imperial accounts, but Song's methods are new. You understand them. Once you have recovered sufficiently, you will work with my team. You will decipher these documents and teach my investigators how to recognize this new brand of corruption. You, and the knowledge you carry, will be the key that unlocks these ledgers.”

  I thought of the girl waiting for me, her life still in limbo. “I know that Chen's daughter had been trying to contact you when she first escaped…”

  His eyes narrowed, his gaze once again becoming analytical and deeply suspicious. “Chen's daughter,” he repeated, his voice flat. “Yes. I am aware of the incident. There were reports from the city guard a few months ago. A fugitive from state custody, causing a disturbance. She vanished before she could be apprehended.” He leaned back, his steepled fingers tapping together. “You say she was attempting to contact me? My household is not so easily approached. We received no such message.” He paused, his eyes probing mine. “Unless, of course, her attempts were… intercepted.”

  His gaze was as sharp as a blade. “This is an interesting historical footnote, Scholar Zhang, but my concern is with the living conspiracy, not a fugitive ghost. Why do you speak of her now?”

  “Should we not find her now?” I pressed gently. “As a witness to protect rather than a fugitive to hunt?”

  The Censor considered this, weighing the strategic value against the legal complexities. “Your sentiment for this girl's plight is noted, Scholar Zhang,” he said, correctly attributing my motive to our previous conversation. “However, your strategic point is sound. A living witness, especially the direct heir of the accused, would be a powerful asset should this case ever come to a full tribunal. Her testimony could sway the court in a way that dry ledgers cannot.”

  He raised a single, cautionary finger. “But you must understand the law. The girl is no longer merely the daughter of a condemned official. By escaping custody and assaulting officers of the state, she has committed new, serious crimes. She is a wanted criminal in her own right.” He saw the look on my face and offered a sliver of legal hope. “Should her father's case be overturned, a Censor in my position could then petition the throne for clemency, arguing they were the desperate acts of a wronged daughter. But that is a distant and uncertain possibility.” He concluded, his gaze becoming sharp once more. “But this is all academic. The girl must be found. So tell me, Scholar Zhang, do you have a suggestion on how one might begin to search for a single ghost in a city of a million souls?”

  I let out a weary sigh, accepting the legal reality. “I understand. I can only hope she is somewhere safe at this point.”

  He gave a deliberate nod, understanding my unspoken need to maintain a strategic distance. “Prudence is a rare and valuable virtue, Scholar Zhang. I only require the services of your mind, not your name. Send your ‘clerk' when he is able to work.”