Chapter 27: The True Culprit

The morning sun had barely cleared the mountain ridges when Crimson glided back through the streets of Qingshui Town. His black robes rustled softly, casting a long, sharp shadow across the damp cobblestones.

In his mind, the spiritual silhouette extracted from Elder Wu’s memory was crystal clear. Every detail of the suspect’s height, posture, and gait had been mapped with the flawless accuracy of a Saint-realm assassin. Crimson crossed three districts in the span of a dozen breaths, navigating the winding alleys with ruthless efficiency. He braced his heart for a high-level confrontation. Whoever this phantom adversary was, they possessed a terrifying degree of stealth to slip past his awareness and cast a blight upon the teahouse’s pristine reputation.

The spatial trail grew warmer. It led away from the noble estates, past the martial clan compounds, and straight back toward the central market square.

Crimson slowed his pace, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his concealed blade. The trail curved around the corner of the main thoroughfare, heading directly toward the front entrance of the Lin Fan Teahouse.

Crimson stopped.

The spiritual footprint ended precisely twenty feet from the teahouse’s front steps, right in front of a rickety wooden handcart loaded with wooden crates of fresh cabbages, plump radishes, and bundles of green onions.

Sitting on a small, overturned wooden bucket behind the cart was an elderly mortal woman. She wore a faded blue cotton smock, a white headscarf tied neatly over her silver-white hair, and a gentle, weathered smile. Her hands were wrinkled like dried tea leaves, carefully wiping dirt off a carrot with a damp rag.

This was Grandma Zhang. She had sold fresh vegetables on this exact corner for fifty years.

Crimson stood perfectly still in the middle of the street, his red eyes darting between the optical signature in his mind and the old woman wiping carrots. The silhouettes matched perfectly. Down to the millimeter.

There was no hidden cultivation base. There was no disguised illusion art. There was no ancient demonic spirit possessing her frame. She was, in every measurable sense, a completely ordinary, fragile mortal woman whose physical body had never touched a single drop of spiritual qi in her entire life.

Crimson stood there for a long moment, his formidable brain attempting to process this spatial paradox.

He didn't draw his sword. He didn't release a wave of killing intent. To unleash even a microscopic sliver of Saint-realm pressure on someone so delicate would pulverize her mortal skeleton before she could even blink, and the Owner’s rules regarding customer safety were absolute.

Suppressing his aura entirely until he smelled like nothing more than fresh morning air, Crimson took three slow, deliberate steps forward.

Grandma Zhang looked up from her carrots, her milky, cheerful eyes blinking at the tall, pale young man standing before her cart. She recognized him instantly. He was the extremely intense, polite boy who always stood by the teahouse door looking like he was guarding an imperial treasury.

"Oh, good morning, young man," Grandma Zhang greeted him, her voice cracking softly with age. "Are you out early to pick up vegetables for Master Lin’s kitchen? I have some wonderful winter radishes today, very sweet."

Crimson bowed slightly—a stiff, formal gesture that looked entirely out of place in a vegetable market.

"Greetings, elder," Crimson said, keeping his voice carefully modulated so as not to startle her. He reached into his inner robe and pulled out the small, silk-lined pouch, carefully extracting the parchment slip bearing the infamous jagged ink mark. He held it out delicately between two fingers. "I come seeking information regarding this document."

Grandma Zhang squinted at the paper, then her face lit up with a warm, nostalgic smile. "Ah! The little wooden block box! Yes, I remember that!"

"You recognize this paper?" Crimson asked, his red eyes fixing upon her with intense focus. "You placed this into the box two days ago?"

"I did indeed," Grandma Zhang nodded happily, wiping her hands on her apron. "Master Lin told us it was for telling the shop how we felt. A young scholar standing nearby was kind enough to lend me a brush and a scrap of paper, so I made my mark before I went home."

Crimson took a quiet, deep breath, maintaining his composure. "May I inquire... why did you select a rating of 'one' for the service category? What shortcomings did you observe? Did the tea arrive too late? Was the posture of the staff unsatisfactory? Was the ambient temperature off by a fraction of a degree?"

