Fanon:Chapter 9: Havoc in Li Jun

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Author's Notes[]

I have been working on this chapter for like 2-3 years so there's a ton of content and updates on all our favorite characters. With that in mind I'm not cruel so I added PoV breaks so we can bounce around and know who's talking and what not. Which I will start formatting in this manner from now on. I hope you enjoy!

Overview[]

The chaos left in the wake of the Reveler’s Den sends ripples through Taiyuan. Captain Qishi turns to the Yanzhao investigators for answers about what truly befell Avani, but every witness whispers the same name—Congxiong. What begins as an inquiry soon becomes a reckoning, as Airen confronts Congxiong, forcing long-buried resentments into the open. Bloodlines and grudges collide when Congxiong takes his revenge on his own kin, reshaping the fragile order within the company.

Elsewhere, Zuqiu and Zhongli’s bond finally blooms in the tension of uncertain days. Yet love, in wartime, can be as ruinous as it is redemptive. Fangzhu wrestles quietly with belonging—torn between the freedom of the road and the call of the Exile’s Refuge. Biehe discovers the path he was meant to walk, while Avani, regaining strength, begins maneuvering within the city’s intricate politics, forging new alliances in her own subtle way.

Far beyond Taiyuan’s walls, Nu Xing, Pi Dao, Lin Xi, and Mo Fu strike at Li Jun County under Gan’s command, dismantling its leadership piece by piece. At the same time, the Ke clan unleashes their assassins—Juji, Citong, Jian, and Gong—upon those who could send reinforcements. As blades flash in the dark, a question looms: will these shadowed strikes save Taiyuan, or leave it utterly defenseless?

Chapter 9: Havoc in Li Jun[]

Book 1: War

Chapter 9: Havoc in Li Jun

The spacious skies above East Lo Shao Cha were almost barren save for a few clouds that were sporadically littered around. Hues of indigo, purple, and blue dispersed as they welcomed their brighter counterparts of orange, red, and yellow. It was dawning at daybreak, the radiance of the sun hadn't yet filled the landscape, but it slowly crept over the mountains as time passed. The thin breeze gently brushed against Pi Dao's skin.

He shuddered with a bit of chill. Skin bumps rose as his body reacted to the cold of the wind. He covered his bare arms, then rummaged through his satchel and made sure to check everything off his mental list. He tossed the satchel onto the saddle of his ostrich horse and secured it.

Mo Fu relaxed on top of his ostrich horse while he chewed on mint leaves. Then he grabbed his waterskin, popped the cork off, and sipped on some water. He swished the contents in his mouth for about five miao before spitting it out. He cupped his hand and exhaled breath, then he sniffed his hand. He gently nodded his head in agreement with himself that it was good enough.

Their other two squadmates arrived in time for their departure. Lin Xi bounced with haste toward his mount with his trusty pipa on his back. He almost rammed into Nu Xing, who was cloaked in an extravagant red cloak, designed internally with warm furs.

The woman's steps were light and silent, much like her nature. She was in no rush, unlike her minstrel squadmate, who barged out his door and scampered his way here like an airbender.

At the same time, their barbarian counterparts were also ready; three of the four men mounted their razorback rams. They only waited for the leader's orders before they officially departed. The short and stout sharpshooter relaxed on his mount while he pressed down on the contents of his pipe with his finger. The complexion of his skin, still hidden by the waning moonlight, was kept warm by his leather armor and fur coat, which shielded him from the summer breeze. He glanced to his right, where an unmanned razorback ram ate a sack of dried grass around its neck.

A tall, lanky man, covered in fur armor, lifted himself onto his mount; his light, tanned skin began to glow in the arriving sunlight. He carried a slight taper that glowed bright at the tip. He sighed as he handed the stubby man the waxlight. He made sure his wushanka hat was snug on his head to keep his ears warm. The scraggly hairs on the corners of his mouth kept part of his upper lip warm.

As his leader dipped the candlelight into his tobacco pipe, he inhaled a few times and made sure the tobacco was well lit.

The slim barbarian leaned over to his left and double-checked if his huyadao was strapped correctly. While he examined it, he commented, "Juji, stop with the smoking, it's going to be—another nail in your coffin."

Juji blew on the waxlight, extinguishing the embers. He placed the tape inside his saddle bag. Then he took another hit from his pipe and said, "I'm the leader, and what I say goes..."

"...besides, you're one to talk, Mo. Your nasty habit of hand relieving has gotten quite out of hand," added Juji.

The other two men cackled with laughter at the pun thrown at the swordsman's way.

Mo cringed, frowned, and remained silent. He sat upright on his razorback ram.

Juji faced Mo, and he signaled he was ready by lowering his chin.

Mo returned the nod, then turned to face the other two men.

An armor-plated, heavy-set blacksmith and a ripped barbarian, his person was well equipped in a combination of fur and plate armor, who followed right after the swordsman.

The archer snapped his reins on his razorback ram, and they sped off eastward toward their first target in Miapu Village.

Concurrently, the auburn-haired explosives expert looked at the disguise that had been given to him by the assassin, as she handed each of them a uniform. The uniforms looked more like rags poorly sewn together. He arched an eyebrow and questioned his squad mate, "What is...this?"

"Dockworker uniforms, they were stolen by spies sent out by Yun," responded Nu Xing.

She realized she had tossed the wrong one to Mo Fu and noticed Pi Dao Suo had the ship mechanic disguise. She took the outfit from the thief and threw it at the explosives expert.

While Mo Fu tossed his uniform to the thief.

Nu Xing expressed, "The plan will be repeated when we near the port town. Just in case we don't recollect our individual missions."

"What are you impersonating?" Lin Xi questioned Nu Xing, and he was confused as he gazed at her in the fabulous red costume she wore.

"I'm dressed as a landowner meeting with the magistrate of the town and his family. Spies have word of a meetup between the target in question and the mark," answered Nu Xing.

"That's why we're leaving early, so we can catch the carriage taking her to Gansu Hu," said the noblewoman.

"We should go," finished Nu Xing as she snapped the reins of her ostrich horse and led the pack of men south of East Lo Shao Cha.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

Defense Sector, Taiyuan

A healer rushed into the barracks where the Avatar resided, and she was given a private chamber aside from the regular soldiers. Not because of her social status but because she was a woman, and Shuaige believed she needed privacy from oglers.

Avani awoke with a nasty headache; her world spun like the night before. Her body felt sore from the dancing.

The healer returned with a bowl of hot soup and a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Avani rested in her bed as the healer adjusted the headrest for the Avatar.

Shuaige entered the chambers dressed in armor, keeping warm with the golden cape draped over his shoulders. He questioned the old woman, "How is she feeling?"

The Avatar groaned while the old woman gestured for the Avatar to open her mouth. The healer bent a small portion of the soup out of the wooden bowl and released it into the Avatar's mouth to swallow.

Avani swallowed the warm soup while the old waterbender faced the captain, "She's fine, she just has a hangover."

"Ugh... I'm never drinking again," groaned Avani.

Shuaige covered his brow and sighed as he shook his head. He only thought of what the King would say. However, he knew he wouldn't write the report until he and Baoshou had investigated the situation from the previous night. Wanggoudexin will not be pleased. He departed from the Avatar's chambers and stormed off toward the regular barracks. Here, he found Airen, who decided to rest in the Defense Sector for the night instead of at his aunt's estate. The door burst open, and Shuaige furrowed his brow in anger.

Zuqiu scuttled off when he saw the steam as it exited from his superior's ears from pure rage.

Shuaige aimed his finger at the stout nobleman with vexation. "You were supposed to watch her! I told you to watch her back!" the captain chided.

Airen gasped and contended with his captain, "Are you serious? I did! I followed her just like you asked me to, and I joined her at the club!"

"You allowed her to get intoxicated, and you were so stupefied on some drug while she was sloshed and embarrassed herself in front of the public!" Shuaige accused Airen of neglecting Avani and permitting her to humiliate herself.

"It wasn't my fault! How dare you accuse me of negligence when I observed her every move from a distance? The servers at the Den gave me the wrong order, I was given mucuna by accident!" objected the nobleman.

"Accident...Congxiong..." he thought to himself for a moment.

"It was already too late when I noticed what it was..." paused Airen.

"...I uh—used to partake in recreational drugs when I was younger," implied Airen, a regrettable tone in his voice. Something that he kept to himself was his previous addiction to smoking mucuna with friends back in Ba Sing Se.

"I know who was the culprit behind all of this," Airen mentioned.

"Don't you see that Wanggoudexin will learn of this?!" maintained Shuaige.

"The Yanzhao were there; they saw everything. This'll cost us our jobs or worse," worried Captain Qishi.

"Captain Qishi—" interrupted Airen. Shuaige waved his arm out in front of Airen's face and gestured for him to keep his mouth shut.

"Not another word, I will get the information out of the witnesses who attended last night," ordered Shuaige.

Briefly, Airen being swatted as a punishment crossed Shuaige's mind, but maybe Airen was innocent. He shook his head as he walked out of the barracks. His first idea of help was to bring the issue directly to Governor Wuqi. Although the governor, for his part, would not be inclined to interrupt his schedule for something so plainly preventable and foolish. It then occurred to him that the Yanzhao could assist him in the matter, since they held authority over citizens, much like the guards did.

Shuaige mounted his ostrich horse and rode out of the military area of the sector, and headed off toward the northwestern portion of the Defense Sector. Here, the office of Pai Jun and the training grounds of the Yanzhao were located.

The Taiyuan branch office of Yanzhao was situated in a two-story block of pale stone with a neat cornice. The ground floor was a formal intake station where detainees were processed, recorded, and routed—whether to reeducation centers, to penal holding, or to less public dispositions. The upper floor housed the overseer's chamber, a compact suite of file-lined walls and a desk of polished wood where orders were signed and the branch's priorities consolidated. Security was layered and discreet: a hollow surveillance wall, a locked internal door, and the constant, low hum of clerical efficiency that made enforcement feel routine rather than brutal. Two Yanzhao guards stood guard at the front doors of the bureau; they both saluted the military officer and reached for the doors, sliding them open.

Shuaige slightly nodded his head and thanked the men as he entered the office.

The receptionist at the front desk halted her brush strokes when she glanced up to see Shuaige. She placed her brush back in the ink pot, then smiled and asked him, "May I help you?"

"Is Overseer Pai Jun available?" the military captain inquired.

"Overseer Pai Jun is only accepting appointments," the woman replied.

"It's an important matter that needs his attention," mentioned Qishi.

"No exceptions," said the receptionist.

"It involves the Avatar," added Qishi.

The receptionist rang the small bell to her right, which signaled her boss to depart his office and head down the stairs, where he saw Shuaige as he towered over the woman's desk.

He recognized the familiar face from the day before, and he gestured for the military captain to join him upstairs.

Captain Shuaige Qishi followed the overseer of the Taiyuan branch into his private quarters. Pai Jun closed the door behind them with a soft click, then gestured to the chair across the low table.

Shuaige sat.

Pai Jun folded his fingers and rested his elbows on the wood, watching the captain with the slow, appraising look of a man who had seen too many petitions before breakfast. "What can I help you with this morning?" he asked.

"It's about Avani." Shuaige's voice was flat. "Last night she turned up at the Reveler's Den—drunk and surrounded by nobility while the steward's son shouted in her face. I don't know what happened after that, but one of my soldiers—the steward's nephew—was drugged." His jaw tightened on the last word.

Pai Jun gave a polite smile. "She's a young noblewoman," he said. "They get merry in each other's company. Drink too much, sleep it off. There isn't always an investigation for that. You'd have more luck wasting city guard time than bringing it to me."

"We don't normally take these kinds of cases," Pai Jun continued, as if reading from a ledger. "Our matters concern traitors, deserters, those who speak blasphemy against the Crown, and those whose lifestyles contravene the statutes. You follow me?"

Shuaige shouldered his disappointment and, with the small courtesy of a man accustomed to losing slow fights, began to pivot toward the door.

Pai Jun cleared his throat sharply enough to stop him. "I've known Avani since she was a little girl," he said, the unfamiliar softness in his voice catching Shuaige off guard. "I have a particular regard for her. I will dedicate my time and effort to this matter. What outcome do you expect?"

"Someone I can hold accountable for what happened," Shuaige said without hesitation.

Pai Jun nodded once, a movement precise as a stamp. "I will send agents to the Reveler's Den. I suggest you join them." He folded his hands again, already shifting back into the business of orders.

Northern Tusuzu Sector, Taiyuan

The sun radiated brightly over the Northern Tusuzu Sector. It took Shuaige a couple of hours to reach the noble district by ferry. Captain Qishi was accompanied by two Yanzhao agents, one of them being Pai Jun. They reached the Reveler's Den, the establishment was set to open in merely two dian. As the Yanzhao approached the door, Shuaige knocked on it gently.

The Junggarian man from the evening before slightly opened the door to say, "We're not open yet."

"By order of the Yanzhao, we're here investigating an incident that took place in your establishment yesterday evening," the second agent interrupted.

The man opened the door wide open, "Oh, of course, come in."

Other employees shuffled about as one dusted things with a feather duster and another swept the joint. A third employee cleaned the countertops and tables where patrons typically relaxed while smoking their water pipes. The owner motioned for the men to sit while he snapped his fingers. A server rushed to the club's kitchen and prepared tea for their guests. He then introduced himself, "I am Kardan, owner and proprietor of the Reveler's Den. I pride myself on the quality of my hookah, and it is one of the few places that brings a sense of community to the northern sector."

"This is Captain Qishi Shuaige of the 251st Company of the Haijunese Army. He arrived very late at your place of business yesterday evening. Where he encountered two of his soldiers who were intoxicated. One was sent to watch over the other, more important individual," Pai Jun summarized while also presenting the military captain to the owner of the Den.

Kardan swiftly nodded, "Yes, I remember the short man and the girl." He continued, "However, I don't understand the issue if they came here to get inebriated; that was their choice.", "Kaarmand! Bring me the record of sales from last night!" he called out.

One of the employees conjured steaming tea out of thin air on a wooden platter and individually handed each man a cup full of green tea. While a short, stubby gentleman brought forth a logbook with all the orders made by customers, ranging from hookah bowls to drinks and even food. Kardan studied the last few pages, which contained separate sections for bottom-floor and top-floor orders. He skimmed until he found the orders from both Congxiong and Airen. "Right here, Lord Biaoqin arrived with his group of friends and ordered drinks and shisha bowls. Later came two more of Lord Biaoqin's guests, who were the two soldiers you've mentioned," read Kardan, as he tapped the page.

Kaarmand bowed to the men, then left, while Kardan looked further. "It says here your subordinate ordered rose flavor. He must've partaken in the baijiu that Lord Biaoqin and the young woman were drinking together," said the owner.

"Airen said he didn't drink alcohol, and when I found him, he was high on something," Qishi recounted.

Pai Jun faced Kardan, "In my youth, I don't ever recall the rose flavor getting one spaced out."

"There was no way Rose did that unless he got a mix, but it doesn't say on here that it was a mix," dismissed Kardan.

Kaarmand returned with the bowl from last night that was yet to be cleaned. "Kaarmand, I haven't cleaned the bowl yet. I did want to bring this to your attention."

The owner rubbed his pinky finger on the oil in the bowl and sucked on it.

While Pai Jun took a whiff of it. It smelled like ash and small amounts of mucuna.

"After the order of rose was made, Mouzi came up to the counter and changed the order for the soldier to mucuna," Kaarmand mentioned.

Shuaige lifted his cup in a small, measured sip and let his eyes slide toward Pai Jun. Opposite him, the Yanzhao agent kept his gaze fixed on the dark tea in his hands. "Mouzi... who's Mouzi?" Shuaige questioned the owner. Although he turned his head to face Pai Jun.

Pai Jun remained silent; however, Kaarmand chimed in, "She's a published model in the city. She appears in advertisements for many things. Cathouses, massage parlors, clothing stores, even on posters that are bought by lonely men who need a good relief."

"Then our suspect is a chou biaozi," assumed Shuaige.

"Well, I wouldn't say she is, just that she poses for advertisements. I do hear she's a dancer, I'd check one of those places," disagreed Kaarmand before he suggested they follow up with her at a cabaret.

"Do you know what kind of relationship she may have with Lord Biaoqin?" inquired Pai Jun.

"I can't say for sure—that is something you'd have to ask someone who knows both of them," answered Kaarmand.

"Can you recount what occurred last night?" he questioned the Junggarian man.

"It's not a question I can accurately answer. I'd advise that you speak to the regulars. Kardan can help you out with that," responded Kaarmand.

Pai Jun's gaze fixated on Kardan, and then he repeated his query.

Kardan nodded, "Let me make a list of top-floor regulars." He quickly dipped a quill into ink and scribbled names as he said them aloud. "Haoyu of the Lin family, Anhe of the Dong family, Mengtao of the Pan family," listed Kardan.

Shuaige blurted out, "Who was the gentleman who assisted me last night? He must've seen something, plus I'd like to give him my appreciation."

Kardan thought about it for a moment, "Yuze of the Zou family."

Pai Jun rose to his feet and bowed to the men for the intelligence, "We thank you for the information you've given us. We will use this in our search for the witnesses." Pai Jun chugged his green tea. As Pai Jun, Captain Qishi, and the other agents exited the Den. Pai Jun turned his attention to Shuaige, "We will look for the witnesses from here; you'll be summoned for the questioning of our bystanders."

✻✻✻✻✻[]

Eight Hours Later – Miapu Village, Li Jun County, Pingyao

Four razorback rams lay along the limestone ledge like sentries—coarse backs heaved, horns caught the sun. Below them, the valley breathed: strips of green, a ribbon of a stream, and, at the center like a careless punctuation, a wall-less village clustered around an open square. The men with the maps had marked it in ink and whispered, 'Miapu, smack in the middle of Li Jun County.'

