Six years ago, Shen Mu, the minister of Dali Temple, was unjustly killed. His thirteen-year-old daughter hid in a wall and watched her father's blood stain the entire street red.
Six years later, when the results of the palace examination were released, Shen Zhao, the prostitute, was riding through the streets with his father's death sentence in his arms.
No one knew that this gentle and jade-like scholar from a poor family was a woman. No one knew that the rhythm she tapped on the table every time was learned from her dead father. No one knew that on the day she entered Dali Temple, she stood at the door and looked at the plaque for a long time - it was through this door that her father was escorted out six years ago.
"Is a poor county magistrate qualified to investigate the Cui family?"
She smiled and closed the file: "Is there anything else you want to say?"
The whole hall was silent.
Cui Taifu held the teacup in his mouth, neither drinking nor putting it down.
She doesn't rely on anyone. Her existence itself is the answer.