Grandma Zhang blinked, looking mildly confused by his intense line of questioning. Then, she let out a gentle, raspy laugh that sounded like dry leaves shuffling in the wind.

"Shortcomings? Goodness gracious, no, child!" Grandma Zhang waved her hand dismissively. "Master Lin’s shop is a blessing to this whole town! And you, young man—you held the heavy oak door open for an old woman carrying two heavy baskets of cabbages. You even bowed! No young master from the big martial clans has ever treated a vegetable vendor with such respect."

Crimson’s brow furrowed in deep, profound perplexity. "If your experience was pleasant... why did you write the number 'one'?"

Grandma Zhang smiled warmly, leaning forward on her wooden bucket. "Well, I can't read or write those fancy scholar words, you see. But everyone knows numbers! And 'One' means First Place! Number One! The absolute best shop in the entire world!"

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She tapped her chest proudly. "I wanted to make sure everyone knew that young Master Lin and his polite waiter are Number One in Qingshui Town!"

...

The world stopped.

The chirping of the morning sparrows froze in mid-air. The gentle breeze rustling the willow trees ceased. The very concept of time appeared to grind to a sudden, catastrophic halt inside Crimson’s mind.

Number... One.

First Place.

Not one out of five.

Number One.

He had spent seventy-two hours preparing to execute a multi-generational blood feud over a grading scale misunderstanding from an illiterate grandmother who thought she was giving him a gold medal.

Crimson locked up.

He stood there in the middle of the street, completely rigid, transformed into a pristine, life-sized marble statue. His eyes were wide, staring blankly into the middle distance as his mind replayed every single action he had taken over the past three days.

One minute passed. Grandma Zhang continued wiping her carrots, occasionally looking up at the extremely still young man.

Three minutes passed. Deep within his soul, centuries of martial pride, Saint-level arrogance, and tactical intelligence were melting down into a puddle of absolute cosmic embarrassment.

By the fifth minute, Crimson finally let out a long, quiet, ragged exhale that sounded like air escaping a deflated leather bellows. The statue came back to life.

He slowly lowered the parchment slip, looking at the old woman with a expression that was equal parts profound relief and existential exhaustion.

"I... see," Crimson said softly. His voice sounded remarkably humble. "It was... a mark of highest praise."

"Of course it was, dear," Grandma Zhang chuckled, picking up a fresh radish. "You boys do wonderful work."

Crimson looked at her closely. Now that his mind was no longer clouded by murderous paranoia, his Saint-realm spiritual vision casually swept over her fragile physical frame.

His eyes softened slightly. Beneath the warm smile and bright eyes, her internal life-force was flickering dimly, like a candle guttering in a cold draft. Her vital organs were worn down by decades of hard labor, cold winters, and poor nutrition. Her spiritual pulse was so faint it was barely a whisper.

Four to six months, Crimson’s inner diagnostic instantly calculated. Her mortal vitality is nearly exhausted. She will not survive the coming winter.

Crimson looked at the wrinkled old hand holding the carrot. He thought about how he had spent the last three days harboring thoughts of destruction, while this fragile mortal had walked up to the shop with her heavy baskets, grateful simply because a waiter had held a door open for her.

A rare, faint glimmer of genuine emotion passed through the Saint’s red eyes.

"Grandma Zhang," Crimson spoke gently.

"Yes, young man?"

"Allow me to offer you a token of appreciation," Crimson said quietly. "For your... honest feedback."

Before she could react or ask what he meant, Crimson stepped forward and gently pressed the tip of his index finger against the center of her forehead.

He didn't unleash a surge of destruction. Instead, with microscopic precision, he extracted a single, infinitesimal drop of pure, refined Saint-realm life essence from his own spiritual core—a thread of raw vitality so soft and gentle it felt like warm spring rain. He carefully routed it into her withered meridians, bypassing her fragile organs and sinking it deep into her origin foundation.