The sun sat at the midpoint of the sky, brutal and merciless, and baked air shimmered over the distant thatch. They had broken camp a mile out, beyond the sightline of any casual wanderer, and had arrived here three dian ago; three dials of shadow and light in which the land taught them its rhythms. From this ridge, they observed and waited. Their armor, if seen, would've read them like foreigners immediately—bright metal against earthen roofs—so patience was their first camouflage.

On the rolled maps, Miapu's square was a tight knot of alleys and training grounds. The men read it like a promise and a problem. Miapu mattered for two reasons that did not soften: its Elder commanded men to arms, and its training grounds turned farmers into a body that might answer that call. If Miapu had stood, a company could've been formed here that would've been a spear elsewhere. If Miapu fell quiet, the valley's balance shifted toward favor.

They measured the distance in small, particular ways—how far the goat-path ran before it opened into the field, where the sun flung shadows from the granaries, which pines hid a messenger's road. One of them traced a route with a thumb, imagining the silent feet that would've pressed it at night. Another unpacked a length of woven reed and began, without a sound, to unroll its promise. A wrap to dull the reflection of steel, a way to make armor look like harvested stalks when the light struck it right.

They had to hide in plain sight. They were as incapable of slipping away as those rams were of turning into mist; instead, they became part of the valley's texture—workers, peddlers, a hunched row of storemen moving crates. It required timing, patience, and the willingness to play a supporting role. It required them to think like harvesters rather than heralds.

Miapu's square pulsed with ordinary life beneath the noon. Children hauled water, an old woman sang as she threshed, and a dog chased a drifting scrap. The men watched each normal motion as if it were a signal. Somewhere in that steady domesticity lay the hinge they wanted. An unguarded road, a single distracted sentry, an elder's predictable path to the shrine.

They didn't speak of glory. They cataloged the facts and folded them into a plan. The valley held its breath beneath the sun, and the rams kept their slow watches. Tonight, when the light leaned and shadows grew long, they planned to move—not like soldiers marching with banners, but like the valley's own footsteps, taken quietly, one practiced tread at a time.

Juji studied the documents given to him by Deng from Yun, which detailed tasks for each man and their target.

Meanwhile, Mo sat on a hulking branch of a tall tree. He studied the area below them from where he rested. He swung his legs back and forth; luckily, from his position, he couldn't be seen by anyone below.

A heavily built man settled down near their unlit campfire. He gathered rocks with his bending and set them in a circle.

The other went and gathered firewood in the grassland below; some of the trees sprouted new leaves. Branches and bark were found near the trunks, as he ripped pieces from the body of a tree.

The burly man sharpened the blade of his sword, and sparks flashed as the metal of the sword came into contact with the sharpening stone. He played with it as he angled it left and right to bounce the sunlight off the weapon itself.

The barbarian hacked away at one of the trees in front of him as he gathered more branches for the fire.

Suddenly, Mo spotted three men in furs out in the distance, prowling with their weapons drawn. He gasped and cupped his hands, whistling a warning to the others.

The barbarian who happily chopped away at the wood faintly heard the whistling from above. He swiftly crouched and stopped all action. He remained hidden in the tall grasses of his environment. He grabbed what he could and scuttled off silently back toward his brothers-in-arms.

Juji was disturbed by his orders; he reached for his bow, clutching the weapon tightly. He huddled behind the tree on which Mo sat, then pulled an arrow from his quiver, notched it on the bow, and waited for an opening.

At the same time, the hunters from Miapu heard the chopping of wood in the distance. The leader of the three held up his fist and signaled the other two to stop in their tracks. He placed a finger to his lips for an indication of silence. "You hear that?" "Someone's chopping wood," he whispered.

"Perhaps travelers," one of the two men guessed.

"Or enemy troops," the other softly yelped.

The hunter on the left slapped the one on the right's shoulder, "Ow!"

"Quit it! There are no enemy troops here. We're nowhere near the warfront," denied the hunter on the left.

"Will you two take this seriously?" their leader hissed. Then he added, "We have to examine the area and report back any discoveries of enemy movements to Elder Chahua."

The hunter on the left reminded him, "That's not part of our job description; we were hired specifically to find game for the butcher. Not scout whether that sound was made by the enemy or simple travelers."

The lead hunter yanked the collar of the clever-mouthed hunter, "Listen here, you follow my orders. If you're going to tell me what to do, you might as well leave!" "We're going to investigate the area and that's final!" maintained the leader of the group.

The hunter on the right shook as he pointed at the tall grass that moved, "Look!"

The smith returned the swordsman his huyadao, and both men nodded as he reached out for his maul. And he slipped his helmet back on his head.

The fourth member of their group noticed he was still outnumbered, and he glanced back at Juji, whose sight was still locked onto the men. The other two are ready to rush over to their friend.

"Juji, what are your orders? Should we wait for Jian?" Mo looked over to Juji for his next instruction.

"He's surrounded by those men; you two need to get out there! I'll be here watching your backs!" Juji barked.

The lanky barbarian and his burly counterpart skulked into the tall grasses.

Their leader, Juji, shut one eye as he moved his bow side to side and locked onto his target.

The hunter on the right pointed at the grass as he saw more movement, "Look! There's more than just one!" He said nervously.

While his fellow hunter on the left pressed forward. His leader notched an arrow on his bow and aimed it toward the moving grass.

In the same breath, Juji drew himself taut, breath held, sight locked on the lead hunter. The string sang as he let the arrow go; he exhaled and closed the other eye in reflex. The shaft whipped through the air with a thin whine and buried itself in the man's chest.

The hunter folded with a raw yell, the sound tearing across the grass. The man on the right glanced, then pivoted his feet and bolted for the village. Panic made him run slantwise through the tall blades. The hunter on the left spun toward his fallen companion—too slow.

Gong exploded from the reed like a coiled spring. He struck without flourish; the heavy maul crashed down onto the turned man's skull. The left hunter crumpled, still twitching, blood fountaining the grass where his head met stone.

Juji gave a single, sharp whistle. "Fleeing," he signaled, voice clipped and bright in the open air.

Mo was already moving—cutting from cover with his huyadao in hand, slicing across the hollow toward the running figure.

Jian and Gong exchanged a quick, efficient nod. Gong's hands were already working; he palmed the pair of iron cuffs at his belt. They rose from his grip as if pulled by an invisible string and flew, stiff and terrible, through the air toward the legs of the man racing home.

The cuffs struck ankles like snapping traps. The runner stumbled, his arms windmilling as he fought to regain balance and speed. He hit a low mound and rolled, scrambling to his feet only to find his feet locked in metal. He yelped—a wild, ragged sound—and clawed at the bindings; he tore at cold iron that wouldn't yield.

Mo reached him in two strides and moved like his sword. He didn't waste time on speech. The first sweep of his blade was aimed to incapacitate cleanly; the second ensured the man wouldn't rise again. The screams cut off; silence snapped over the grass.

Jian closed on the gallows with the practiced calm of a man who had ended lives before. He checked pulses that weren't there, then hauled the bodies—one by the arm, another draped over his shoulder—back to where the first hunter lay. The valley took them in, three still shapes amid crushed stalks, the only motion the slight rise and fall of a single breath that wouldn't return.

They stood for a long moment, breathing in the hot air, as they listened to the distant clatter of the village, unaware of it. Then, with no fanfare, they moved—cleaning weapons, gathering what they needed, turning hunters into evidence, and the field back into emptiness.

As Gong prepared the disguises and modified them, some portions were removed, and fur was added to the new armor. It's not like the townsfolk would have hardly noticed the difference.

Juji began a small campfire where he lit his taper and continued to puff on his pipe.

"There were only three men, and three disguises. Where does that leave you, Juji?" Gong asked.

Juji examined the Oma Kingdom patch on his leather and fur-covered armor. He yanked at the patch and tossed it in the fire, "Just a small removal of this," he finished. The embellishment was instantly devoured by the starved embers of the small fire. The others stowed their armor in a hollow trunk.

"What's the plan?" Mo inquired.

Juji folded the map and looked up at the others. They had to change the plan, he said, and fast. If they were going to move in close, they needed a cover that fit—the men in the village should see hunters, not soldiers. "We'll alter the plan," he told them. "Dress and move like hunters. Find something we can bring into town that makes that story believable."

He tapped the place on the map where Miapu clustered. "Our primary target is Elder Chahua, an elderly woman with the authority to call troops and train villagers. She's an obvious target, but she will be even more dangerous if she's well-guarded. If she can deploy freshly trained men, she must be neutralized before those troops can form."

He turned to Jian. "This one's yours. You get inside her household. Slay a retainer if you must to make a way in, learn her schedule, and find the opening. Any scrap of information you bring back will matter. I trust you to find a clean way to remove her."

Juji's gaze moved to Mo Citong. "Citong, you're on the training grounds. Infiltrate and map the chain of command. Learn who answers to whom, then make sure they start falling apart."

He looked to Gong and back again. "Gong and I will prepare charges—small explosives to bury and detonate at choke points. We'll need a layout of the facility; Mo, if you can steal a map, bring it to us."

Juji set his jaw and recited the limits as if reading the rules by which they lived. "We stay no more than three days. After that, our faces will be known. We may not be able to kill the Elder immediately, but we must first hit the training grounds. Create chaos, strike hard, and pull back to camp when the work is done."

He spread his hands and looked each man in the face. "Clear on orders?"

They answered without ceremony. One by one, they extended their hands into the center of the circle and nodded, then raised them together—a hard, steady team signal that sealed the plan.

♮♮♮♮♮♮[]

Gansu Hu, Southwestern Li Jun County, Pingyao

Gan's specialist squad crested the low ridge and saw Gansu Hu spread below like a tidy secret: a quay, a scatter of roofs, and no defensive walls—nothing between the town and the sea but open field. They were still a span away when the realization settled over them; a militaristic town without fortifications made the plan feel thin and exposed.

Mo Fu made a quiet, disgusted sound. "A militaristic town with no walls—terrible," he muttered, eyes narrow as carts trundled toward the quay. Merchant wagons rolled by in a slow ribbon; then a gilded carriage passed, ornate and out of place, flanked by four stiff escorts who marched with the practiced stillness of hired guards. The specialists watched the procession, cataloguing each man's posture and position as if mapping threats.

Nu Xing waited until the carriage had cleared the ridge and the clink of wheels faded. "That's our mark," she said, voice low and steady.

Pi Dao let his gaze sweep the plain. "Assassinate them out here?" he asked. "Too many witnesses. Anyone could see us."

Lin Xi toyed with a coin between two fingers and tilted his head. "Yun's plan has gaps," he said. "What if the landlady is still in the wagon? How do we make it look like anything but an attack?"

Mo Fu's jaw worked. He shook his head slowly, as if shaking off the thought. "He sent us on a suicide mission," he said bluntly.

For a long beat, the four of them held the view: the exposed town, the carriage moving steadily toward its heart, and the practical math of bodies and witnesses. The sun rode high and indifferent, and the sea breathed behind them. They had to decide—adapt now or turn back and let Miapu grow into something worse.

"Time to improvise, the other tasks can still be accomplished," suggested Lin Xi.

Nu Xing paused for a moment and devised the first part of the plan. She offered her teammates two options: "We have two options, either we find a way to break into that carriage and take them off one by one, or we allow them to reach the city. However, we must kill them before they reach their destination." She was interrupted by Pi Dao.

"I choose the former," he said as he aggressively flung a small rock toward the carriage. It flew silently through the air and blew out one of its axles to smithereens. The carriage suddenly careened to the left, as the left wheel popped off and rolled away. The mark yelped in fear of falling out of the wagon.

The guards jumped in fright and darted their heads around, although they had no idea what had happened. One of them shouted, "The wheel broke off the axle, what just happened?!" The ruckus caused the two ostrich horses to drag the cart a bit further toward the settlement. While the cart driver whistled at the beasts to halt. The retainers ran after the wagon to inspect the damage. Another wondered, "Did we hit something we weren't supposed to?"

"We don't have any tools. Ping, come with me, we'll go into town and find a cart repairman," said one of the four men. The fourth, and youngest retainer, nodded, "Yes, sir." The two men left and headed into town, which was still a stone's throw away from where the carriage broke down.

The woman inside opened the curtains of her wagon and questioned the men, "Did we hit something? I'm going to be late!"

"We're not sure, furen," one of the two remaining men shook his head. "The wheel just flew off. Ping and Tao are heading into town for some help. We'll just sit back while waiting here," he answered her question.

Concurrently, Nu Xing clenched her teeth in anger at the thief, "Why would you ta made do that?!"

"I made it easier for us!" the thief maintained.

"Stop arguing!" exclaimed Mo Fu.

Lin Xi ignored the three while he observed the targets below. He said, "I have an idea." They continued to bicker amongst themselves. The bard raised his voice and repeated, "I said I have an idea!"

"We only need to keep the driver alive, as long as we intimidate him, he should be fine," suggested Lin Xi.

"What do you think we should do with the others?" Mo Fu inquired.

"Nu Xing can go after the mark, while the retainers can be picked off by you and Pi Dao," hinted the bard.

The explosives expert shook his head, "No way, my sniping skills aren't that accurate."

Pi Dao placed his hand on Mo Fu's right shoulder and smiled, "I believe you'll do fine."

Mo Fu picked up a rock and orbited it in his right palm, "Here goes nothing," he sighed.

"I'll take out the guy on the left," mentioned Pi Dao.

"Fire," ordered Nu Xing.

Mo Fu drew a slow breath and held it, eyes narrowing on the carriage. At his signal, Nu Xing snapped the reins and spurred her ostrich forward; Pi Dao let two stones fly in quick succession, the slingshot snapping in the air.

One stone slammed into the guard posted at the right wheel; he staggered against the broken carriage, a hand flying to his chest. The second struck the man peering from behind the curtain—his head folded with a wet sound, and the curtain shuddered with the impact. The woman inside the wagon recoiled as dark spray spattered her face. She screamed, toppled from the seat, and burst through the wagon door. The coachman scrambled down and bolted.

Nu Xing rode hard for the fallen woman. She rifled her quiver as she closed, seized a throwing dagger, and waited for the opening. When the moment came, she loosed it at the woman's exposed back. The blade struck true; the woman cried out once, then fell as the poison took hold and her limbs stiffened. Nu Xing threw herself after the coachman and caught him by the shoulder.

Mo Fu halted beside the dying woman and checked for movement while Jian and Gong cut off the driver's flight. The three riders converged on the cart; the coachman dropped to his knees, shaking, voice high with terror. "Please—don't kill me!" he begged.

Pi Dao produced a blackjack and cracked the man smartly across the temple. The coachman slumped, unconscious.

Mo Fu watched the woman's chest rise and fall with slowing gasps, then stilled. Lin Xi knelt and pried a wheel free from the wreck; the rim was intact. He hauled it back while Mo and Pi Dao set to work. Nu Xing stood guard over the bodies.

Together, they righted the carriage. Lin Xi and Mo levered the frame; Pi Dao shaped a length of earth into a crude axle, pressing packed soil and rock to fit the hub with a practised ease. The wheel seated. It would hold until they reached the lake town.

"Pi Dao, Lin Xi—armor up," Nu Xing said, voice flat. "They won't be needing it anymore."

They moved with the same efficiency that had taken the carriage: stripped the nearest bodies of cuirass and helm, checked weapons, and slid the pieces into waiting hands. Mo Fu stripped the poisoned dagger from the woman's side and tucked it away. Lin Xi and Pi Dao stacked the three corpses and, under Mo Fu's direction, eased a shallow pit between the reeds. They rolled the bodies in and covered them with loose earth until only bent stalks marked where men had fallen.

By the time the sun had shifted, the carriage looked like a common wreck, and the road held only dust. The driver lay still under an overturned crate. The squad wore their new armor in silence—three men now armored as locals might expect, a fourth watching the waters where their passage would continue. They had taken the carriage and erased much of the violence; the valley would remember nothing but the tread of ostrich feet and a faint, cooling stain beneath the grass.

Nu Xing tapped the driver's shoulder, and he jumped in his seat, startled. She smirked, "Can you please start driving toward the town now?"

The coachman trembled as the cart nosed toward the lake settlement. He snapped the reins; the ostrich horses surged forward and carried the squad into town.

Inside the carriage, Nu Xing uncorked a small vial, slid on thick leather gloves, and rubbed a thin sheen of strange oil across a King's Man gold coin. The metal gleamed under the lamp; the oil did not. It smelled faintly of iron and something sweeter—fast-acting and insidious. Nu Xing tucked the vial away. Whoever touched the coin would be poisoned within hours.

She rolled the coin between her palms and outlined the plan, voice low and precise. "After the driver drops me at Magistrate Budaode's estate, I'll pose as a buyer and arrange a meeting about our late friend's property." She handed a folded, forged letter across the group. "Pi Dao, take Mo Fu and Lin Xi to the harborside vault. The forged letter bears the magistrate's seal—that will let you remove what we need. Load the explosives. The orders say they must go to Taiyuan."

Her eyes were steady as she continued. "Once you secure them, change into ship mechanic uniforms and begin inspections. Plant charges on the ships and detonate them offshore, away from the quay. While you do that, I'll ensure the magistrate's life ends and the training ground loses its heart."

They rode on in a compact line. The carriage rolled through Gansu Hu and stopped at the magistrate's compound thirty fenzhong later. The specialists grouped themselves and drifted toward the docks, measured and careful.

Nu Xing tossed the gold coin to the coachman as the men fanned out. He gaped—no master had ever tipped him so generously—and palmed the coin like a gift. It felt oddly slick; he wiped it on his tunic and frowned at the wet smear. For a moment, suspicion prickled up his spine—some instinct from an earlier spy encounter—but he let it pass. He tightened the reins and watched the riders pull away, telling himself it was only nerves.

