The iron-heavy scent of fresh blood was never part of the West Market's evening inventory. In the golden age of the Tang Dynasty, the walled wards of Chang'an usually exhaled a predictable symphony: roasted lamb from the Silk Road, fermented rice wine, and the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense drifting from the Taoist temples. But as the moon—a bloated, silver eye—rose over the curved eaves of the Daming Palace, the air changed, carrying a primal musk that signaled a disaster far more complex than any ordinary crime.
Li Mei stood at her apothecary stall, her fingers nimble as she sorted dried wolfsbane and cinnabar. She was a woman of logic and herbs, yet she possessed a "Golden Finger" that no medical text could explain: her sense of smell was not merely a physical faculty, but a map of the soul. To her, a lie smelled like rotting citrus, fear had the metallic tang of cold copper, and death smelled like damp earth and ancient, musk-heavy fur. As an aspiring author of her own destiny, she had learned to use this ability to survive in a world where a woman's voice was often covered in dust.
"Close the shutters, girl," her neighbor, a fat silk merchant, grunted as he bolted his doors with trembling hands. "The whispers say the 'Silver Shadow' is hunting tonight. Three beggars were found gutted in the gutters of the South Ward since the new moon".
Mei didn't answer. Her nostrils flared. Underneath the merchant's mundane fear, she caught a scent that shouldn't exist in a city of stone and law. It was a predatory musk—wild, ancient, and terrifyingly close—a scent that promised a heart-pounding mystery traditional publishers might overlook but web novel readers would crave. Suddenly, a scream shattered the rhythmic evening drumbeat of the city. It didn't come from the alleys, but from the high balcony of the 'Fragrant Pearl' teahouse overlooking Mei's stall.
Mei did not run away; instead, she grabbed her case of silver acupuncture needles and moved toward the sound. She burst through the teahouse doors just as a massive shape crashed through the lattice window. It wasn't a man, nor was it a beast. For a heartbeat, Mei saw a silhouette of silver fur and elongated claws, a nightmare rendered in moonlight that seemed to defy the very rules of reality. The creature's eyes met hers—two pools of molten gold that smelled not of madness, but of a profound, agonizing Qi deviation.
"Help... me..." a voice rasped, a sound like grinding stones before the shadow vanished into the rafters.
Before Mei could step forward, the heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves echoed outside. The Imperial Guard, led by a man in dark, dragon-stitched silks, surrounded the building with a precision that suggested they were hunting more than just a common killer. The man who entered was Prince Zhao, the empire's legendary 'Wolf-General'. He was a masterpiece of cold, aloof masculinity, his presence demanding immediate worship from everyone in the room. As he stepped into the dim light, Mei's Golden Finger went into a frenzy.
She expected the scent of a warrior—horse sweat and steel. Instead, she was hit by a suffocating wave of imperial incense and fresh gore, layered over that same identical, musky scent of the silver-furred creature. Prince Zhao's eyes, as dark as obsidian, swept over the carnage before settling on Mei with an intensity that created an instant emotional connection. He moved with a predatory grace, his tall stature creating a sense of pressure that made the air feel thin.
"You," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in Mei's very bones. "You are the apothecary's daughter who claims to smell the truth".
Mei held her ground, her hand tightening around her needle case despite the life-and-death crisis surrounding her. "And you, Your Highness, are the Prince who smells of the very crime you are supposedly investigating".
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. The soldiers behind Zhao shifted, their armor clinking, but the Prince remained still, his gaze burning into hers with a sexual tension that felt like a physical weight. A dangerous light flickered in his eyes, one that signaled the start of an epic clash between his secrets and her skills.
"A dangerous thing, to have a nose for secrets in Chang'an," Zhao whispered, leaning down until his breath—scented with winter mint and something primal—brushed her ear. "Come with me, Alchemist. Either you will cure the darkness in this city, or you will be the first thing it devours".