He knew that pressing further would only yield more answers crafted by procedure.
The three of them left.
Behind them, the courtyard gate closed with a soft, muffled thud.
After walking some distance, Bǎishìtōng finally muttered under his breath,
"This is way too clean…"
Xiǎo Chén didn't respond.
He only cast one last glance at the courtyard—
a place that no longer belonged to the living.
——
At dawn the next day.
The academy convened an emergency meeting.
Not fully public, but not hidden either.
Everyone with real authority was present.
At the head sat the Dean.
To his left, Dù Jīn quietly flipped through the case files, expression unchanged.
To his right, the elders took their seats in order—
the Sixth Elder positioned near the front.
Two instructor representatives sat to the side.
They had no right to speak, but they could hear everything.
The atmosphere was still.
The vice‑leader's suicide note was presented in full.
It wasn't long, but it was read word for word, nothing omitted.
When the final line fell, no one spoke.
The silence felt like a shared understanding.
The Dean was the first to break it, his tone light but weighted.
"You have all heard the account."
"What I want now… are your views."
No one answered immediately.
Until the Sixth Elder cleared his throat softly, breaking the stillness.
"This matter carries significant impact," he said slowly.
"The black market, forbidden pills, a life‑and‑death duel…
If these words spread, the academy's reputation will suffer."
He didn't name anyone.
But he shifted the pressure onto "public perception."
Dù Jīn glanced at him but did not respond.
One of the instructors frowned.
"The vice‑leader's statement is… rather one‑sided. Could there be other possibilities?"
The air in the hall shifted subtly.
The Dean nodded for him to continue.
"The steward is missing, the vice‑leader is dead, and the black market trail leads nowhere," the instructor said.
"If we conclude the case based solely on a suicide note… isn't that too hasty?"
This time, Dù Jīn closed the file in his hands.
"It's not that we refuse to investigate," he said calmly.
"But at the moment, there is nothing left to investigate."
He raised a hand, gesturing toward the records on the table.
"The vice‑leader is dead. The steward has vanished.
As for the black market—I've already sent people to make contact.
They will not give us anything."
"In this situation, forcing the matter will only unsettle the academy."
The Sixth Elder followed smoothly, his tone turning colder.
"But if we do nothing, how will the outside world see us?"
"Will they think we're condoning this?"
This time, Dù Jīn looked directly at him.
"That's why we still need to act. But our actions must not exceed authority, nor descend into chaos."
He turned toward the Dean.
"My recommendation is this—seal the case for now. Archive it for observation."
"At the same time, strengthen internal regulations to prevent anyone else from taking reckless risks."
The Dean pondered for a moment, giving no immediate response.
The Sixth Elder spoke again.
"Easy for Chief Steward Dù to say."
"But if we don't establish authority, who can guarantee there won't be a second vice‑leader?"
The barb was obvious.
Everyone in the hall heard it.
Dù Jīn did not grow angry.
He simply replied, calm as ever:
"Establishing authority is not the same as abusing power.
The academy is not an execution hall."
The Dean finally raised his hand, halting the dispute before it could escalate.
"That's enough."
His voice was not loud, but it restored silence to the chamber.
"For now, we will accept the vice‑leader's suicide note as the conclusion."
"The case will be sealed and archived."
"Internal regulations will be revised by Chief Steward Dù and submitted for further review."
His gaze swept across the room.
"As for other speculations—without evidence, they end here."
The meeting's direction was set.
The Sixth Elder said nothing more.
He lowered his gaze, though a faint, icy curve touched the corner of his lips.
He knew he hadn't secured power today.
But he also knew—
this matter was far from over.
After the emergency meeting, the academy showed no immediate signs of upheaval.
At least, not on the surface.
Until the morning of the third day, when a notice appeared on the bulletin wall between the inner and outer courtyards.
No embellishment.
No explanation.
Just a few brief lines—
cold, concise, and unmistakably deliberate.
—Strengthen student conduct regulations.
—Strictly prohibit private contact with black‑market factions.
—Anyone involved in black‑market dealings will be punished according to severity, up to expulsion.
—Stewards and instructors who fail to supervise will also be held accountable.
The notice was signed by Dù Jīn.
The news spread quickly.
Not because the rules were harsh—
but because the timing was too perfect.
The aftermath of the life‑and‑death duel had not yet faded.
The vice‑leader's death was still being whispered about in private.