Nu Xing briskly went in the direction of the siheyuan; she had a meeting to catch with Budaode.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

Taiyuan, Pingyao province

Four carriages departed from the Yanzhao Bureau in the northern Tusuzu Sector; they all split off in different directions. Each one headed to the homes of each of the four witnesses from last night. Each cart was escorted by a coachman and four Yanzhao agents. Two of the wagons headed further south near the gates that separated the northern and southern sectors, where two of the witnesses resided. While another headed north and the other to the east.

The first of the estates was one with a seal of a tiger albatross, the coat of arms of the Dong family. The retainers on the walls opened the gates to a black-painted carriage; the men were concerned about why they had received a surprise visitation from agents of the secret police. One of the agents walked forward and bowed his head as he removed a scroll from his waistband. As he handed the parchment of orders to the guard captain, he recited, "By order of Overseer Pai Jun, we request immediate summons for Anhe of Dong." The captain read the orders, bowed to the agents, and ran inside the home to find the noblewoman.

The second cart arrived at the concrete walls with the seal of the Zou family, an otter bat. Inside the walls, the patriarch of the Zou family watched as his grandchildren played inside the courtyard. While his son Yuze prayed at the family shrine in the back courtyard. He glanced his head over the gates of his home when they creaked open; the sunlight invaded his eyes. Until the overbearing shadows of a carriage and four men dressed in black blocked the sun's rays from the old man's eyes. He dropped to his knees when he recognized the outfits worn by the police. He bowed before the Yanzhao agents.

"Pao, take the boys inside, please," the patriarch ordered one of his retainers. The nobleman approached the agents and inquired, "What do we owe the Yanzhao for them to catch me and my family off guard?"

"We have orders from Overseer Pai Jun for Yuze of Zou to be summoned immediately, Lord Jiazhang," recited the agent.

"May I ask what my son has done?" his heart dropped into his stomach. With a steady and low voice, he questioned the agent.

"We can assure you he's committed no crime; however, he's a witness in an investigation," answered the agent.

"He's praying to the gods and our family saint over by the shrine," nodded Jiazhang as he pointed to where his son was located.

The men bowed their heads to their Elder and made their way over to the Zou family shrine.

At the same time, Yuze blew out a taper as he continued his prayer and offered fruit to Ts'ai Shen, the deity of wealth. He and the shrine were quickly engulfed with shade. When he glanced back, he gasped and jumped, as he wasn't aware there were four Yanzhao agents behind him.

"Yuze of Zou, you're coming with us, by order of Overseer Pai Jun, you have been summoned to questioning," commanded one of the four men.

"D—Did I do something?" he faltered, feeling anxious and suspense as if he had done something he wasn't supposed to do.

"Merely an investigation into a matter you were a witness to. We don't want to keep the overseer waiting," declined the left agent behind the first two. Another extended his arm out, and Yuze took it to be lifted to his feet. The men accompanied the witness toward the wagon.

In the same breath, another wagon halted in front of another entrance. This one had the coat of arms of the Lin family. Their family animal was a stork beetle. The retainers opened the gates. Inside the courtyard, Haoyu was training in hand-to-hand combat with another guard. His hand split a wooden board in half, he wiped the sweat off his brow, and chuckled. He peeped his head from where he stood as the large gates of his property creaked open and a black carriage rolled in.

He gestured to his retainer to wait, then he ran over to the cart with agents behind the vehicle. Concerned with the abrupt invasion of privacy, his finger aimed toward the men. He angrily demanded, "What is the meaning of this unexpected trespassing by meddlers?!"

"By order of the overseer, you have been called to be interviewed by the Yanzhao," responded one of the agents.

"Fine, but I want to know what this has to do with me!" Haoyu agreed to be taken, he stormed off to the door of the wain and climbed inside.

Meanwhile, a slender, young woman strolled the street with her group of friends. A cart rolled by, and four agents jumped from the rooftops and surrounded the noblewomen. All three girls screamed at the jumpscare.

"By the order of the Yanzhao, halt! Mengtao of Pan, you are hereby called by the overseer for questioning!" barked an agent.

Mengtao, like many Haijunese citizens, feared the eyes and ears of the Crown. Many anxious individuals were paranoid they'd be detained and arrested for breaking an unheard-of law and betraying the Crown. She took a step back and cried out, "I've done nothing wrong!" She escaped their clutches and made a dash for it. The men chased after her, two of them shot their fists out in front of them and launched earth bindings at her feet. The earth wrapped around her ankles, and she tripped and fell face-first onto the street.

A crowd of civilians peered over as the noblewoman embarrassed herself in public. One of the old men whispered to another, "Isn't that one of Lord Pan's children?"

The other man nodded, "Aye, I wonder what she did to yanfan the Yanzhao." He sighed, then stood up, "I'll go notify him that his daughter was just taken by agents."

Mengtao struggled to rip the earth bindings from her legs but failed. She caused a scene as the men lifted her to her feet and arrested her for fleeing. The other agent in front of her bound her hands in earth. Both benders dragged the young woman onto the carriage, her face red and heavy with emotion. Tears flooded her eyes as she wailed in distress.

An agent commented, "This would've been easier if you came with us willingly."

A dian later, all four wagons returned to the bureau where agents opened the wickets of the carts and removed their witnesses from the vehicles. Mengtao's eyes were puffy and red from the weeping, her ankles and feet were no longer bound, although her hands were still encased. The other three witnesses gazed at the bound woman. She looked as if she expressed sorrow and embarrassment. All sixteen agents led the observers into the building and onward to the interrogation rooms. The rooms were for bystanders who were to be questioned; as for offenders, they were usually sent elsewhere in the city.

Each witness was placed in a room with an examinant and a scribe. The scribe had parchment laid out on a table, with an ink pot and a quill—the scribes were ready to transcribe the interview for the Yanzhao records.

"Haoyu of the Lin family, you're here because Overseer Pai Jun believes you were a witness yesterday evening to an incident that transpired at the Reveler's Den," started the interviewer.

"Enough about the pleasantries, agent. Is there a reason why I was picked from the other possible hundred onlookers? Did I commit a crime against the Crown?" Haoyu scolded the Yanzhao agent.

"No, sir. Not yet, refusing to answer any questions, however, is punishable by up to a few days in jail. This is the Yanzhao you're talking to—not the guard," avowed the agent, flatly. He motioned for the nobleman to sit down across the table, "Please have a seat."

His scribe wrote about the small event that transpired.

Haoyu angrily crossed his arms impatiently after he took the seat.

"You were chosen because the employees of the Den saw you were one of the four eyewitnesses near Lord Biaoqin Congxiong and Avatar Xinao Avani. Can you recollect about what you were doing last night when the incident occurred?" inquired the assessor.

"The Avatar struck Lord Biaoqin; they both seemed to be intoxicated. I didn't see much. I only turned my focus to them when I heard her smack him across the face. I reckon he touched her inappropriately," recollected Haoyu. He finished with, "Lord Biaoqin tends to have that sort of reputation."

The scribe scribbled on the parchment as Haoyu continued to respond to the query. The interviewer pressed further, "What kind of reputation does Lord Biaoqin have?"

Haoyu responded, "He's a yin chong, I've seen him mostly go after vulnerable women."

"What do you know about Mouzi?" inquired the assessor.

"I don't know who that is," declined the nobleman.

"Thank you for your time, Lord Lin," the questioner said. He clasped his hands and bowed his head before the nobleman.

Haoyu ignored the man; the scribe quickly rose to his feet and darted out of the room.

"Lady Anhe of Dong, I am Agent Xuen. I will be asking you questions about yesternight," the agent introduced himself as he bowed to the noblewoman.

"What was the incident?" Anhe wondered; she seemed somewhat scatterbrained about last night's events.

"You were an eyewitness to the commotion between Lord Biaoqin Congxiong and Avatar Xinao Avani," the agent reminded her.

Anhe's eyes fluttered as she tried to recall last night's event. She rested a closed fist on her chin and remembered, "Ahh, yes! The Avatar...wait, that was the Avatar?"

The man sighed and nodded, "Stick to the question that was asked, Anhe. I asked you what you recalled from last night."

"Sorry..." she paused, a visible cringe expressed on her face. "I was smoking a bowl of shui qie with my friends, while Congxiong and the woman were dancing and drinking baijiu," she responded.

"What else happened?" Xuen asked Anhe.

"I remember he offered her drinks even after she seemed like she had had enough. I wanted to intervene and offer her to join my group," she recalled.

"Why did you want to do that for a stranger?" the interviewer inquired.

"Stranger or not, it was obvious she was vulnerable and needed to be saved. Lord Biaoqin had negative intentions with that girl," said Anhe.

"Can you recollect who the Avatar arrived with?" he posed the question.

The noblewoman shook her head, "No, I don't recall she ever came with anyone else."

The recorder dipped her quill in ink once again and resumed writing on the parchment.

"From what information we've gathered from her superior, she came with another soldier. He was drugged by someone, which prevented him from stepping in and fending off any strange behavior," divulged the questioner.

"Oh...I—that's unfortunate," empathized the noblewoman.

"Do you know who Lord Biaoqin associates himself with?" asked the agent.

Anhe nodded, "Yes, he tends to spend a ton of his free time with Mouzi of the Cui family. She works at a cabaret and models for advertisements." Lady Dong explained further, "I believe one of the girls also happens to be Mengtao of the Pan family, and the other one must be new because they also used to associate with Mei of the Lai family. She has expressed her feelings about Lord Biaoqin and Lady Cui. I think they're manipulating Lady Pan and the new girl."

"...gods forbid they might even be qiangjian those young women. They're rumored to be bushizhe," mentioned Anhe.

"What has Lady Lai told you about Congxiong and Mouzi?" he questioned her further.

Anhe revealed, "Mostly that she was lucky to have broken free from their grasp. She disclosed to me that both Congxiong and Mouzi groomed her. They would control what she did and who she was permitted to speak to. They tried their best to isolate her from her loved ones. She said at first she met Mouzi, who seemed friendly and trustworthy." She continued, "From then, she was introduced to Mei by Lord Biaoqin, who quickly charmed her with his lies. He seemed like a kind enough soul. Oftentimes, they've spent time alone, she told me that he would get touchy with her. At first, it started as a simple hug as a greeting or farewell, then it escalated to unwanted massages. She remained silent because—well, she trusted him. Then it ended up being increased sexual contact."

She finished her explanation, "She said she only saw him as a social friend, someone who could introduce her to new people. But when she tried to cut contact off with both Mouzi and Congxiong. They both got irate, and she was threatened into keeping their abuse a secret. Mouzi would tell her that no one would consider her experience as the truth. I will finish off by saying that Lord Biaoqin has no boundaries and won't respect those of others."

The writer dipped his quill twice into the ink pot and continued on with the record. Agent Xuen had his fingers interlocked with one another and rested his head on top of them as he concentrated on her story. Xuen conceded to what Anhe revealed to him and the scribe, "Hmm—we will keep this in mind for other interviewees, thank you for telling us what you know. You're free to go; the carriage that brought you here will return you home." Both men were shocked to learn the kind of people their suspects were. Xuen followed Lady Dong out of the room and went to the other two rooms.

At the same time, Yuze was being interviewed while the recordkeeper looked up from his parchment and waited for the nobleman to respond. The agent inquired, "Do you recall what happened after they were sloshed from the alcohol?"

Yuze placed his left hand on his chin while he remained deep in thought, "Hmm...", "I only remember everything that occurred after they stopped dancing. Everyone gave the Avatar a standing ovation. I recall she poured herself a tincture of baijiu without being offered one. However, I noticed that Lord Congxiong started to get more physical with the Avatar. He seemed like he was attempting to seduce the Avatar," answered Yuze.

"Then what transpired?" questioned the assessor. His scribe glanced up from his work as he waited for Yuze to go on.

Yuze responded further, "I was a bit confused because I didn't hear what they were talking about. She seemed to be distracted by something, and Lord Biaoqin was concerned. I recall he got her attention again when he interlocked his fingers with hers and gently tugged her to get her curiosity again."

"Then what ensued next was quite odd. After he pulled her in for a kiss, he backed away, screaming his head off. This resulted in chaos as the music was interrupted by the immediate scene. Yuze was bewildered.

"Can you tell us why he suddenly pushed away from the Avatar?" the interviewer asked.

"I can't say for sure," Yuze replied. "He pointed at her as if he didn't know who she was—calling out, 'Who are you?' I would think Lord Congxiong's sanity snapped in that moment."

"Miss Xinao was also perplexed; moments earlier, they had shared a kiss, and she couldn't explain his reaction," the nobleman added.

The scribe dipped his quill again as the agent continued. He pressed for detail: "Who or what was he pointing at? The Avatar?"

"He was distraught and loud," Yuze recounted. "Everyone on the top floor scrutinized the scene unfolding. He didn't point at her—he pointed next to her. He said there was a man behind them, and that's what terrified him."

Yuze's eyes rapidly blinked as he attempted to recall everything he had heard correctly. "I recall he described this man to a guard; his description was a pale, amber-eyed man with a black goatee who wore red clothing."

The scribe halted his scribbling when he listened in on Yuze's testimony. Both the agent and the scribe eyed each other. The scribe interrupted, "You're saying that he reported about a Fire Nationalist?"

Yuze nodded his head, "I've only seen them in paintings, never actually seen one."

There was a knock at the door; the agent rose to his feet and answered it. Another agent briefly whispered into his ear about one of the interviews. The agent who questioned Yuze shared some information before he shut the door. The interviewer declared, "We'll mobilize all available agents to find all Fire Nationalist men in the city based on your description," the interviewer said. "Is that where the night ended?" he pressed further.

Yuze shook his head, "No, everyone went back to what they were doing, and Lord Biaoqin took a shot of spirits, followed by Lady Xinao."

"Did Lord Biaoqin force her to take that drink?" he asked the nobleman.

"No, she voluntarily drank it herself, then he took another swig," declined Yuze.

"And what was the result of that?" inquired the interrogator.

"They leaned in for another kiss, but Lady Xinao smacked Lord Biaoqin across the face, then waterbent the remainder of the water from the jug on their table at Lord Biaoqin and attacked him," answered Yuze.

"That's where I came in, the military captain or her friend found her drunk. He pushed through the crowd to save her. Lord Biaoqin shouted at the man about Lady Xinao. He held on to her when they approached the unconscious soldier. The man berated his subordinate, but the latter remained unresponsive. I offered to help the uninformed nobleman," finished Yuze.

"Thank you for your time, you're free to go, Lord Zou," the agent said. He clasped his hands and bowed before the nobleman as he stayed seated. Then he added, "The carriage that brought you here will return you home."

Simultaneously, a knock on the door from the assessor who interviewed Lady Pan. The agent at the door whispered the new information gathered by others. Lady Pan's interviewer returned to his seat and interlocked his hands with another. He lowered his head in disappointment. Everything the woman just told him was a lie, and if you lied to the Yanzhao, it was a serious offense.

The agent sighed, "Lady Pan, everything you've reported thus far in your testimony doesn't align with the others. I will give you one final chance to repeat everything from the beginning. Would you so kindly tell me the truth?"

A tightness seized Mengtao's chest; her usual anxiety swelled into something sharper. She got caught; she tried her best to hide the actions of Mouzi and Congxiong. She knew it was unlawful to lie to the special agents, as doing so was a betrayal of the Crown. She felt as if all the air in her lungs escaped in a single gasp; she sweated profusely. The Yanzho snickered at her instant regret for not confessing to what they did to the Avatar.

She panicked, "I—I..."

"Lady Pan, we have all day to discuss this," smiled the agent.

She paused and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She knew she had to tell the truth or face consequences.

The agent demanded she talk, "What was the plan all along?"

She caved in and divulged, "Lord Congxiong wanted his name written in history books for being one of the men, or the only man who conquered the Avatar. He thought his name would be echoed by younger men influenced by his words and actions."

"How did he orchestrate to carry out his desire?" the agent questioned her.

"Lord Congxiong expected the Avatar to arrive at the Reveler's Den alone; however, his scheme was altered when he saw the Avatar was joined by his cousin," revealed Mengtao.

"They're relatives? What's his name?" wondered the interrogator.

"Ai—airen Shenqi, I reckon," alleged Mengtao although the name of the soldier didn't really stick well to her mind. As her job was to coax Avani if she felt uncomfortable.

"Tell us what happened to Airen when Captain Qishi, his superior, found him and the Avatar; they were both unresponsive. The employees at the Den showed us their business ledger. He ordered a rose; his flavor was changed to mucuna, and the cost was paid by Lord Biaoqin. Why was his flavor changed?" inquired the interviewer.

Mengtao's tears streamed down her face, her eyes red and puffy. Her voice shook; she felt guilty because she knew everything. She sniffled, "Lord Biaoqin knew his cousin's previous addiction was mucuna in his youth. That's why he changed the flavor; he needed to sedate the Avatar's protector. He knew this was the way to do so as mucuna offers the smoker a high."

"Who changed the bowl?" he asked her.

"M—mouzi," Mengtao affirmed the name that many others knew.

"What's your relationship to Lady Cui? What does she do for a living?" he pressed further on the emotional woman. He saw she was heavy with guilt as she cried.

Mengtao responded, "She's like a mentor, she's a friend of sorts. She models for advertisements and smutty publications for lonely men. She's a full-time dancer at 'The Elegant Petal'."

"After Lord Shengqi was doped, what was next in the plan?" he questioned Lady Pan.

"Lord Congxiong wanted to get the Avatar drunk so he could sleep with her. She seemed rather socially awkward, and Congxiong fed on that vulnerability. He knew getting her to drink with him would loosen her lips and what social anxiety she might have," answered Lady Pan.

"What was your task?" he wondered.