Grandma Zhang’s eyes widened in surprise as a sudden, glorious warmth washed over her entire body.

It started at her forehead and cascaded down her spine like liquid sunshine. The dull, aching pain in her lower back that had plagued her for thirty years vanished instantly. The stiffness in her fingers melted away. Her heavy, exhausted lungs expanded effortlessly, drawing in a breath of air that tasted sweeter than mountain water.

In the span of five seconds, a miraculous physical transformation occurred right there behind the vegetable cart.

The deep, harsh wrinkles around her eyes smoothed out significantly. The stoop in her shoulders straightened up naturally. Dark, glossy black streaks bloomed through her silver-white hair, and a healthy, vibrant rosy flush returned to her pale cheeks. She didn't turn into a teenager, but the wear and tear of a decade of harsh labor vanished from her frame in an instant.

Crimson withdrew his finger, stepping back with a respectful bow.

He had injected enough life essence to extend her mortal lifespan by fifty full years. She would live to see a century, robust, healthy, and entirely free from disease.

Grandma Zhang gasped, looking down at her hands. The liver spots had faded, her skin was firm, and she felt a sudden, bursting energy in her chest that she hadn't felt since she was a thirty-year-old woman. She picked up a heavy crate of cabbages that usually required two men to lift and raised it over her head with one hand as if it were a feather pillow.

"My... my back doesn't hurt!" Grandma Zhang exclaimed, her eyes wide with joyous astonishment. "I feel... I feel like I could run up a mountain!"

Crimson smiled—a real, genuine, polite smile that didn't look like a shark for once.

"You are going to live a very long time now, Grandma Zhang," Crimson said softly. "Please... continue to frequent the teahouse. Your presence is always welcome."

"I will! I certainly will!" Grandma Zhang cried out happily, pulling three of her finest, largest winter radishes from the cart and shoving them into Crimson’s hands. "Take these for Master Lin! On the house!"

Crimson accepted the radishes with grave solemnity, bowing once more before turning around and walking back toward the teahouse.

A few minutes later, the front door of the Lin Fan Teahouse clicked open.

Lin Fan was behind the counter, organizing clean tea cups, when Crimson walked in. Under one arm, Crimson carried three massive winter radishes. In his other hand, he carried the silk pouch containing the investigation notes.

Lin Fan looked up, eyebrow raised. "Back already? Did you find your grand conspiracy?"

Crimson walked over to the counter, placed the radishes down neatly next to the tea caddies, and set the feedback pouch beside them.

"The investigation is officially concluded, Owner," Crimson reported, his tone calm, quiet, and remarkably peaceful.

"Oh?" Lin Fan chuckled, leaning on the counter. "And who was the shadowy mastermind behind the one-star service review?"

"An illiterate vegetable vendor," Crimson replied honestly. "She gave us a 'one' because she believed it signified 'Number One'—the absolute highest rating of excellence in the realm."

Lin Fan froze, a tea cup halfway to the shelf. He stared at Crimson, blinked twice, and then burst into a loud, delighted laugh that echoed off the high wooden rafters.

"Number One?!" Lin Fan laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "She thought it meant First Place?! That's hilarious!"

"Indeed," Crimson nodded, a faint, reflective smile on his face. "It was... a complete misunderstanding of numerical grading systems."

Lin Fan stopped laughing and looked at his lead waiter curiously. "So... what did you do?"

"I thanked her for her patronization," Crimson said smoothly. "And I ensured she will remain a loyal customer for the next fifty years."

Lin Fan smiled approvingly, patting Crimson on the shoulder. "Good man. See? Constructive feedback isn't so bad after all. You learn something new every day."

"Yes, Owner," Crimson bowed respectfully, picking up his polishing cloth and walking toward the front window with an light, easy step. "I learned a very valuable lesson today about perspective."

As Crimson began polishing the glass with serene focus, Lin Fan shook his head with a warm smile, returning to his cups. The teahouse was quiet, the sun was rising, and for the first time since opening, the Saint-realm waiter was genuinely at peace.