And this new regulation dropped like a sudden gate, silently telling everyone—
This matter ends here.
The outer courtyard reacted the fastest.
Some people stopped discussing certain topics.
Some simply stopped taking private jobs outside.
The conveniences that once lived in the gray areas vanished overnight.
The inner courtyard was quieter.
Because those who understood the situation knew—
this wasn't a purge.
It was a line being drawn.
Bǎishìtōng stood before the bulletin wall for a long time, murmuring,
"This isn't aimed at anyone."
Xiǎo Chén nodded.
"But it's not without a target."
Xuán Chén didn't respond immediately.
His gaze lingered on the line 'strictly prohibit private contact' for a moment.
"It's not about punishing the past," he said softly.
"It's about sealing off the future."
The regulation named no one.
Yet everyone understood.
From today onward, anyone who crossed the line would no longer be "uninformed"—
they would be knowingly defiant.
The academy seemed to return to order.
But from this moment on, many things that once happened in the shadows
were forced to change shape.
Some chose to withdraw.
Some chose to wait.
And some, behind the newly drawn boundary, began recalculating.
And all of this
was only the beginning.
——
On the afternoon the new regulations were posted, several core members of the White‑Black Society gathered.
No commotion.
No heated discussion.
Just their usual habit of reporting recent movements.
"The line we were tracking is gone."
"The black market suddenly went quiet."
"Those who were willing to talk before… avoided the topic today."
Halfway through the updates, the room fell silent.
The White Lion sat at the front, fingers interlaced, leaning back in his chair.
His expression didn't shift in the slightest.
Only after the last report did he speak.
"From today onward, we stop investigating people."
Several heads lifted at once.
"Stop investigating… people?" someone echoed instinctively.
The White Lion glanced at him, voice steady.
"The regulations are out. If we keep digging into individuals now, we're handing them leverage."
"We change our target. We investigate outcomes."
The room stilled.
The White Lion continued,
"The vice‑leader is dead, but Silver Mirror remains intact.
Cáo Jiànyú is dead, yet the situation has stabilized.
The black market hasn't moved, but the regulations tightened."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"If nothing seems to have happened on the surface… then we look at who benefits."
The words dropped, and the members exchanged glances.
They finally understood—
the White Lion wasn't retreating.
He was changing paths.
"From now on, stop watching Silver Mirror's people," he said calmly.
"Watch resources. Watch appointments. Watch who suddenly gets promoted, and who suddenly gets pushed down."
"Some things won't speak for themselves.
But the flow of power is never silent."
The members nodded and dispersed.
Only the White Lion remained.
He rose and walked to the window, gazing at the academy buildings in the distance.
The new regulations had restored surface order.
But to him, it was nothing more than a freshly laid floor.
The cracks beneath it were still there.
And the real question was never who acted.
It was—
who survived the chaos more comfortably.
—
On the fifth day after the regulations were issued, news quietly spread within Silver Mirror.
Not an announcement.
Not an official appointment.
Just a few stewards mentioning in private—
that the vice‑leader's position would be "temporarily filled."
The name spread quickly.
He wasn't new.
He wasn't a last‑minute replacement.
On the contrary, he had been in Silver Mirror for years—
steady, balanced, rarely involved in conflict.
"Experienced."
"Level‑headed."
"Not the type to cause trouble."
Most evaluations sounded like that.
To outsiders, it seemed perfectly reasonable.
But those who understood the inner workings noticed one detail—
This man had been personally brought into the core circle by Sītú Jìng years ago.
Not a confidant, but not unrelated either.
The message wasn't explicit, but it circulated quietly within Silver Mirror.
"Temporary" sounded transitional—
but in truth, it already implied tacit approval.
The White Lion heard the news soon after.
He asked only one question:
"Whose approval finalized the appointment?"
The answer was vague—
"The process was completed."
The process was completed.
Yet no one had seen who actually made the decision.
That kind of silence was more unsettling than open debate.
Silver Mirror didn't fracture.
Didn't argue.
Didn't show signs of internal suspicion.
The transition unfolded like a play long rehearsed—
performed right on schedule.
And the strangest part—
Sītú Jìng never appeared.
He didn't speak for anyone.
Didn't defend himself.
Didn't say a word for the dead vice‑leader.
It was as if he had stepped out of the picture entirely.
But precisely because of that,
some people felt even less at ease.