"My task, along with Huiying Kang, was to coax Lady Xinao in case she felt uneasy with Lord Biaoqin," revealed Mengtao.

A new name entered the fray, the agent inquired, "Who is Huiying Kang?"

"She's the new girl who replaced Mei of the Lai family," said Mengtao.

"How often have you and Huiying been doing this?" he asked her.

"Not long, I've been doing this for over a year with Mei. This was Huiying's first time," answered Lady Mengtao.

The agent continued, "Was Lady Avani ever nervous during the evening?"

"N—no, only towards the end," declined Mengtao.

"Give us a brief summary of what happened that led to the end," requested the assessor.

"Lord Congxiong and Lady Avani drank and danced all night. The young nobility neared the Avatar to ask her for advice or generally converse with her. Towards the end of the night, Congxiong noticed she was sloshed and initiated amorous contact. The Avatar's judgment for consent was impaired. They kissed, but Congxiong backed off in horror," explained Mengtao.

"Why did he take a step back?" He wondered.

"I'm not sure, but he ran amok, raving like a lunatic. He pointed at nothing, saying there was a Fire Nationalist. But there wasn't one the entire night, and I remember things vividly. After the employees calmed him down. He reattempted his luck with the Avatar, but she ended up slapping him and whipping him with water," she stated. "This resulted in the scene where he accused her of assaulting him. Which, by the way, she did. I don't blame her, though. That's when a nobleman helped another with the Avatar and her guard," she finished.

"Thank you for your time; however, you were initially dishonest with us. We are placing you under arrest for lying to the Yanzhao," he thanked her.

She gasped and then began to sob—her feet sank into the ground beneath her, and her wrists that rested on the table were quickly bound with earth.

He rose from his seat and made quick movements that removed her from the floor with her ankles bound. The agent lifted her by her cuffs and carried her out of the room. As she struggled and screamed, another agent knocked her unconscious with his elbow.

✻✻✻✻✻[]

Miapu Village, Li Jun County

Gong and Jian—two of the largest men in Juji's squad—shouldered the slaughtered antelope-dingos, each carcass lashed by the feet to a rope and slung over broad shoulders. The animals were heavy, closer in heft to grown women than to ordinary game: hybrid beasts with the long muzzles and tearing teeth of a canine and the weight and frame of a cervid. Their horns were small but stout, used for last-ditch defense; their pelts still smelled of field and blood. Each carcass likely weighed between one hundred thirty-five and one hundred eighty bang, a burden that made the men walk with the slow, steady gait of porters as they dragged the fresh kills toward the village.

Mo and Juji brought up the rear, their steps easier but their faces wary—new faces in a place that knew its own rhythms. To the villagers, the strangers hardly mattered; what counted was meat delivered to the block. Butchers and buyers cared only for clean slaughter, not for the names of those who had done the killing. Other hunting parties arrived at the same hour, carts laden with plucked fowl and hoisted carcasses—workaday traffic, familiar as the sun's slope.

The four hunters paused, uncertain, until they saw another crew push a cart toward the same destination. The butcher's house was the only place to go; it mattered little who brought it. The strangers fell in behind the local party, following the cart's slow rattle down the lane. After about fifteen fenzhong, the procession halted at the butcher's door.

An assistant spilled out of the shop to inspect the load. He ran his hands over throats and flanks, eyes practiced and unpitying—any blemish could mean rejection. He smiled when he found quality: "Good work—these are well killed." He vanished briefly, returning with a small sack of coins that he divided into four shares. Two at a time, the assistant and the butcher hauled birds inside. When they beckoned, Juji's group rolled forward without ceremony; for the village, what mattered was the butcher's nod and the weight of meat, not the strangers who had brought it.

"Antelope dingos, that must've been quite the fight, I reckon," commented the butcher's assistant. Puzzled, he inquired, "You've only brought two, though—why?"

"We only found two in the span of four dian. Which is odd considering it's summer, and there should be more," responded Juji.

"Fair enough, alright, let's weigh them on the scale," the assistant said. A large-scale wrought iron structure was designed and constructed by the engineers of the Haijun Kingdom. They were harder to find in smaller settlements. It amazed the Omas because their kingdom typically kept them in circulation on a much smaller scale. Usually, those pertained to payments.

"I'd wager you've never seen a weighing machine of this caliber," chuckled the butcher's assistant.

All four men shook their heads, the underling bent two boulders out of the ground onto one side of the balance. Juji put down one of the carcasses on the right pan of the scale. The first slain doe weighed about the same as the two boulders, while the second doe that Gong dropped on the plate lifted the boulder's plate a bit higher.

The butcher's assistant rubbed his chin for a moment and carved out a head-sized boulder, placing it onto the left pan of the measure. It almost equaled ot the weight of the second doe. He returned inside, where he calculated the weight in his head and wrote on parchment. He grabbed medium sacks of coin. They were counted to have a total of one hundred silver coins each, totaling two hundred; they split it all between four, and each man received fifty silver coins. He walked out with the brown sacks of silver coins and handed the fat hunter a sack, then the short hunter, the tall, lanky hunter, and finally the muscular hunter.

He smiled at them, "Each sack contains fifty silver coins evenly."

All four men were excited and then quickly silenced themselves as they remembered why they were there. After they left earshot, Juji repeated their orders. Juji spoke up, "Jian, you should start heading in the direction of the village elder's longhouse. Mo, the map suggests the training facility is on the southeastern corner of the village. I'd suggest thinking of what your character will be starting now."

Juji faced Gong, "You and I will head in that direction as well while we try to search for the storehouse for explosives. I believe it might be in that area."

Jian wandered off to the west to what he believed was the village elder's home, while Gong, Mo, and Juji padded to the southeast, where their target location was.

After about twenty fenzhong, Mo reached the training facility, having split up from the other two about five fenzhong ago. The gates were wide open as it was still about mid-afternoon, although around this time, it was odd for conscripts to join. As most joined in the mornings, he entered the training grounds. In his quick examination of his environment, he noted the different areas on base that looked to be chokepoints.

A specialist saw the stranger in the distance; it seemed like the man was lost. He approached the man in fur armor. The specialist tilted his head and questioned the light tan-skinned stranger, "You seem lost. Is there something I can help you with?"

Mo locked eyes with the man's jade-colored eyes, then responded, "Aye, I'm looking for the office of the Major."

"Major Shiguan's office is to your left. Do you have conscript orders?" inquired the specialist.

Mo nodded, "Yes." He pulled out a forged scroll under his belt and handed it over to the soldier.

The man unrolled the scroll and skimmed the orders, "Mhm, yeah—you're definitely supposed to be here." He mentioned, "I only requested to see your conscript orders because some recruits show up with nothing, or they're in the wrong settlement. We had a guy here sometime ago, but he needed to report to Poyang in Huangxi county."

While he skimmed the conscription orders, he mentioned, "You seem a bit too old to be a conscript. I'd think you'd be a veteran by now."

Mo's heart sank; by law, Haijunese men were conscripted into the military at the age of sixteen. In the Oma Kingdom, while some were born into military service, others had the option to volunteer. However, in the case of Mo Citong, he's skillful and versatile in war. He tugged on the collar of his jerkin, then lied, "I was born with a disability, I've always wanted to serve our Kingdom. I was finally accepted after so many years."

"I'm a refugee from the village of Nanchun. The Omas destroyed my town. I was one of the few that ran away..." frowned Mo, he lowered his head. He hoped the specialist would have fallen for his sob story.

The man slightly bowed his head to the conscript as he understood the pain, and what it felt like losing loved ones to this war; he asserted, "I've heard grim news from the region of East Lo Shao Cha. My condolences if you've lost any family."

Mo slightly frowned, "Thanks, I'm glad someone understands the pain I've been through."

The specialist crossed his arms and said, "Major Shiguan should still be in his office. I don't believe he leaves until early evening hours."

The specialist handed the scroll back to Mo Citong and nodded toward the major's office. "Head in there," he said, thumb flicking toward the heavy door. Mo pushed it open and stepped inside.

An assistant at a small side desk rose and took the newcomer in at a once-over posture, boots, the fur-trimmed armor that marked him less as a ragged recruit than a man who had fought to keep what little he owned. "If you're a conscript," the assistant said, brow lifted, "you're very late."

Mo dipped his head. "I apologize. I got lost. I wasn't sure I was in the right town."

The assistant shrugged. "Very well. Let's get you into Major Shiguan."

The major looked up from a sheet of parchment, quill tucked between two ink-stained fingers. He was a compact man in a neat uniform, the kind whose attention lived in lists and timetables. "Come in," he called without looking up higher than necessary.

The assistant stepped forward and saluted. "Sir—new conscript."

Major Shiguan's eyes narrowed as he assessed Mo. "You seem a little old to be a new conscript. Our recruits are usually late teens to mid-twenties."

Mo repeated the story he'd told the receptionist: cleared by a recruiter after years of disability, left leg stiff since childhood, and used a cane some days. He kept his voice steady; the past had a way of making him smaller when he spoke of it.

"And where are you from?" the major asked.

"From Nanchun," Mo said. "The nearest market town was East Lo Shao Cha. The town was taken by the enemy."

Shiguan nodded and reached for the conscription orders. He scanned the scroll, eyes moving left to right as if the words themselves might reveal the man before him. "Our recruits usually arrive in rags and unarmed," he remarked, pausing on Mo's armor and the long huyadao strapped at his side. "You're covered in fur and carrying a huyadao."

Mo shrugged, the motion as casual as he could make it. "It was the first weapon I grabbed when I fled. I don't really know how to use it—only how to swing blindly."

The major's mouth twitched with something like a smile. "Then you'll learn. Blind swinging is the fastest way to die. Here, you will be taught discipline. You will learn to use that huyadao properly."

He folded the scroll and pushed it across the desk. "Follow my assistant to the barracks. You'll remain there until training is complete. Welcome to the Haijunese Army, Hong Hui."

Mo inclined his head and let the assistant lead him out, the weight of the blade at his hip a quiet reminder of the road that had brought him here.

At the same time, Jian traveled westwards as he eventually wandered into a neighborhood with larger houses. Here, the artisans lived in harmony with one another. In the center, encircled by these homes, was a smaller siheyuan. The conditions of the house indicated how poorly maintained this place was. Jian watched from a distance as he saw the retainers who exited the main gates of the premises. Two men split and marched another round of the home they guarded. He assumed this was the place, considering it was the biggest home in town.

The guard towers at each corner of the property were built of brick and plainly cost far more than the wooden house they flanked. The home and its surrounding walls were of dense timber; the towers rose above them in brick, a statement of expense and permanence. The village prospered largely because of the tax revenue from the training facility on its far side.

Jian kept that fact in the back of his mind as he studied the estate's blind spots, shadowing a retainer who padded ahead of him. He paced the narrow service path beneath the watchtower, letting the man's measured steps set his own pace. The guard moved with habitual care, fixing his route around the estate without once glancing back; the repetition was Jian's ally. So long as he kept to the shadowed base of the tower, he remained unseen—hidden by architecture and routine—and that gave him the time he needed to close and strike the patrolling guard.

However, he knew the other patrol would soon meet the guard he shadowed, so he kept to the shadowed edge and crept. The low light widened the blind spots beneath the towers—evening was settling in, some four hours past noon—and the sun's angle confirmed it; in a town without a sundial, folk still read the light to mark the hour. That slackening of sight worked to Jian's advantage.

When the second retainer rounded the corner, Jian flattened himself behind a substantial rock and watched. The two men passed, exchanged curt nods, and continued on their appointed routes. They never glanced back. As their backs turned, Jian eased out from concealment and slipped up behind them, closing the gap with a practiced, silent step. He jumped onto the back of his mark and wrapped his left arm around the neck of the guard.

The retainer's muffled scream died a soft, private thing against the stone. Jian's forearm was an unyielding clamp around the man's throat, his biceps locked like the iron of a spring. He tightened until the color ran from the guard's lips and a hot red flush flooded his face, then slackened into the practiced jerk that broke neck and life in one small, clean motion. For a breath—long enough for the sun to darken imperceptibly, the man's limbs twitched, then folded like a puppet with cut strings.

Jian did not watch the body fall. Habit had made him efficient; efficiency permitted no gawking. He checked quickly, hands moving with the same calm that had felled him: one palm under the chin to level an unconscious jaw, the other braced at the brow for purchase. A sharp pull, a precise twist, and the vertebrae whispered apart. The patrolman's chest stilled, the last breath gone from his chest like wind gone out of a lantern.

The light was already shifting; the sun, slanting toward afternoon's decline, had thinned the watchers' sightlines beneath the tower. Shadows widened as if to swallow detail. Jian leveraged that concession. He dragged the corpse—weighty and sodden with blood—back toward the rock where he had hidden, keeping his movements low and close to the earth. The carcass scraped over grit and grass, soundless beneath the broad-leafed scrub.

Behind the stone, with the world reduced to the small, immediate business of survival, Jian began the mundane work of erasure. Gloves that had been spare in his pack ripped off, straps unfastened. He peeled away the dead man's surcoat, the damp leather still warm against his palms; he slid out of his own clothing with the sheepish, necessary sensuality of men used to swapping skins in secret. He found, with a private satisfaction, that the cuirass cinched about his chest despite his broader midsection; it sat looser at the shoulders than on the dead man, but that slight slack would go unnoticed beneath a cloak or the hunch of a hunched gait. The helmet, stiff and lined with padded cloth, pinched the Crown. It might need a cloth underlay. He set it aside and tried a spare helm in hope. The second fit as if the metal had been made for him.

Outside the pocket of action, the watchtower's routine continued as if nothing had altered. Sentinels marked time with small rituals—adjusting a strap, flicking a pebble into the dust, exchanging a curt word. The architecture protected them from seeing what they did not expect; humans tend to see shapes that fit their preconceived scripts. Two men in patrol, two men at their posts: the mind will make that thesis accurate if the eyes are not asked to work harder.

Jian kept the second body where he could reach it, tucking the first beneath grass and a scatter of stones. He moved with a quick domesticity—holes in belts refastened, straps retied, mail smoothed out—until what remained looked like any other exhausted guard who had paused to lean on the wall. He knew, with the certainty of men who plan for contingencies, where to place a smear of dirt to mimic blood dried and forgotten.

The second retainer came around the corner at a measured pace, boots whispering. Jian had time enough to press himself into the crevice and breathe air that did not prickle. The newcomer saw the outline of a figure and, in that split second, expected to find the neighbor he had walked with for months. Men in routine read faces into blankness; they do not always expect treachery. He slowed, puzzled. A puzzled man steps closer because the mind trades alarm for the comfort of explanation.

When the guard leaned against the wall, he relaxed into a familiarity that was the ally of surprise. Jian's hand moved then—fast, bone and iron closing like a trap. The man shouldered forward to question the leaning figure and collided with a living thing instead. He yelped—a slight, surprised animal sound—and felt the sudden, brutal weight of a body slam him against hickory wood. The impact absorbed sound; the tower's geometry swallowed noise. The two men fought the brief, clumsy fight of desperate people: fists, a bitten thumb, the metallic clack of gauntlet against teeth. The attacker tasted blood and metal, surprise turned to a wild flailing.

Jian's kill was efficient. A practiced hand found the throat; the same motion that had felled the first guard closed the second's mouth. The neck snapped with the dry clarity of a twig. The second man's limbs went slack, and silence returned like a tide.

There was no time to mourn the lives he had ended. He hauled the second body to the rock with the same careful brutality used on the first, then set to work dressing. The dead man's helm settled snugly on his head; he adjusted the chinstrap and felt the practiced balance of weight and vision. He pulled on the gauntlets, buckled the straps, and let a cloak fall over the new identity. A line of dried blood here, a smudge of soot there—these were the small lies that convince the casual glance.

All the while, the watchtower men maintained their patterns. One of them scratched a mark across a tally; another spat into a gutter; a third shifted his weight and peered north, as if the horizon might be a map. They would not look twice until the patrols themselves came to check. Even then, their blindness would work in Jian's favor for precious minutes.

He paused a second and checked his hands: clotted with dark red that would not wash away in a moment, iron-streaked. He tore a strip of cloth and tied it about his wrist like a bandage. It passed without comment. Then, with the brutal deliberation of a man who makes a life from small, urgent choices, he completed the rotation: one last check of the bodies' positions, a shove of grass to conceal a heelprint, and the smoothing of the soil.

Jian slid from behind the rock, shouldered his burden, and moved as if he belonged to this guard rota. He merged with the shadow beneath the tower and began his round to the left, the fake cadence of a man at ease. In the watchtower, a soldier tilted his head at the wind and adjusted his cloak. It was enough. The world reshaped itself around the lie, and the village, blithe in the ebbing light, continued to hold its breath—for now.

From there, he quickly entered the walled home of the village elder through a gap in the gate doors. Now, within, he promptly studied his surroundings; the premises weren't as absurdly massive as the siheyuans of nobles. Elder Chahua's home was situated in the center of the grounds, and a medium-sized courtyard was located in front of the house itself. The foundations of the home were non-existent as it rested on large and broad hickory stilts. The guard barracks were situated behind the home on the left-hand side. This is where guards stayed during their shifts. The barracks were where he needed to go for the time being, as he knew that without the proper information, he wouldn't know how to navigate his way around.

He watched as men without helmets exited the large building; this had to be where some of the guards slept. After several fenzhong, he reached the guardhouse and entered, where one of the superiors approached him because he hadn't failed to notice the new face.

The Guard Captain's assistant reached out his hand to shake the hand of the new recruit. "I'm Ping, I'm your superior you answer to. Assistant to the guard captain, I'm tasked with assigning our men to their posts for the night."

Jian sighed in relief because, although Ping didn't know Jian's face, he assumed he was a recruit.

Ping said, "You're on time, we're recalling all men on duty in ten fenzhong, the night shift is about to start. I would ask that you wait patiently, and I'll assign you soon."

