Chapter Thirty-Two: Little Ninth

From the moment Xian Hongye began using gu, an intractable question has hovered over me. How, exactly, did this young Jiu’er manage to slip gu poison into the Huaiyang dishes without anyone noticing? Later, all mysteries seemed to converge upon that delicate bowl of bird’s nest soup, filling me with even greater incredulity.

What did it mean to poison or use gu in bird’s nest soup? To my mind, this was a task more difficult than ascending to the heavens. I simply couldn’t fathom how one might mask the rank, pungent odor of gu poisons—utterly impossible.

To put it in perspective: never mind poison or gu, even a single extra drop of vinegar or oil in that soup would be detected by the palate, and some sensitive diners might vomit on the spot, let alone if it were something as sinister as gu.

Perhaps someone would ask: why do I put such faith in the subjective illusion of taste? Isn’t it possible that there exist colorless, tasteless poisons or gu, perfectly suited for malicious use?

If someone were to pose this question, I could only say that they’ve watched too many TV dramas and read too many novels. Such colorless, tasteless poisons—especially those derived from insects—simply did not exist in the ancient world.

My old squad leader once told me: the best tool for detecting poison is the human tongue. Before the invention of modern poisons, whether a foodstuff was safe or not was determined by tasting it—literally risking one’s life.

We often see similar scenes on television; some may think that the eunuchs and maids who sampled the emperor’s food were merely sacrificial test subjects, ancient “lab rats.” But in fact, it wasn’t so. Those who performed such tasks had mastered the art of detecting poison by its peculiar taste; that was why they dared take the risk.

After all, the effects of poisons can be either swift or delayed. Not all toxins kill instantly; some may take a year or more to manifest. If no symptoms appeared immediately, could one really let the “boss” eat it? That would be far too reckless.

But why is it that the tongue can discern unwholesome flavors? Why did the ancients believe that food with a bad taste must be problematic? My old squad leader once explained it to me in detail.

He told me that, before modern times, productivity was low, and especially the technology for distillation and purification was poor. As a result, anything produced was impure, inevitably containing extraneous substances that generated distinctive, hard-to-mask odors.

Poisons and gu both suffered similar shortcomings. Moreover, these substances in ancient times were all derived from herbs, minerals, venomous creatures, or spoiled matter—rarely artificially synthesized. Thus, their “stink” was even more pronounced. Often, people could identify dangerous ingredients by smell, taste, or sight alone.

That’s why, in those days, to disguise the taste of poison or spoiled food, people would hide them in dishes with heavy flavors, masking them with layer upon layer of chili, salt, and other strong seasonings. Spirits, especially those capable of numbing the palate, became the preferred medium for poisoners. This is also one reason why the ancient, deadly “poisoned wine” endured through the ages: it could conceal all manner of strange flavors.

My old squad leader told me all this to teach me a lesson, to broaden my experience, so I wouldn’t be ensnared by others while cooking in the future, and to remind me never to be greedy for bargains or to buy or eat ingredients that tasted bad or seemed off—lest I harm both my customers and myself.

I never imagined, however, that years later, his words would become a shackle on my judgment, blinding me to the true situation.

Not because he was wrong, but because the true form of this “white food gu” wasn’t an ingredient at all—it was a living thing!

To be more precise, it was a secret art from the fringes of sorcery—a “living gu.”

My lingering doubts found their answers with the “egg” in my hand.

In Xiao Jiu’er’s private kitchen, I grabbed a sheet of white paper and cracked the egg onto it.

In an instant, the clear albumen oozed out.

“There’s nothing here—wait!” Wang Hou stared at the egg white, then suddenly exclaimed, “What’s going on? Where’s the yolk?”

I let out a cold, self-deprecating laugh. “Of course there’s no yolk—because this isn’t a chicken egg, it’s a snake egg.”

At this, I raised my head, slightly breathless, and declared, “The true body of the white food gu is this snake egg!”

At first, I too thought it was a basket of reddish chicken eggs, but on closer inspection, I realized these eggs were subtly different from the ordinary kind.

Compared to chicken eggs, these were more oval, with softer shells. Most importantly, under the light, I saw no sign of a yolk—only the vague shadow of an embryo.

All of this fit with my knowledge of snake eggs.

Yet when I first suspected they were snake eggs, I could hardly believe it myself. After all, I couldn’t think of any snake that could lay eggs so large. In hindsight, only a giant python could produce an egg the size of a chicken’s.

But at that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder: could this Jiu’er be some kind of snake spirit in disguise?

