Inside Bubu Pharmacy, the air was thick with herbal fragrance.
"What?" Song Yinjian stared at the root in his hand, eyes wide, voice rising. "This ginseng is fake?!"
Baizhu gave a slight nod, professional certainty in his calm expression.
"That's right. At first glance it's almost identical—shape, color, even the texture. But it isn't real ginseng."
"It's Fontaine foreign ginseng."
Song Yinjian froze as if struck by lightning.
It took him a long moment to regain his senses before he asked, urgently, "Then… does it have any value at all?"
Baizhu answered honestly. "About one percent of the price of real ginseng." Song Yinjian suddenly found breathing difficult.
He was an adeptal disciple—yet he'd still fallen for a scam so basic it belonged to the kind of rotten tricks that targeted elderly people in his past life.
He quietly put away the Fontaine foreign ginseng, already deciding he'd use it someday to swindle that "Toy Seller" who was currently away from Snezhnaya.
Then he cleared his throat and shamelessly changed the subject.
"Boss Baizhu… if it's convenient, could you introduce me to a few clients?" Baizhu's answer was simple.
"Get out."
He was a physician who saved lives. Why would he recommend a funeral business to patients?
Song Yinjian wandered out of Bubu Pharmacy, the herbal scent fading behind him. The moment he stepped outside, he saw Qiqi doing stretching exercises in the open space.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… seven…"
Her small voice was crisp and earnest. She counted seriously while doing each movement with clumsy diligence, her little body stretching and bending with adorable focus.
Song Yinjian lowered his head, smiling brightly. "Qiqi, want me to hold a funeral for you?"
Qiqi stopped mid-stretch. She tilted her head, blinked her clear eyes, and placed one finger against her lips in thought.
After a long moment, she looked up at him, puzzled. "Funeral… what is it?"
"Oh, a funeral is… singing, dancing, causing chaos, and beating… Planning," Song Yinjian lied casually.
Qiqi shook her head slowly. "Then Qiqi doesn't like funerals."
Song Yinjian was about to say more when he felt a cold gaze stabbing into his back. He shrugged and hurried away.
…
Keqing wandered through the lively streets of Liyue Harbor, her steps heavy, her heart full of loss.
Even though Zhang Xiaoli's truth had already surfaced, as the Yuheng, she still couldn't give the girl justice.
Just like Song Yinjian had said—evidence alone wasn't enough to ensure the real culprit received proper punishment.
Huachu and Jianqiu could be thrown into prison, sure. But what did that solve?
Was Liyue's law only harsh toward its own people?
She walked for a long time without noticing where she was going, until she lifted her head and spotted a tea pavilion ahead.
It stood quietly by the roadside—calm and elegant amid the bustle. And inside it sat a familiar, steady figure.
Posture straight, temperament refined—someone whose presence alone brought an inexplicable sense of reassurance.
She remembered Song Yinjian's suggestion. With a "why not" kind of hope, she approached and spoke politely.
"Zhongli, I have something I'd like to ask you."
Zhongli set down his teacup and replied gently, "Miss Keqing, sit. Speak slowly. I'll answer as best I can."
Keqing sat and told him everything about Zhang Xiaoli's death—from beginning to end. Zhongli listened, then sighed.
"By common rationality, Zhang Xiaoli's death is deeply regrettable. She should have had a better life."
Keqing let out a weary breath.
"As one of the Liyue Qixing, I can neither seek justice for her… nor prevent tragedies like this from happening again."
Zhongli fell silent for a moment. Then, with an apologetic look, he spoke.
"I'm sorry, Miss Keqing. I'm only a consultant for Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. I'm afraid I can't offer you any practical help."
Keqing shook her head slightly.
"When Song Yinjian suggested I come to you, I didn't expect much. I just wanted someone to vent to."
At the mention of Song Yinjian, a glint of light passed through Zhongli's eyes. Then he spoke with sudden certainty.
"Miss Keqing, rest assured."
"Zhang Xiaoli's justice will be restored."
For reasons she couldn't explain, the gloom in Keqing's heart cleared. She straightened, resolute again.
"I believe so too."
She bid Zhongli farewell and walked away at a brisk pace—returning to the road she'd chosen, to fight for Zhang Xiaoli's justice.
Zhongli calmly finished the remaining tea in his cup and rose.
Then he called to the attendant nearby.
"Please put this on Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's tab." The attendant's face twisted with visible misery.
It was only a hundred mora for a cup of tea—barely the price of a couple of eggs—and he still wanted to put it on credit.
But Liyue was a nation of contracts. Since Zhongli said so, the attendant could only respond. "Yes, Consultant Zhongli. I'll note it."
Zhongli strolled through the crowded streets. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the harbor, draping Liyue in a thin veil of gold.
He walked unhurriedly until he stopped before the door of Xianjia Rites. Just then, a familiar, weighty voice sounded behind him.
"My Lord… why are you here?" Zhongli paused, then turned.
Standing there was Li Shui Die Mountain True Lord—an old comrade who had once fought by his side for years.
Zhongli felt a flicker of surprise.
Li Shui was proud by nature, disdainful of mortal affairs, and rarely dealt with humans at all. He almost never stepped into the mundane world.
So why was he here today?
Zhongli gave him a slight nod. "Li Shui. Call me Zhongli here." "I came to see Song Yinjian."
"You came to see that brat?" Li Shui stared, stunned. "His aptitude is the worst I've ever seen! And he's greedy for beauty, always staring at his—"
Before Li Shui could finish, a quiet voice drifted from behind him. "Uncle Li Shui."
"As a venerable adeptus, is it really appropriate to speak ill of your own nephew behind his back?"