Jian sat down in the armor as he bided his time. At a moment's notice, Ping gestured him outside, where the guard captain slammed a drumstick against a large bell. The alarm indicated the end of the morning shift and the beginning of the night shift, and vice versa. The gates remained closed as the two dead guards were still hidden behind the large rock near the rear wall of the property. Many guards gathered, both from the morning shift and the night shift. Those from the previous shift grabbed their stuff and headed home. While the night crew entered the premises and crowded around Ping and his superior, Captain Jie.

Ping held a clipboard in one hand with a parchment as he held an ink-dipped quill in his left hand. He placed the names of all present guards in areas such as the watchtowers, as well as for the inside and outside patrolling of the walls. Those who guarded the servant entrance, and even the guard positions inside the home, while Elder Chahua and her relatives slept.

Ping's quill-feathered end pointed at the new recruit, "What's your name?"

"Banshou," answered Jian.

Ping wrote the name on the paper as he commented, "That was my late grandfather's name." Ping said, "You'll be with another retainer, his name is Xudong. He will be training you for the week. Make sure you ask him any questions you might have."

An average height, middle-aged, chubby man raised his hand, and Ping motioned Jian to his trainer. Xudong lumbered over to the recruit, then chuckled, "You'll like our post, we're near the kitchen!" The large man rubbed his belly. Who's to say that Xudong didn't indulge himself on the Elder's food supply while he patrolled the kitchen? He was on the hefty side of the weight spectrum.

His trainer led him over to the stairs, which headed in the direction of the servant entrance of the home. This is where the servants who worked in the kitchens, caretakers, and even maids entered and exited every day. The tunnel led from the front courtyard into the cooking area, which included the oven, the larder, and the dining area in which the old woman and her family ate every meal. Unlike larger noble estates, Chahua's home never provided servant quarters or even a servant's guest house.

Two men stood right in front of the servant's entrance. They saluted Xudong, who returned the respect, and they saluted the newcomer whom they had not met yet. They pivoted to open the doors for Xudong and his trainee. Both men padded through the tunnel with some employees behind them, who carried ingredients for dinner. The Elder and her folks will soon be seated for their evening meals.

The tunnel ended in the kitchen-diner, where the chef and his subordinates gathered to commence preparations. As the two guards exited the tunnel, the chef bowed to Xudong, as they had worked together for the Elder for years. The chef whistled to Xudong and tossed him two pieces of sugar bread.

The chef greeted the veteran guard, "Evening, Xudong."

"As to you, Laozhang," smiled Xudong. He caught them both and offered one to Jian, but he declined by shaking his head.

"Ehh, suit yourself, more for me!" he laughed. He added, "That's Laozhang, if you're ever hungry or forget to bring lunch, just let him know and he'll whip you up a snack."

Jian gave him a side-eye over at the scale of Xudong's gut, and he gave a slight smile, although inside he felt disgusted about the fat guard.

"This hallway leads us to the larder, where dried goods and other ingredients are stored. The servants are assigned to purchase food from the local shopkeepers in the village's market area. Sometimes even from the farmers who tend their fields." Xudong swept his hand down the hallway. "The dining area is this way," he said. He turned to his right in the hallway and led him to an empty dining hall. The seats were pulled out from under the dining table.

Jian pretended to be confused about his surroundings. He questioned his trainer, "Is there any way you can provide me with a map of this place? I don't want to end up lost and in an area I'm not assigned to."

Xudong glanced back at his trainee, "It's a straightforward layout, I assure you." He thought the trainee was joking, but when he saw that Jian's face remained expressionless. His face changed, and instead, he nodded. "I will make sure a scribe draws you a map." "Today's your lucky day, you get to meet the boss and the family, we're going to guard our employer," revealed Xudong.

"There's no way harm will come her way while she's eating," commented Jian.

Xudong shook his head, "You'd be surprised, she has her own taste testers that are different from the rest of her family."

"What are you insinuating? Is someone in her family trying to dethrone her?" asked Jian.

"Aye, actually her son, Mouhai. She had him arrested for conspiring to overthrow her authority. His sentence ends when she passes. She's the Elder of this village; her word is law," disclosed Xudong.

"Wow, to think that you can't even trust your own flesh," murmured Jian. He contemplated to himself, "I need to find where he's being held; this is something I can report to Juji when we meet in the town square."

"I agree, it's really sad. Elder Chahua is raising her granddaughter along with her husband; that's about it for their small family," responded Xudong.

An hour before, Gong and Juji studied the area that surrounded a large storehouse where it was rumored to be bombs needed for the destruction of the training facility. All they truly needed were reports from Mo and Jian in the morning, before they resumed any plans.

Juji lay on his gut on a small ledge that overlooked the storeroom. The drop from where they watched was about three ma in height. The sky above dulled, but even on a bright day, it'd still be hard to spot the two men. They've held themselves back for three dian, as they studied the patrol routes of all the guards in the area.

Gong wondered, "Have they moved?"

Juji glanced back at his friend, "No, but the third guard comes and goes every thirty fenzhong. I think it's essential that we catch them by surprise, but we shouldn't kill them, either. It'd only raise alarms for the village."

"What would you have me do?" Gong hinted.

"I was thinking you can use fragments of metal to knock them unconscious; it'd be a priority to move their bodies to darkened areas to avoid signs of a struggle to passing guards," suggested Juji.

Gong lay prone, pulse steady, eyes on the patrol's back. He unpocketed a pair of wrought-iron cuffs from his armor and, with quick, practiced fingers, split one cuff into three smooth segments. He rolled the pieces between his palms until they sat as perfect, cold spheres.

Night was gathering; the light softened, and the village's shapes blurred into darker shapes. He waited until the guard he watched turned away and walked off with his companion, rounding the corner to continue his route. Only when the man's boots faded into the distance did Gong begin to move. The three iron balls spun through his fingers with the ease of a trained hand—too light to sing, heavy enough to sting.

One ball flew. It arced soundlessly through the air and struck the walking guard on the back of the head. The man folded without a cry, as if someone had snapped the lamps out around him.

"Did you get him?" Juji whispered, glancing up.

Gong only shrugged. "I'd hope so."

"He would have raised the alarm by now. Time for the other two," Juji said.

Gong refocused. He had no wish to kill—only to blacken eyes and hush breaths. He slowed his wrist and sent the remaining balls in twin throws. Both found their marks. The two sentries ahead blinked once, twice, then the world went blank; one convulsed and spat a choking sound as he collapsed. Gong's hand shot out, and with a subtle bend of will, he recalled the metal to his palm.

Juji and the metalbender rose first, recovering from the fall; the latter softened the turf beneath their feet so the archer's ankles would not buckle with the impact. The three men were on their feet in moments, moving with the practiced calm of professionals.

Gong rolled the first downed body into the shelter of a low wall and thumbed the cuffs in his hand for a moment before slipping toward the supply storeroom. At the door, he knelt, fingertips dancing across the old iron lock. The mechanism yielded to his skill: tumblers clicked, a catch fell loose, and the lock dropped away. Inside, they waited for the next stage of their work.

Juji grinned at the sheer skill of his metalbender friend. Once inside, it was dark. There were candles nearby that he easily lit when he struck his taper against a spark rock. This illuminated a portion of the storeroom. They saw an empty building as the workers had gone home for the night. Juji placed the candle on a bobeche that happened to be there, along with an older wax candle that was mainly used up, as it was a lot smaller than the others stored here.

Inside, Gong felt the impurity of the metals used for weapons. He showed Juji where all the weapons and armor crates were located inside the storehouse.

Juji was excited and, of course, disappointed, "These weapons and armor could've helped us immensely; it's too bad we have to leave them all here." "If the weapons are right here, we can only assume the explosives are here as well," hinted Juji.

Gong's arm rubbed against an unknown substance; he sniffed his arm, and it gave off a faint smell of almonds. When he wiped a portion of his arm and tasted it, it was bitter to the taste. He called out to Juji, 'Eww, I found it, blasting jelly!"

Juji ran over the bobeche in hand, Gong used his right index and thumb, and turned off the flame of the candle, "Are you crazy?! You could've blown us sky high just now!" Blasting jelly was highly flammable, and if they were careless, they would've killed themselves and likely half of the village.

"We might have to come back for these barrels later," noted Juji, his voice low. He backed away from the area where Gong was and reused the taper to light the candle's wick again. From his spot, he extended his arm out and lit various crates for Gong to read. One of them had '霹靂易爆' painted on the box in Haijunese characters.

"Found them," Juji pointed out a crate to Gong.

The blacksmith padded over to the wooden crate and picked it up. Then he mentioned, "We should get out of here before these guys wake up."

Juji agreed, "You're right, this should be enough to use for now. Let's head back to our hideout."

Gong placed the crate under his arm and lumbered out of the storage building. The men were still unconscious, and the guard who suffered from a seizure remained still.

Juji was the final one to exit. He shut the doors and reattached the lock, ensuring it was securely in place, as if no one had disturbed it previously.

Gong used his bending to lift them both onto the ledge before he sank the pillars down again, and they darted off into the night.

♮♮♮♮♮♮[]

The men had sacks slung over their shoulders, which contained the garments of the ship mechanic and ship inspector. However, it wasn't suspicious to the civilians or the guards of the settlement. The layout of the town was self-explanatory, as the village boundaries were visible from the hill just outside the village. The harbor where the ships rested in wait was on the far side of town. The most significant sections of the village were the portside and the residential area. The magistrate's estate was bunched just behind the village's residential neighborhood. A long beaten path led up to the gates of Budaode's siheyuan.

Nearest to the docks was the large storage warehouse where the navy here stockpiled their weapons, explosives, and stone disc ammunition. They also stowed away items such as uniforms, tools, and materials for ship repairs. There were three guards in the area; however, two of them patrolled at a decent distance from the depot. While the third remained vigilant by the door. They certainly were suspicious about the three men who appeared before them. As the three got closer to the storage vault, they were halted by the doorman. He extended his arm in front of him and motioned with an open palm, signaling them to stop.

“Do you three have orders?” he questioned the strangers.

Mo Fu nodded, “Aye.”

As the door guard opened the scroll, Mo Fu recited what was written:

“Magistrate Budaode,

I authorize full release of any explosives to the specialists I have sent to recover the ammunition and have them safely delivered to Taiyuan. They will be used in the upcoming battle, if necessary.

—Xingren Wuqi, Governor of Pingyao”

The door guard rolled up the orders and handed them back to the red-headed specialist. He sauntered over to the door and opened the storehouse. Inside, there were shelves and crates scattered everywhere as workers within arranged things in the order they were to be displayed. The logistics manager sat behind a desk with a quill in his hand as he wrote things into his manifest. As a blob of shadow loomed over him, he stopped his work and peered up at the men in front of him.

“Can I assist you in any way?” he inquired to the soldiers.

“We're here to collect bombs as ordered by Governor Wuqi and deliver them to the capital,” responded Mo Fu. The other two remained silent as they stared in unison at the logistics manager.

He rifled through the escritoire’s drawers as he sat at it, fingers sorting paper and dust until the lower-right drawer yielded a neat stack of ribbon-tied scrolls. Each ribbon bore a looping label; he read them one by one until one snapped at his eye: 'Explosives'.

He untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His fingertip tracked the cramped characters until it rested on the entry: “Blasting jelly explosives ×30”. A small smile creased his face. “Ah—these are the ones.” He pushed back from the desk and walked toward the warehouse racks; the others fell in behind him while the stockroom manager led the way through aisles of crates and barrels.

At a corner of stacked timber, the manager pried open a lid. Inside, rows of small incendiary devices lay packed like winter eggs. Mo Fu counted them with a frown. Beyond that crate, he could see eight more—larger boxes stacked two high. “You’re only giving us two crates?” he asked.

The manager nodded without surprise. “Mhm. The others are for naval testing—bigger charges that take two men to haul.”

“One crate holds fifteen bombs,” the manager added, tapping the crate’s rim. “More than enough for what the governor will need in the city.”

Mo Fu and Pi Dao exchanged a look; the crates were too wide for two men to move alone.

Lin Xi’s gaze swept the room, taking in the layout and the routes they’d need, already cataloguing exits and blind spots in case someone missed something valuable.

In the distance, to the far top left corner of the warehouse, he made out a hank of detonating cord for the bombs they picked up. He was unsure of how much Mo Fu Fen had in his inventory. They lugged the wooden crates out of range of the storehouse. Lin Xi eyed the explosives expert and inquired, “Do you have enough detonating cord for the bombs?”

Mo Fu nodded, “Individually, there's enough; however, I'll still need to connect the individual lines to one longer line.”

“We can always come back and steal a barrel of blasting jelly,” suggested Pi Dao.

Mo Fu pondered on it for a second, then shook his head, “I can make a barrel's worth from melted jelly candy and lots of xiaoshi.”

“Who would've thought something so delicious could also be highly flammable,” commented Lin Xi Chao.

Mo Fu's eyes darted to both Pi Dao and Lin Xi; Pi Dao sighed and took the initiative, “I'll go steal some xiaoshi.”

“At least that leaves me with the easier task of obtaining the candy,” chuckled the bard.

About thirty fenzhong later, Lin Xi found himself at the local confectionery, which was usually visited by local children and adults with a sweet tooth. A warm-hearted man owned the candy store, the bard stepped inside, since the door was wide open, he assumed it was open. As an old man dusted the counter of the store, he caught a glimpse of the stranger who entered his establishment.

“Welcome, welcome! My shop is open and some of the candy on the shelves were freshly made this morning!” the old man greeted the minstrel.

Lin Xi did not want to raise suspicion, so he browsed the various candies on the shelves. Different colors, including some more common Haijunese treats like cane sugar sticks and millet candy that resembled bao.

He looked over to the candy man and inquired, “Do you happen to have any gelatinous candies? Those tend to pique my interest.” Lin Xi saw a few on the shelf, while the old man's eyes scanned around the room. Before he could respond, Lin Xi plucked a gold coin from his coin purse, “What can one gold coin get me?” he added.

The confectionist's eyeballs glistened at the sight of the gold coin. He's never had one in his possession. Typically, most of his candy could have been bought with copper coins and sometimes a silver coin or two. He pondered, then thoughtfully replied, “I just received a shipment of gelatinous candy imported from a small island in the Fire Nation...”

He attempted to pronounce the name of where the candy came from, “Sei—Sei'Naka, I reckon—you know the Fire Nation having odd names for their islands.” He paused, then resumed, “...I've tried to sell it to the denizens of this village, but none of them seem interested. I have like three crates full.”

“What exactly is it?” asked Lin Xi curiously.

“Well, they call it 'Natadekoko', but the locals can't seem to pronounce that. So I've been calling it, 'ye guo, '” shared the old man. The confectionist continued, “It's translucent, chewy, and it's jelly-like, it's fermented coconut juice cut into cubes. It has a mild yet slightly acidic flavor.”

“Mmm,” Lin Xi paused and contemplated it. He commented, “I can see why the villagers aren't too fond of the candy.”

The old man exasperated, “Yes, yes, I know I made an awful investment, that's likely why they sold it to me at such a cheap price and offered to pay the export and import fees.” “Sorry, I got a little carried away. It's not your fault.” He glanced at his customer and apologized.

“I'll take all the crates, it's for my friends and me, we love eating this stuff when we travel,” chuckled Lin Xi. The bard headed for the door and opened it, then signaled Mo Fu to enter. Then he returned and squatted on his knees and picked up a second crate while Mo Fu lifted up the last one.

The confectioner sped up and passed the two customers, gently pushing the door open for them as they exited the confectionery.

Mo Fu, burdened by the two crates behind him, followed his friend as they hurried to a safe location. As they blocked his view, he breathed, “Well, that was easy—“

Presently, Pi Dao scoped out a small shack where he thought an alchemist set up shop. The sign in the front, with poorly legible writing, read, “Cho's Apothecary.” The small wooden shack had a large back aperture that was open during business hours. It allowed sunlight inside the building. He reached into his pocket where he stored a small sack of pink powder called “Shanxiao He”, which meant 'mountain imp breath. '

It was extracted from them while they were still alive. The powder, when induced, puts the victim to sleep for a brief moment. Enough for the thief to case the joint for the xiaoshi he volunteered to steal. He searched his pockets for a cloth he could wrap around the lower half of his face to conceal his identity. Pi Dao barged into the apothecary store, and he hacked the best cough he could muster.

The apothecary jumped up and yelped at the surprising entrance of a stranger. He saw a sickly stranger with a cloth that covered his nose and mouth. The alchemist thanked him for wearing a mask, “Thank you for at least covering your sneezes and coughs with that handkerchief. It was a great idea!” He went toward the ill man and examined him. Pi Dao coughed again, as the elderly man looked for symptoms.

Pi Dao quickly snatched the powder from the pouch, dropped his mask for a flash, and blew it into his victim's nose. He immediately put the mask back onto his face and watched as the elder's eyes went dull.

The elderly man hit the floor of his shack. Pi Dao hopped over his body and began to rummage through the alchemist's ingredients. He swiftly checked the drawers and cabinets until he came upon a small box made of bamboo labeled, 'xiaoshi'.

Pi Dao heard a knock on the door, perhaps a concerned neighbor, no way the thud was emitted from his body dropping. Pi Dao's heart sank; he grabbed the old man and gently placed him in a chair. He clutched onto the box soon after and jumped over the large aperture on the far side of the shack. He sprinted back toward Mo Fu and Lin Xi.

Concurrently, the coachman of the cart from earlier leaned against a shack, his vision blurred, and felt tightness in his chest. Suddenly, his breath became heavier, he felt lightheaded, and sweat poured down his forehead. He clenched his teeth as the pressure in his chest spread to his left arm, down his back, in his neck, then to his stomach. He shouted to a nearby guard, who was alerted by it. The retainer ran over to the man who stumbled on the street.