While I was lost in thought, Wang Hou nudged me. “You’ve been talking all this time—where’s the snake?”

Startled, I glanced again at the nearly transparent puddle of egg white, then picked up a calligraphy brush from the desk, dipped it in ink, and let a few drops fall into the shattered egg white.

Within seconds, as the ink spread, a tiny snake embryo, no longer than a little finger, emerged before our eyes, wriggling about with surprising vitality.

It was indeed a snake.

The little creature was almost colorless overall, with only the eyes and heart marked by a minute red dot and a few wisps of blood, resembling a goji berry.

At last, I understood why the gu was planted in blood bird’s nest soup, and why it was paired with red goji berries.

My face ashen, I explained in a hoarse voice, “Everything fits! Jiu’er’s white food gu is this transparent, colorless snake—mix it with equally translucent blood bird’s nest, and who could ever notice? The snake egg tastes subtly sweet and salty, and such a tiny snake has no flavor at all—how could anyone detect it?”

Truly, a woman as venomous as a viper!

As I spoke, I slammed my palm fiercely on the table, trying to vent my pent-up frustration—but Wang Hou was even more ruthless. He raised his massive hand, intent on smashing the wriggling menace to pulp.

But at that critical moment, a languid voice drifted in from the direction of the private kitchen’s doorway.

“Don’t harm my darling.”

That voice had an almost magical power, arresting both my action and Wang Hou’s rage.

Slowly, we both lifted our heads to look at the speaker.

A woman, pale and ethereal, had silently appeared in the doorway.

A dress white as death, skin as pallid as her dress, a smile as wan as her skin—on that haggard woman, I could find not a trace of blood or color, save for her hair, black as ink. She looked like a porcelain doll sculpted from flour.

All of this I had anticipated. What caught me off guard, however, was the uncanny realism of the girl’s “false eye.” If Bai Pangzi hadn’t warned me that she was blind, I would never have believed she couldn’t see. It was too unnatural, especially that confident, luminous smile in her clear eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder—just what had replaced her eyes?

So the four of us stood there, gazing at each other, a brief silence falling over the room.

At that moment, without exaggeration, this woman—so beautiful she seemed mournful, so frail she might shatter at a touch—needed nothing but her presence to keep both Wang Hou and me frozen in place.

Yet the most terrified among us was her original employer, Boss Bai.

At this moment, Boss Bai was like a mouse who’d seen a cat—shuffling to hide behind Wang Hou’s bulk, whining all the while, “Jiu’er, give yourself up! These are mainland police, there’s nowhere left to run—”

But Jiu’er only looked at him with a mocking smile.

Her bright, watery eyes fixed on the cowering Boss Bai. “I’ve always told you, you’re far too timid—never fit for anything important. You’ve brought this on yourself.”

Her words left me speechless. If, in her eyes, Boss Bai was timid, then she was a monster with a twisted mind. I’d never met anyone like her before.

To be honest, in that moment, I actually pitied Boss Bai.

So, to ease the tension, I said, “Miss, your boss is just being realistic—how can you call him cowardly? I advise you to accept the situation, cooperate with us, and tell us how to neutralize the white food gu, and perhaps the authorities—”

Before I could finish, Jiu’er rounded her eyes at me and smiled—an expression that struck like a slap in the face. Strangely, her smile seemed familiar, as though I’d seen it somewhere before.

When I fell silent, she suddenly asked, “Still pretending to be a police officer?”

Her words left me dumbfounded. How could a blind woman see through me more easily than someone with sight? But I was no ordinary man; even exposed, I had to keep up the act.

Steeling myself, I replied, “Of course I’m a policeman.”

But Jiu’er was merciless, tearing away my last pretense with a single blow.

She continued to smile. “Officer, why do you smell so strongly of scallions? Don’t tell me your police academy was the Temple of Confucius?”

Her words struck me like a thunderbolt to the chest. I almost spat blood on the spot. In my shock, I even wondered if she was truly human.

“How…how do you know I’m from the Temple of Confucius?” I asked, both terrified and sincerely impressed.

Hardly anyone knew this secret, not even Wang Hou, who had worked with me for years, had any idea what the “Temple of Confucius” meant.

But Jiu’er only answered me with a cryptic smile.

“I know everything about you. However—” She shifted her gaze to Bai Pangzi.

“You betrayed me?”

With those three simple words, my breath caught in my throat.

“Wang Hou!” I barked. “Protect Bai Pangzi! Jiu’er is going to—”

But it was already too late.