After failing the imperial examinations, Song Ci returned home. On a stormy night, he discovered the elderly recluse next door lying dead on his bed.
The door bolt bore no marks, the windows were shut tight, and among the dust on the floor was only one set of footprints: unmistakably the victim’s own.
The villagers cried out in panic that vengeful spirits had taken the old man’s soul, but Song Ci pushed through the crowd and crouched beside the mold-covered door bolt.
“The lock is intact. Only the killer and the victim were ever in the room together.”
The village head asked in shock who the killer was.
Song Ci brushed the dust from his fingertips. “The answer is right before your eyes.”
“Inside that door bolt, repeatedly soaked with water and left to dry.”