The old man lay on his back as he clutched his chest. The guard immediately knew the old man was having a heart attack. The cart driver instantly lost consciousness, while the guard listened to the old man's chest. The heavy pounding of his heart gave up. The poison on the coin caused a large blood clot in his heart, which induced a heart attack and killed the old man. The law enforcement officer called out to another to find the local healer.

Meanwhile, on the west side of Gansu Hu, past the resident section, a path led up to the manor of Magistrate Budaode, where the magistrate and his retainers stood by for the arrival of the stateswoman he was scheduled to meet with. In front of the already open gates of the walled manor stood a man in his white robes, the trim lining of which was colored fuchsia pink —a vivid purplish-pinkish red. The insignia embroidered on his robes were flowers of the fuchsia plant. The shoreline near Gansu Lake had fuchsia plants growing near the eastern portion of the lake.

Three sentries lined up the magistrate from left to right; his hands were behind his back. He stood tall, and he was middle-aged and chubby. Due to his age and affluence, he likely ate well. His moon-shaped face, however, seemed unfriendly. Perhaps he was irritated over his appointment running late. The quadragenarian tapped his left foot impatiently, and a frown grew on his face.

The woman he was set to meet finally showed up; her fashionable style choice flowed effortlessly in the hooded robes that covered her body. The spidersnake silk threads that adorned her person were pigmented from the most ripened of jinzi fruit. The hood was used for both the coldest months of the year and to cover her head from the sun that blazed during the summer months. A golden sash with the insignia of the golden sun sewn into the cloth secured the robes in place. The vestment had large cuffs that kept her arms hidden, although she stored other things within. She gracefully bowed at the sight of the armored men and their master. Her demeanor remained unbroken by the agitated nobleman.

He snapped at his potential buyer, “You're late.”

She slightly bent over, bowed her head, and apologized, “My apologies, magistrate. My wagon's wheel axle snapped. I felt awful knowing I was going to be behind schedule.”

He held his shrewd face then finished, “Hmph. Don't let it happen again.” “Come in and join me in my feast hall for some tea and pastries. We have much to discuss,” he added as his body pivoted back toward his home.

Six men surrounded the magistrate and led him and his unguarded guest inside his home. Two of the six retainers split from Budaode and headed forward. They bowed their heads to their superior and tugged the large doors of his house open. Once Magistrate Budaode and his guest, Lady Dizhu, were in, the same two men shut the doors behind them. The men gathered behind Lady Dizhu, nonchalantly, and followed her host and his men. The guardsmen led them to the feast hall, where the long wooden table held about eight pillows. Perhaps Budaode's family was of substantial size.

The feasting hall walls were painted jade green, and the table was made from hickory wood. Candles decorated the center of the table as part of the centerpiece. A giant vase sat in the center of the table with exotic flowers imported from the lands of the Sum Pa Air Temple.

Nu Xing scanned the room for anything that could be used to kill her target. Her head moved left and right.

Budaode furrowed his brows in annoyance. He interrupted her surveyance, “I didn't schedule a meeting with you, so you can observe my dining room. It's to sell you land here in Gansu Hu.”

She lowered her head and sighed, “Yes, of course. My apol—“

Rude and irritated that he was, he cut the stateswoman off, “Stop apologizing! The land that's for sale is a stone's throw away from my estate. It was once owned by an old man who passed away.”

Nu Xing kept quiet; she needed to keep herself in order, despite Budaode's negative behavior. Her hands remained hidden by the large cuffs of her robes.

The magistrate said, “I hope you're going to be using that old house during the summer and holiday season.”

Nu Xing gently bobbed her head to not upset the middle-aged man. She cleared her throat and responded, “Yes, well, I believe my husband and I will get well acquainted in our potential vacation home.”

Budaode snapped his fingers, and a servant girl in a patchy white tunic stepped forward and bowed her head. He ordered his servants, 'Bring forth the pu'er tea, and don't forget the shuijing bing.”

A few fenzhong later, the servant returned with a wooden tabletop cart on it were two tea cups, and a steaming hot tea kettle. A saucer plate with a few sugar rocks, and a silver bowl with freshly baked crystal cakes. The servant swiftly placed things onto the table at a speed that pleased her boss. She broke a sweat as she clenched her jaw. Everything needed to be perfect for the head of the town or else.

Nu Xing's eyes flicked to the right of the nobleman and then back to him. She briefly noticed the servant's expression return to a nonchalant look after she positioned everything in an orderly manner.

The left corner of his mouth grew into a slight grin, “Thank you, dear.”

Nu Xing thought to herself, “Wow, even the servants get uneasy around this man; he must truly be a nightmare. I'd be doing them all a favor.”

The girl picked up the kettle and poured her master's cup full of black tea, then handed him a cake. She then served the noblewoman, a plate and a cup as well. Hers was filled to the brim. A steaming cake was pushed in her direction. She stopped the cake from reaching her completely. The noblewoman politely declined.

The old man arched his right eyebrow, “Are you going to deny my crystal cake?”

“Pastries aren't usually part of my daily diet, but I appreciate the kindness,” refused the stateswoman/

“They might do things differently in Yunnan province, but it is rude in Pingyao to deny dessert when offered,” commented Budaode.

If it were not for Nu Xing, she would have already driven his fork into his neck, but she couldn't blow the cover for her teammates. She internally screamed, but kept her composure. She removed her hands from her sleeve cuffs and broke the cake down the center. It revealed the translucent filling within the pastry. It was made of sugar, pounded jennamite, lard, nuts, and other candied fruits.

Within, she felt queasy; the thought of taking a single bite disgusted her, but she couldn't further decline. She gulped and broke a piece from the cake and nibbled on it. She knew if she didn't, this unpleasant man could have denied selling her the land and sending her on her way. She swallowed, then gave a fake smile as she shared gratitude for his kindness. However, within her, she felt discontent, but whatever helped her create the opportunity to dispatch the sod.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆

The sky over Taiyuan bled from blue into a wash of orange and red; a ribbon of purple edged the horizon as evening claimed the city. In the bricked lanes of the Northern Tusuzu Sector, Airen walked with the steady, restless step of a man carrying a grievance. He had not come to stroll; he had come to confront, and the coming dusk seemed to sharpen his purpose.

He stopped before wooden gates carved with a hag-heron — the proud crest of the Biaoqin house — and the sight of it tightened something behind his ribs. A retainer swung the doors inward with a soft creak. The man at the threshold, leaning as if the stone itself favoured him, looked up and recognized Airen instantly. Wordless recognition passed like a current between them; the retainer’s hand stalled on the iron ring.

Congxiong stood on the courtyard stairs, an unexpected figure at the estate at this hour. He was meant, by his usual habits, to be at The Elegant Petal, lingering in Mouzi’s company; everyone who knew him in Taiyuan could have set their watches to it. Tonight, however, his plans had shifted — a detail the world did not owe Airen. Still, the coincidence cut like an accusation to the quick.

They measured one another with the old economy of family rivalry: a tilt of the chin, a narrowing of the eyes. Congxiong’s mouth drew into a scorn that had been practiced over years; contempt folded the angles of his face. Airen returned the sentiment with a colder core. There were slights between them that neither would say aloud: a debt of pride, a difference of station, a private history of embarrassment and rivalry that had calcified into public dislike. The town, ignorant of such private ledgers, continued its descent into evening.

For a long, taut breath, they held the stand-off. Then Airen moved—first a step, then a stride—and broke the measured pause by crossing the courtyard with a rugged, deliberate tread. Silence fell in the yard like a held breath; only the wind, restless through the trees, answered the motion of two men shaped by the past and bent to the clash of now.

Congxiong’s smile edged itself into the corners of his mouth like a blade finding a sheath. “Finally,” he murmured—half to himself, half as a provocation—and pushed off from the balustrade with the easy arrogance of someone used to having a scene unfold to suit him. He swaggered down the first flight of steps, down the next, each measured tread a small announcement of arrival.

Airen met him in the center of the courtyard. They stopped a pace apart, two lines of history and grievance folding between them. Airen tilted his chin up and held Congxiong’s gaze; Congxiong lowered his own head in return, eyes narrowing into a deliberate glower. Both men wore expressions shaped not only by the moment but by years of minor injuries and unspoken debts—the private arithmetic of kinship turned public. The still air of the yard pressed around them, lending the silence a weight that neither man seemed willing to break.

Airen accused his cousin, “This is all your fault, you knew I was addicted to mucuna in my youth. You did all that because you wanted to take advantage of the Avatar?” He shouted at Congxiong, “My captain wants to punish me over your stupid plan to bed the Avatar!”

Congxiong remained nonchalant about the confrontation, he responded. “I have no idea what you're talking about!”

“Yes, you do, I knew coming to this godsforsaken city was a mistake!” Airen gritted his teeth.

“Your experience of the events never transpired. Avani and I had a blast until she began showing strange behavior. There's a reason that woman has no friends,” countered Congxiong.

Airen pushed his cousin, then pointed at him in anger, “And for good reason, so she doesn't end up with ta made men like you! You only want to prey on women half your age!” Airen yelled at Congxiong, “You're a predator, Congxiong! This entire scheme that you and Chou Biaozi have going on will be exposed. You deserve to be behind bars!”

Congxiong was instantly filled with fury, and he returned the energy to his cousin. He pointed his finger back to the short man, “Never speak ill of my friend ever again.”

“We're not doing anything, your comrade consented to everything. She's the one who kissed me!” maintained Congxiong. He continued, “And I don't know what games she's playing, but she caused quite a hullabaloo at the Reveler's Den.”

Airen shook his head in disbelief, “If she consented to your advances, then why did you need to sedate me?”

'Because you'd never approve of what was going on!” replied Congxiong. Congxiong threw the first punch at his younger cousin, taking Airen by surprise. It knocked him to the ground.

Airen's hands trembled; he clenched his jaw as it ached. Infuriated, he roared after he ate a sucker punch.

Congxiong giggled and shook his left hand side to side. He never thought he'd get the chance to crack Airen.

Airen took a horse stance and quickly raised a boulder out of the ground and hurled it toward his relative. The boulder unsuspectedly collided with Congxiong's body, and the men tumbled across the courtyard.

This created enough space between the two men. Congxiong's once white robes were now dirtied with dust and tattered as he slid across the ground. He coughed after the wind was knocked out of him, and he slowly crawled to his knees. Congxiong lifted his head, and sweat dripped down his forehead. His face contorted in distaste, he slammed his left fist into the ground, producing a tremor of earth that was directed at Airen.

Airen focused on redirecting the tremor; however, while distracted, Congxiong launched a series of slabs that he had ripped out of the ground from his mother's courtyard.

Airen dodged two of them, while the final patch of stone was too large, he split it into two.

In the same breath, Yima's tea shook on the table in front of her ta. She thought nothing of it the first time, but then came a second and third tremble. Concerned, she sighed and stood up. One of her retainers barged through the door of the living quarters.

“Lady Biaoqin! Lord Congxiong and Lord Airen are brawling in the courtyard!” reported the guardsman as he panted for air.

She screamed, “What?!” Yima tossed the teacup behind her, and a servant dove to catch the porcelain cup. She stormed off and out of her home. Three others tread behind her heels after they heard her scream and the commotion that rang through the walls of the house. Yima burst out of the door of her home, four guards in tow, and four other men rushed over and attempted to break up the fight between the two men.

The courtyard was trashed, holes littered the front of the estate, and boulders lodged into the walls. Flowers trampled, critters roamed the gardens and scuttled away in terror. Airen was bruised in some parts of his torso, scratches adorned his arms, and his tunic was torn from one area near the neck. This exposed a portion of the chest.

Congxiong was no better; his favorite robes were damaged beyond repair. He also bled from his nose. One of his eyes drooped, and soon it would swell in pain, and he'd have a black eye to show for it.

Yima was shocked at the state of her courtyard and gardens; she shrieked at the top of her lungs. She nipped over to the two noblemen who tried to wrestle one another as two retainers pulled each of them away from the other. Guards dragged Congxiong away, while Airen was helped to his feet.

Yima reached them and barked, “Look what you two have done to my courtyard! What has gotten into you two recently!? At each other's throats! You are family!”

“That wangbadan is NOT my family!” screamed Congxiong.

“Da'ayi, I swear on Lord Qin, may he smite me for lying. This isn't what it looks like! This insufferable wretch is committing unconsensual sexual advances on women!” shouted Airen.

The old crone's face shribbled further as the last five words exited her nephew's mouth. She padded toward her son and raised her finger at him, “You're doing what?”

“Ma! I have no idea what he's talking about!” gulped Congxiong.

Their sentries backed off, but they stayed a few steps behind in case he tried to lunge at Airen again. Yima gave her son the evil eye. Her thoughts raced through her mind. She sighed because she knew if she scolded him, it'd do nothing to change his behavior. After all, Congxiong was a spoiled middle-aged man set in his ways. A quietness stilled in the air, and his face snapped to the left. His mother walloped him across the face.

“You idiot! Don't you see what kind of reputation this family is receiving because of you! Do you not understand the repercussions you could face for such a scandal?” shouted Yima. The servants stopped in their tracks after she struck her son in the face. Guardsmen and workers alike dropped their jaws in astonishment.

Airen panted as he caught his breath during the confrontation his cousin had with his aunt. He witnessed his long-awaited discipline.

She glanced back at her nephew, “What do you know about this?” she snapped.

“Enough—“ paused Airen. He swallowed, “—one of his victims was the Avatar!”

The final word rang in her ears, her face visibly turned red, and she tackled her son to the ground. Yima tightened her jaw and pulled her son's hair while she bellowed, and he whined in pain. Two guards behind her son pulled them both apart. She fought with her retainer, “Let me go! Let me go now!”

“I'm done, I am done with you! Congxiong Biaoqin, I want you out of my estate, I want you out of my life, and you are out of my will!” Yima roared. She erupted like a volcano.

For the first time in his life, Congxiong felt a sense of remorse. His mother was officially done with him this time. She was serious.

He whimpered as his upper lip quivered with emotion. He lowered his head in shame. He faintly sobbed while his mother ignored his crococat tears.

She approached her nephew, still vexed about the situation. She abruptly inhaled air, then breathed, “I'm sorry you had to see that. I am mortified by Congxiong's behavior and history. Please bring me the Avatar. I must speak to her.”

“Privately.”

She spat in the direction of her son and snapped her fingers, then motioned at the gates. Both men nodded and lifted the now-disgraced son of the governor's steward, escorting him to the gates. As he walked out, he scowled at Airen one final time. Then caught the eye of two passing Yanzhao agents. His large frown slightly curved upward, and he wiped the tears from his eyes.

One of the men apologized for tossing him out, “Sorry, boss. Your mother's orders.”

They met just past the carved gate of the Biaoqin estate, where the lane bent and the lantern light pooled in shallow gold. Congxiong came upon them as if by purpose: two men in the dark—Yanzhao agents, their coats buttoned to the throat, faces the pale, unread faces of function. He had not come to plead; he had come to wound.

He shoved forward, breath already hot from the walk. “There,” he said, pointing without ceremony at the narrow side street where Airen had been seen minutes before. His finger trembled a little; triumph and something else—a hard, chemical satisfaction—warred in his chest. “I watched him. He went inside a building with a soldier—another daozhi. They entered the same room together. I think… lewd acts were taking place. I saw them go in like lovers.”

The agents exchanged the thin look of men who had learned to measure accusation like grain. One of them—thin, with ink-stained nails and the slow economy of habit—did not move too fast or too sluggish. He let Congxiong outpour and then asked, precisely, “Which building? What time? Who else saw them?”

“Behind the tea-house, just off Shexiangcao Lane—about an hour past duty,” Congxiong said. He supplied the details as if they were trophies: the way the shutters had been half-closed, the way the soldier had thrown his cloak across his shoulder. He named Wei with a confident curl of the lip. Naming gave the claim weight.

From the agents’ view, the accusation had almost the right parts: place, time, a named witness, and an unnamed partner. Any one of those pieces could be checked, logged, or turned into summons. The thinner man’s pen hovered, indecisive not because he doubted the words but because he already saw the possible uses in town politics: an accusation here, a scandal there. He also felt the other, quieter knowledge—how easily a rumor becomes an indictment in the right hands.

“Did anyone else notice? A servant? A passerby?” the second agent asked.

“No...only me. I kept my distance,” Congxiong answered. His voice tightened when he spoke of keeping distance; a man who wants to be believed removes himself from the scene he describes. It made his story cleaner. It made him look like a witness, not a participant.

Outside the narrow lane, the truth lay differently. Airen and Wei had ducked into the lower room of the Golden Lotus not for embraces but for the clatter of dice and the bitter tang of cheap wine—two exhausted soldiers swapping wagers after a long shift. They would gamble until the house swallowed their coin and spat them back into the night, pockets lighter and tempers frayed, but nothing in the watchful dark had witnessed what Congxiong claimed.

The agent’s pen finally scratched the parchment. “We will record the complaint,” he said, voice level. “We will open an inquiry, and we will summon the parties for questioning.”

Congxiong felt the breath leave him in a slight, private whoosh. He had expected resistance, paperwork, and delay; instead, the machine of authority clicked forward with the calm efficiency of a thing that had continuously fed on rumors. Pride warmed him at the prospect of Airen’s trouble. Beneath it, a colder thought intruded: once set in motion, the law had its own momentum. The agent folded the sheet, already thinking of warrants and routes. Outside, the lane went on, indifferent as ever, carrying two men who would soon feel the net tighten and one man who had pulled the cord.

♮♮♮♮♮♮

Later that evening, Pi Dao and Mo Fu carried large sacks full of small crates sealed with putty. Both of them were disguised as ship mechanics. They reached the docks while only two patrol guards were on duty, and each consisted of two harbor guards; they passed by undetected. Mo Fu pretended to be a veteran ship mechanic while he trained his apprentice.

Each warship contained at least two soldiers on board. They knew this had to be either shrouded in shadows or exposed to a degree. The second choice was too dangerous, especially since they were outnumbered seven to one. Pi Dao opened his sack and dropped two mines into the water. A long cord had been tied together and wrapped around one of the posts of the docks. The cord remained hidden in the darkness; the only genuine concern was that someone might trip over it.

The men above and on the ship never heard the mines as they splashed and sank into the waters below. Mo Fu walked up the plank with Pi Dao behind him; they nodded to the guardsmen on the ship's deck.

“Give it to me straight, what am I expecting out of this job?” Pi Dao inquired.

Mo Fu answered, “Well, you're going to get your hands dirty literally, if whining in pain about splinters and hangnails is something you do. This isn't the job for you.” He went on and explained, “That being said, we first walk around each ship and inspect it for damage. We must repair any leaks. Before we approve them for deployment in battle. This includes repairing the hull of the ships and replacing worn parts.”

They climbed below deck; surprisingly, all the men usually manning these battleships slept soundly in the barracks of town. The wooden vessel contained two floors below deck; the first floor was the captain's quarters, the crew's quarters, and also the gunwale. The bottom floor of the ship was called 'the bilge'. This is where they stored earth discs and cannonballs alongside a month's supply of rations, spirits, and water.

It was empty, not a soul in sight, which made their operation easier. Pi Dao jogged over to the gunport and hid one of the explosives. While Mo Fu ran down to the bilge and placed another where they kept the weaponry. Barrels full of blasting jelly were piled on top of each other. He realized they would not have to waste a ton of mines on one ship. The blasting jelly alone would have blown this vessel sky high. Once he secured the lining to the explosives. He ran the cord onto the top of the deck. Where Pi Dao waited by the latch door. Both men joined their cords together and then moved on to the next craft.

As they reached the top of the ship together, Mo Fu leaned in on his trainee, “That's my apologies, I thought I brought the tar with me, we're going to have to head back to the depot and retrieve some. Come on!”

“Are you going to show me how to clean the keel?” Pi Dao asked his trainer.

Mo Fu nodded, “Aye, we send all apprentices to the bottom of the ship to chip off the barnacle fleas.”

One of the soldiers on the ship overhead their conversation and chuckled as he nudged his partner. All four men exchanged looks once again, and all four dipped their heads in unison. Pi Dao readjusted his sack over his shoulder as they nipped briskly down the ramp and onto the next.

At the same time, Nu Xing raised her finger and called to one of the servants, “May I have more pu'er tea, please?”

The young woman nodded slightly and came forward with the teapot. Nu Xing raised her cup as the servant poured more tea into it. The teapot was empty, and the tea in the stateswoman's cup was lukewarm. But at this point, she did anything to get the approval of her seller.

“Name your price,” spoke Budaode, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers interlocked with one another. With Nu Xing's background in a noble lifestyle, she reminisced about the good memories she had with her father. While they never saw eye to eye, she always blocked out the bad. She remembered he was a good statesman who wanted to expand the town more.

She embodied her father, then offered, “How does ten thousand gold coins sound?”

A scribe returned with a scroll that contained the certificate of ownership for the land. He rested the inkpot full of ink on the table near the magistrate.

“Sold!” Budaode cackled with delight.

Nu Xing detached a fat sack of coins from her waistband and tossed it onto the table. The sack burst open with coins that glistened in the candlelight. Budaode's eyes glittered with the shine from the money. He dipped the quill and signed his name on the title, then slid the ink pot and handed the quill to the new owner. Nu Xing dipped the quill in the black ink and signed the woman's signature.

Lin Xi found a perch where he passed the time for the explosions happened. From the opening in the wall of Budaode's home, he oversaw the meeting between his friend and their target. A bow rested on his lap while he drank from his waterskin.

Concurrently, Pi Dao uncoiled more of the cord from the distance—he and Mo Fu concealed themselves in. Pi Dao looked over the horizon, safe from the reach of the unknown naval troops near the docks.

Mo Fu bashed a pair of spark rocks together until they produced enough sparks and ignited the detonation cord. The line was set ablaze instantly, the flash of fire rapidly traveled from their position to the small harbor over two hundred ma of distance.

The men who monitored the area immediately spotted a flash of light that expanded to each of the five decking panels. One of them screamed to alert the town, the fire crawled up the ramps, and one of them plunged himself into the earth, attempting to gather enough momentum for an earthquake. Unfortunately, when the earth spat him out, the explosions went off in a sequence of five blasts, which killed him and everyone in the near vicinity. This included anyone asleep in the barracks, the warehouse, and the docks.

The series of detonations rang through the town of Gansu Hu. The shockwave rippled through the city and reached the magistrate's siheyuan. The blast burst the eardrums of nearby townspeople, and it shook Budaode's estate. Then, Lin Xi released the arrow from his bowstring. The ripple that tore through the air knocked him off the tree and propelled the arrow to its target.

The arrow struck Budaode in the neck, the detonation blast knocked his body and Nu Xing to the wall. The two guardsmen who witnessed everything dashed toward their master's corpse. While the visitor rose to her knees, one of the men lifted her to her feet. The retainer shouted at her, “Madam, you need to find safety! Enemy soldiers are attacking the town!” The second guard shrieked at the death of his master, an arrow lodged in his neck, but he wasn't sure if the arrow killed him or if the shockwave did.

Nu Xing held her head in a daze, her eyes darted to see the lifeless person to her left. Blood poured and pooled around him. The guard grabbed her left shoulder and shook her. She used all her strength and shoved the guard. Confused, the guardsman tried to help her, but she spat fire in his face instead. The retainer was blinded by the sudden flash of flames that escaped from the woman's mouth. He was given no time to recover, and she stabbed him twice with a hidden dagger just above the collarbone.

The other guard placed his right hand on the pommel of his axe and was instantly cut down with the same dagger thrown at his head. She jogged forward and removed the blade from her target. She lunged out the window nearest to her and sprinted toward the far wall.

On the other side of the wall, Lin Xi dusted himself off and heard noise that scaled the wall. The skinny fingers curled over the edge of the wall. Nu Xing pushed herself up and heaved herself over the wall. Lin Xi reached over and caught her.

“Come on! We need to catch up with Pi Dao and Mo Fu!” she yelped at the bard.

✻✻✻✻✻[]

When Juji scanned their surroundings, Gong dropped the secret door to their new hideout. The darkness that crept across the sky above began to make it harder to see any danger. Gong snapped his fingers at his squad leader. The snap caught his attention, and he returned to tread behind the blacksmith.

Inside lounged around Citong, who eyed a painting he slipped into his satchel earlier from a market stall. A scantily clad woman was depicted on the parchment, her robes tied around her waist in the artwork. This particular fashion of art excited the swordsman. He screamed and rolled the parchment back up and fastened it to his girdle when the door sank into the ground. He recognized his other two co-squad members. Citong eyed them suspiciously and said nothing.

Juji rolled his eyes at the swordsman, “Not on the job, Mo Citong. Focus!”

“I don't know what you're talking about?” said the skinny Oma Kingsman.

“Do you have the map?” inquired Juji.

Citong slightly nodded as he reached around his girdle for the map. Gong pursed his lips and ripped the rolled parchment from Mo Citong's belt. When he unrolled it, it wasn't a map, but a painting of a woman.

Juji snatched the parchment from the blacksmith's hands. In a rage, he crumpled up the painting and tossed it to the far end of the hideout. His finger stabbed at Citong's chest, “You ta made idiot! Where's the map?!”

“I didn't have time to grab it, boss!” cried out Citong. “There wasn't an opportunity to snat—“ said the swordsman.

Gong cut him off, “Boss, we don't have enough time. We were given a few days to accomplish both tasks across the county.”

“Juji, I remember every weak point in that fortress; we don't need the map!” chimed in Mo.

“And don't forget Jian has an overnight guard shift at the village elder's house,” mentioned Gong.

“I know, I know. Come on, we're going to have to go out there now with this bai chi in tow,” acknowledged Juji. Juji lowered his head and sighed, while Gong and Citon grabbed their things and prepared to booby trap the fortress.

Simultaneously, a light gong echoed across the halls of the home, and Jian's partner Xudong walked off. He alerted his trainee, “Lunch!”

Jian wasn't hungry; however, he used this time to study his surroundings. He scanned the halls as he slowly meandered around the home. The floor plan wasn't massive to begin with, but he quickly memorized the details. He poked his head out and looked left and right to see empty halls. He treaded carefully down the quiet corridors. Jian gently opened the doors and peeped inside. Eventually, he came upon the elder's chambers, where she slept with her husband.

Unguarded when he entered, how stupid of the patrols that wandered the long passages. The elder's quarters were abandoned, and this assailant in disguise easily slipped in. He removed a dagger from the inside of one of his sabatons and silently dispatched the old couple. Shadows outside of the chamber door stopped in the center, then split side to side and stood watch near the exit.

Air let the mouth of the old man, while a plate gauntlet rested over it. His eyes went cold with terror. His wife was already in a pool of her own blood. The chamber had no aperture he could have fled from. He knelt in the corner until the shadows that loomed near the doors moved on. He wasn't sure how long they'd stand there. They could be there all day, he knew he was in hot water, surrounded by enemy soldiers. This could be his fate.

Meanwhile, Gong and Juji followed behind Citong, who halted at different points of the outer perimeter of the training facility. Gong dug a hole with his bending while Citong dropped an explosive inside and prepared a lining coated with blasting jelly. Before they moved onto the next spot.

“We're almost done here, there's about four spots I noticed inside that we could drop an explosive into,” mentioned Mo Citong. The three men clad in fur armor, which was alien to the people in this region, stood out to the strangers around town. It wasn't cold, but these men resided in colder areas in the south. They entered the fortress grounds where men were positioned at various points. However, the weak points weren't really guarded. They needed to move swiftly; only wandering military guardsmen kept watch.

The first one was close by Citong, whispered, “Right over there!”

Gong and Juji covertly dashed over to the tower, where a bell hung inside. This particular tower wasn't a watchtower for guardsmen. It was where a soldier would specifically ring the bell in the early hours of every morning as the sun rose. The first alarm woke the slumbering recruits. Gong quickly sank a patch down, while Juji tossed a bomb with a lining in it. Then he collapsed the hole in on itself with only the detonation cord exposed. All three remained crouched as Citong's eyes scanned the other points.

Meanwhile, Xudong searched around for his training partner. He checked the kitchens for a snack when he should have looked for the new retainer. The shadows outside the rice paper-covered door finally moved again. Jian didn't have enough time before another pair of men encroached on his position. He counted down at least thirty miao; he gulped. Then stood up, quietly slid the doors open, and peeked his head out. The coast was clear. He instantly exited and shut the doors. With a sigh of relief, he tried to navigate his way out of the siheyuan.

Instead, he bumped into his trainer, Xudong. His trainer demanded to know where he went, “Where the ta made did you go?”

“Sorry, I wandered off searching for the outhouse, that's why I took so long,” Jian expressed regret.

“Oh, I just use the bucket found in the larder, I'll show you where it's at, Banshou,” chuckled Xudong.

That unraveled the mystery of the stench of feces that lingered; the smell of delicious food never overpowered it. Jian's face was aghast with disgust, because he expected the Haijunese to at least have some class. Even the Oma Kingsmen weren't this disgusting, 'These people live like animals, ' he thought.

His next move was to find an excuse for leaving; he couldn't be in the estate after he murdered an elderly couple in their sleep. He was the only new recruit; they would have immediately pinned this on him and would've strung him up before sunrise. Jian felt a bit jumpy, anxious even. He was surrounded by enemies, even more so now than just a few fenzhong ago.

Concurrently, Gong and Juji ran to a safe distance while Citong booby trapped one of the barracks doors with a tripwire. When the alarm bell rang in the early hours of the morning, whoever pulled the wire by walking through that door first would have set off the sequence of detonations. He made sure to correct his mistake with his boss, or Juji would have had his head. After he double-checked and inspected everything on his imaginary checklist, he ran back toward the hideout.

Hours passed on, while Xudong and Jian made their rounds from the kitchen and around the labyrinth that was Elder Chahua's home. For Xudong, it was easy for him to traverse, but for Jian, it felt like an impossible maze. Jian gazed up at the stars as the skies above shifted from darkness to pink and orange. His time ticked away, and he needed a distraction. They neared the outhouses again, and he rested his hands over his stomach and groaned in pain.

Xudong shook his head, “I don't know what you ate, but it's not agreeing with you. Look, I'll wait over there while you relieve yourself in the outhouses. Just hurry up, before the captain notices we're not at our secondary post.” Xudong pivoted his body and left while Jian eyed his supervisor as he got further away.

Jian darted off to the wall behind the outhouses. He ignored the smell that permeated the latrines. He used his upper body strength and lifted himself over the wall. Luckily, he was in between patrols and discarded pieces of his guard armor in different areas, as he ran off into the night.

When Citong saw that the four razorback rams grazed in the grasses near the hideout, he knew he was safe. He sighed in relief and whistled at the entrance.

In the same breath, Jian was the final one to return; he stared at their getaway mounts. His friends gathered their things and mounted their beasts of burden. He felt tired, but he knew that his mount would have carried him through the journey to the next destination.

An hour later, a guardsman waltzed into the bell tower and grabbed a hammer. He slammed the hammer against the surface of the bell. It reverberated across the military recruit outpost, quietly echoed near Elder Chahua's siheyuan. The bell was what usually awoke her and her husband from slumber.

Jian glimpsed behind him before they officially departed. Simultaneously, a trainee opened the door of the barracks dressed in training equipment. His left foot triggered the tripwire, which activated the mechanism created by Gong. This lit the blasting jelly-covered cord aflame. As he picked up the already triggered cord, he panicked. A series of explosions occurred, killing two-thirds of the soldiers, including all leadership stationed inside the base, instantly.

As soon as the four men heard the detonations go off, Juji slapped the rear of his razorback ram, and it galloped off. His three other teammates followed behind. The blastwave of the bombs traveled across the village and shook several buildings.

The chaos that ensued placed the elder's estate on high alert, and the captain of the guard burst through his superior's chamber doors. However, he screamed loudly when he saw the terror on their dead faces. Elder Chahua and her husband were soaked in blood, and their bodies were deathly pale. More retainers, including Xudong, forced their way into her quarters to find the killing ground. As if a wild animal broke in last night and tore their beloved elders to pieces.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

Taiyuan Courthouse, Northern Tusuzu Sector, Taiyuan

Avani pulled the reins of her ostrich horse; they both finally reached the courthouse. It was a large building built with stone and bricks, and four large stone pillars supported an arch-like entrance. Stablehands swiftly helped the Avatar off her mount, took the straps of the beast, and led it into a random pen. Besides the noises from the animals of burden, the area was nice and silent. The air was rich and fresh, smelling of justice and righteousness.

In the center of the courtyard, as Avani went up the stone steps of the building, the woman from the night of the Reveler's Den waited. Yinghua was her name; she stood idly by for the Avatar's presence near the statue of Lord Qin, God of Justice. A presence of safety and order was felt within the premises of the hall of justice.

Yinghua was dressed in a yellow hanfu, decorated with embroidered dandelion colored peonies. The exterior lining of the hanfu was a darker shade of yellow with white and yellow peonies stitched into the fabric. She was of average height, and she was a stout and barrel-chested woman. Her round face was complemented well with all of her hair fashioned above her head in a large knot held together by a secure golden hair band.

Her face was caked with white powdered makeup; she used ink to draw long, thin eyebrows above her eyes. She used rouge produced from crushed-up red magnolias for the blush on her cheeks and paint for her lips; she wore three small pearls on her glabella. She had a satchel slung over her shoulder with a stack of scrolls, likely each containing evidence for the specific case she was hired to defend.

Avani eyed the young lawyer as she came up the steps of the lawhouse, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her hanfu.

Yinghua was distracted for a moment, but when she saw the Avatar had arrived, she slightly bowed her head in greetings.

“You grace me with your presence, Avatar Avani. Thank you for coming!”

Avani bowed to her in return, “Thank you for having me. I am aware that my attendance here is of great importance. Shall we begin?”

Yinghua smiled and directed her into the courthouse. There were guards stationed inside to pat down people for any sort of weapons or any items that could have posed harm to Judge Caipan, the guardsmen themselves, the prisoners, or the general public. There were two lines of inspection that one must pass through before being allowed inside the actual waiting area. Because Yinghua was an attorney, she presented the guards with a pass that permitted her to skip the lines.

“This pass is for my guest and me,” she mentioned to the inspection patrols.

One of the men saw her face and immediately paddled her down. Avani watched her as she spread her arms and legs apart. When it was her turn, she copied the same pose as Yinghua. The men swiftly padded the Avatar down before the inspecting guard gave them both a nod. Yinghua gently bowed her head, and they proceeded to the waiting area.

“This is where the general public awaits to be called by the constable. He's the steward of the Secretariat of Justice. Prisoners are held in the back,” explained Yinghua. She padded in the direction of the eastward hallway of the building and said, “Come on, follow me—we're going into the back without having to interrupt the trial that's currently happening.” They went through another door and walked down a corridor to a larger room.

Here, other attorneys waited patiently for their turn while they quietly studied their cases before being brought up to present them. Both defense lawyers and prosecutors were here. The prisoners were housed in another part of the courthouse. But came through another set of double doors. Two sentries escorted them in while they were restrained with rope, chains, and earth cuffs.

Yinghua placed her bag on the table nearest to her and laid out a few scrolls for Avani. Each one carried evidence, information about the prisoner and the case itself. She unrolled one of the many she had, a painted portrait of a prisoner, showing a young man with a broad forehead and a narrow chin. He had high, prominent cheekbones, while his brow was the widest part of his face. He also had a widow's peak hairline and a tuft under his lower lip. This is what he looked like almost two decades ago, when he was first arrested.

At the time of his arrest, he was thirty years old; now he's forty-seven years old. There was even a portrait of the guard he alleged killed; he was a middle-aged man with an angular but defined and rectangular-shaped head. His masculine jawline and his broad forehead were the widest parts of his face. His pale cheeks, lobeless ears, piercing eyes, upturned smile, skinny nose, and straight eyebrows. A black mustache adorned his upper lip, and his hair was secured by a topknot the day he was slain.

According to the second scroll, Yinghua opened, Heng leaned against a wall on a break from his usual route. He spent it outside a shop eating a snack, when he was struck in the head with a stone that ended his life straight away.

Avani grabbed the scroll and read, Kaituo was the only one of the two people on the street. Kaituo argued he was being discriminated against because of his lower-class citizen status compared to the other. He claimed that it was the actual perpetrator. Kaituo confessed that night in writing to the slaying but later recanted his confession. He alleged he was beaten by the jailors inside the Taiyuan prison, and coerced into writing said confession.

The confession stated he's an earthbender, but Kaituo has made every effort to prove he's not a bender. The body was examined by a medical examiner who noted in his report that the rock wielded to kill the guard was used with enough force, only capable by earthbenders.

Avani's eyes peeped up from the scroll she read, and questioned Yinghua, “Who's the actual criminal?”

Yinghua answered, “His name is Budaode, he's the current magistrate of the lake town known as Gansu Hu. The judge signed a warrant for his arrest. We've sent him several subpoenas. But all have been ignored.” “Which is why Governor Wuqi sent a detachment of Provincial Guard to escort him back here. We believe he committed the deed. He's been ignoring all court orders. He has to be hiding something,” she stated.

“If you'd like to get to the bottom of this, I can offer my services as a spiritual tantrist, which should give us the answers we seek,” Avani offered.

Yinghua nodded, “Anything to clear his name!”

“I know you expect your client not to be involved in this murder, but the visions might bury him further into his potential conviction,” informed Avani. She stressed, “Are you sure you want to move forward?”

Yinghua recognized that spiritual tantrism posed a risk to a defense case, especially if it found the defendant culpable in the alleged crime for which they were being accused. The door that led into the back was unlocked, and a plump man dressed in an iron-plated cuirass over a green leather brigandine exited. A sword rested on the left side of his waist, his boots were made of black leather, as were the cudds that covered his wrists. His receded hairline was hidden by a black sa mo, a rounded black hat with short, round wings on the sides.

His name was Dibao; his face had seen many long days inside the courthouse. Wrinkles littered his aged face, his skin lost elasticity over time, and his round face was complemented by a button nose and chubby cheeks. His well-groomed, thick brows rested above his close-set, light green-colored eyes. A thick gray mustache matched his brows; it covered his chapped lips.

He gave a signal to the retainers that lined the double doors, which led to the holding cells. The two men unbarred the doors and stepped inside. Only to return later with a tall, built man, Avani reminded herself of the portrait of the inmate from the scroll. He still appeared the same, only now he was almost two decades older. His widow's peak was gone. By tradition, prisoners' heads were shaved.

He wore a black tunic and black trousers, earth cuffs engulfed his hands. As a suspected earthbender, this was the only way they kept benders restrained. Prisoners were normally color-coded in the Haijun Kingdom; regular prisoners who served their time wore light blue linen clothing. While the prisoners in black hemp clothing awaited their execution. The two men escorted the inmate into the courtroom simultaneously.

Dibao slightly lowered his chin to Yinghua and Avani, “Please enter the courtroom and take your seats.” The constable guided the two women into the room where the seat of Caipan was empty. He walked to the center of the room as the public poured into the gallery near the exit of the courtroom.

“Please take your seats and remain quiet; if you disturb the case being presented, you will be escorted out. The Secretariat of Justice will be with us shortly,” Dibao instructed those who were curious enough to enter. He glanced behind him.

From another entrance, the judge stepped out. He was introduced by Dibao, “I now introduce everyone to the honorable Secretariat of Justice, Caipan.”

The portly-shaped septuagenarian stepped onto a platform to take his seat. He wore lavish indigo colored robes. The bokedu on his head was similar to the constable's sa mo; however, this hat was square-shaped, and the wings weren't rounded but instead long and rectangular. He was tanned-skinned, with a scent of old parchment, and when he sat down, he assumed a slumped posture. He gathered parchments and scrolls and organized them on his desk.

He rubbed his brown-colored eyes as they struggled to see the characters inked on paper. This usually helped clear his vision. His chubby cheeks also sank due to age. He had a rounded chin and a pear-shaped head. He scrunched up his short nose and quickly breathed some air for a moment. His bushy white eyebrows furrowed at the same time.

Caipan glanced from the scrolls on his desk and spoke to Kaituo and everyone in the courtroom, “We're gathered here today to listen to the evidence being brought forth by the prisoner's attorney. If insufficient evidence is provided, we will proceed to put this man to death.”

Kaituo side-eyed his lawyer and her guest; he gulped and broke a sweat.

“You may step forward and present your newfound evidence, Miss Yinghua,” said Caipan.

She stood up and bowed before the judge, “Thank you, Your Honor. I've come to finally clear my client's name.”

She stepped toward the center of the courtroom and began, “I've done extensive research on my guest; most people skilled in spiritual tantrism are exclusively in the ranks of the Yanzhao. I present to you Avatar Avani, who consented to being presented and offered her services.”

Caipan smiled, “Ahh, Avatar Avani, it's not often we hear of the Avatar herself stepping in to work on a case. I've heard so much about your feats across the Kingdom.”

“You may proceed, Avatar,” he responded. He gestured with his left arm to the center, where Yinghua stood. Avani rose to her feet and bowed before the Secretariat of Justice. He ordered his bailiff, “Dibao, set up a table.”

The bailiff walked from his station and raised a table out of the floor. He snapped his fingers, and two guards stepped forward to guide the prisoner to the table.

Avani learned spiritual tantrism from her spiritual teacher, a traditional form of truth-seeking. Spiritual tantrists were devotees of Shanshen. According to Shanshen's teachings, all living beings are interconnected with the earth.

When a tantrist works their skills on someone, the person must have contact with the earth. Everyone metaphorically left their lives imprinted on the soil. The form uses the chakras of one's body to determine their auras, emotions, and even their thoughts. All gifts given to spiritual earthbenders who've dedicated their lives to the god of the earth, or the Earth Heart, as some of those in the practice call it.

Kaituo rested on the table. He felt anxious and uneasy; he had never had this happen to him before. He had enough trust in the young woman, considering she was introduced as the Avatar.

Avani closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She hovered her hands over the prisoner on the table. Avani gently pressed her right index and middle fingers onto his heart chakra. In her mind, she saw his aura as a white flower; however, it was clouded by a muddy black aura. She wrinkled her brow as she concentrated.

“I sense that your white aura is clouded by a negative black aura. I can understand you're living through a challenging time in your life. There's lingering trauma from the years you've spent holed up in a prison,” imparted the Avatar. “A white aura indicates an individual is pure or innocent, but that's not enough to clear your name,” she mentioned.

She slid her fingers down to his lower abdomen near the navel. She sensed his chi. Caipan, Yinghua, Dibao, and the onlookers all witnessed the Avatar practice her gift in astonishment. As they had never seen spiritual tantrism being performed up close.

The Avatar continued, “Your sacral chakra is flowing with chi; however, based on my perception, I cannot feel the fist of Shouhu-gui inside you.”

Caipan inquired, “What does that mean?”

Avani turned her head to face the judge, “According to his case, it is said he used earthbending to slay the guard. The defendant cannot bend Earth.” “He's a non-bender,” she clarified.

Avani returned to her work. Her right fingers returned to his heart chakra, while her left fingers pressed against Kaituo's third-eye chakra. Avani felt a quick rush of energy, and her eyes suddenly flashed. Kaituo's memories flooded her mind.

Avani’s vision blurred, then resolved into someone else’s life as if she had leaned too close to a window and peered inside. She was nowhere and everywhere at once: pale hands filled the frame, rough knuckles darkened by dirt; the buildings that ringed the lane hunched together like watchful beasts. The sun was slipping away, smearing the sky orange; shadows crawled long and hungry across the dirt path.

She could not move. She did not speak. She only watched—an uninvited spectator in Kaituo’s memories, each moment handed to her with the bluntness of a recalled fact. His hands worked a pry bar against a wooden lid until it cracked. Water, cold and clear, sloshed the barrel to the brim. The pry bar clattered to the ground. Kaituo cupped the water and splashed his face; the liquid ran salt and grime into his beard. He breathed, and Avani felt a foreign dampness on her own cheek, as if the memory borrowed her body’s nerves.

Above, the roofs whispered with passing feet. Kaituo glanced up at a sound—quick, practiced—but the sky was only tile and smoke. Then a heavier noise broke the afternoon’s minor cadence: the dull, anatomical thud of a body finding earth. He turned. From his angle, there was nothing but a shadow sliding away, a silhouette that hopped like a dark thing from ridge to ridge.

Kaituo ran. The street opened on the scene: a sentry strewn like a sack, crimson leaking from a sudden hole in the skull. Blood warmed the dust. The man on his knees—Kaituo—gasped with the animal terror of a man who has looked at blood and felt its ownership. His breathing clawed. His hands went wild at the wound as if he might stitch the air back together.

Voices surged. People poured from alleys and carts; guards closed ranks. In the memory, evidence is cruelly literal: Kaituo, the only figure near the body, trembling in a halo of witnesses. They cuffed his wrists with earth—firm bands of soil enchanted or bound by hands trained to make the land do the Kingdom’s will—and dragged him away, his shouting swallowed by the courtyard’s noise.

The vision thinned. Color leaked out of it like dye from a wet cloth. Avani exhaled and found herself back in her own skin, lungs drawing the familiar air of the present. For a beat, she kept the image of blood and tile and his hands cupped around the water—an image that now belonged to her, and that would not unclench its hold so easily.

“Not guilty,” said Avani.

Caipan wasn't skeptical; instead, his attention was captivated. “What did you see?”

“I witnessed the crime through his eyes. The defendant pried open a barrel of water to wash his face. The sun was setting, and it was a dirt road or alleyway. While he washed his face, I recall hearing footsteps above. I didn't see the man's face; I just remember he jumped from rooftop to rooftop like some phantom. That's when the guards and townspeople arrived, and the guardsmen arrested the defendant. He's being tried for a crime he didn't carry out,” Avani made it known of what she witnessed.

Caipan clasped his hands together in thought; he furrowed his brow while thoughts filled his head. He turned to face Yinghua, then inquired, “You said you have evidence that proves who the real killer is?”

Yinghua nodded, “I do.”

The constable padded over toward the defendant's table, while the lawwoman handed him the proof. Two scrolls were then delivered to the judge.

Caipan opened the scrolls and read their contents. He looked up from the parchment on his desk and said, “We'll have to discuss their further during another hearing.”

“I, the honorable Secretariat of Justice, find the defendant not guilty of murder in the first degree,” announced Caipan. He tapped the sound block with his gavel, then ordered Dibao, “Release the prisoner.”

Dibao bobbed his head to the judge and sauntered over to the prisoner. He curled both wrists up and down at least twice. The cuffs hit the ground with a thud, and the gallery roared for his release.

Caipan banged his gavel twice and shouted, “Order!”

The crowd died. He smiled to the free man, “In accordance with the law, from the province of Pingyao and the Earth King, you will be granted two thousand gold coins from the city's coffers, as compensation for your exoneration.”

Avani lowered her head and beamed. Kaituo wailed with emotion, having wasted seventeen years inside a prison. Yinghua rested her hands on his shoulders in a kind, supportive gesture. She felt his pain and was ever thankful for the Avatar's assistance in clearing his name.

Avani crouched down to meet the exonerated man's gaze, then said, “Two thousand gold, you should live well for the rest of your days peacefully. I'm sorry our system failed you.”

Yinghua neared the Avatar and then bowed before her, “Thank you, Avatar Avani. I never thought I'd clear his name of his charges. I was afraid an innocent man would be put to death.”

✻✻✻✻✻[]

Yijai, Li Jun county, Pingyao

Deng's men pulled the reins of their razorback rams; their destination was only a quarter of a li. Yijai sat like a bright bruise on the sea of grass—no walls, only the low clatter of commerce and the constant movement of bodies. From a distance, the town read as a scatter of roofs and chimneys, but up close it was a tissue of lives pressed together: farmers with sun-cracked hands, hawkers with voices that sawed through the air, and a steady trickle of traders from across Li Jun county. The market was the heart; everything else—temples, the magistrate’s house, military yards—radiated from that pulsing center.

The town wore its mixture of peoples plainly. On the west, low wooden eaves leaned into one another in the old Haijunese manner, alleys so narrow that two shoulders could brush and you would be polite about it. On the east, the brick and stucco buildings of the Junggarian quarter rose in taller lines, their walls stamped with a different sun and a different patience. Where the quarters met, the cobbles gave way to packed earth bent smooth by generations of boots—and in that central seam the market unfurled its wares: saffron tied in neat sachets, its color like dried sunset; boxes of plums, small and laced with the perfume of animal and orchard; bolts of dyed cloth bearing colors that sang when they caught the light.

A temple with a low, curved roof drew eyes in the Junggarian quarter. Pilgrims dipped fingers into tiled channels and traced the carved patterns—delicate spirals and mountain motifs—that ran like script beneath the eaves. The tiles whispered stories of migration: hands that had crossed hotter sands, families who had chosen this green place instead of the Si Wong’s flame. The Haijunese side kept its own rites nearer the magistrate’s siheyuan, a compact compound watched over by soldiers whose boots marked the ground with a cadence of law.

Most mornings, the town made its peace with strangers. Shopkeepers accepted coins from foreign hands; children chased each other around the carts. A few older men tutted at the newcomers, eyes narrowed, words that tasted of fence-line resentments. In Yijai, as in many places, peace was an agreement kept by habit rather than love.

The southern entrance was a practical thing: a simple checkpoint where goods were inspected and taxes tallied. Today, a short line had formed at the information booth—women with woven baskets, a boy clutching a plum crate, two laborers arguing softly about the price of rope. Guards in neat brown tunics moved among them, occasionally testing the weight of a sack or prying a crate to sniff its contents. Duty kept their faces blank; under that blankness, curiosity hummed like a trapped insect. One guard worried about spoiled plums; another thought about the letter from the Iron Pagoda that still needed answering. The market swallowed petty cares and spat out new ones.

Four men entered with the rest of a small crowd, their steps folding into the town’s rhythm as if they belonged. They were clad now in borrowed skins—rough workman’s tunics, stained cloaks, the kind a merchant might wear to avoid attention. Each kept a certain carriage: shoulders measured, eyes steady. The leader’s heart beat behind his ribs like a keepsake drum. He watched the arc of the plaza, calculated where a man with a cart might stop, where a magistrate’s courier would cross a lane.

They moved to stay near the central road—the dirt track reserved for carts—and let the bustle of foot traffic provide cover. The leader’s voice was a notch below the market’s murmur as he signaled a halt; a curt hand lift, and the others froze like actors behind a half-drawn curtain. He stepped from the group and lingered until the woman at the counter left, her basket light and her face unremarkable. In his mind, he catalogued the clerk’s mannerisms: the way the man flipped a wooden token between his fingers, the scar across his knuckle that suggested a life of boxes and splinters. Small details would become leverage; leverage made plans practical.

Around him, the town continued: a child wiped faces with the back of a hand; a Junggarian spice-seller piled saffron into a cone and wrapped it in paper; a thin old woman set a saucer of water for a stray dog, and a soldier by the magistrate’s gate watched the market like a slow clock. None of them yet registered the four as anything but another group of passersby. The leader closed his jaw and walked forward, eyes steady on the counter where questions were bought and information traded. He would speak next; his tone would be deferential, his false papers folded into the inside of a sleeve.

Behind him, his men adjusted the edges of their disguises—a sleeve pulled, a hood straightened—and melted into the crowd. In Yijai, the market took everything and changed it: coins became food, words became rumor, strangers became story. The leader reached the counter as if to ask a simple question, and for a moment, the whole town looked on, unaware of the weight that accompanied him.

The man at the counter greeted them, “Welcome to Yijai, one of the largest trading centers of the Haijun Kingdom! I hope you enjoy your stay. Here's a map of our home! If you have any questions, you can ask them now or come back later.”

They all knew, in the way small towns know small things, that accents told stories before faces did. The Oma drawl was a different animal from Haijunese speech — heavier on certain vowels, the R rolled in a way Haijun ears read as foreign. Juji felt that difference like a fever under his tongue; every syllable he held back felt as dangerous as a spark near dry straw. If he spoke, the clerk would tilt his head, puzzle the cadence, and the neat little machine of the market’s routine might seize and inspect them closer.

Jian, blessed or cursed with a talent for improvisation, saw the tension and decided to fill the gap. He stepped forward with the breezy certainty of a man who has talked his way out of worse. He leaned on the counter and supplied an explanation that was simple and loud enough to be heard over the market’s churn.

“Apologies, friend,” he announced. “He’s got an intellectual disability — he’s our eldest brother, but we call him the bacheh.”

Behind the counter, the clerk considered three responses in quick succession—paperwork, pity, or terse refusal—and settled on a mild, bureaucratic compassion that would not trouble his ledger. A nearby customer smirked; the token of attention would be paid, and the line would move.

Juji’s mouth went dry. He looked up, and the glare he fixed on Jian was precise as a thrown knife: furious, incredulous, and utterly theatrical. Jian met it with a slight, innocent grin; for an instant, the two of them shared the private absurdity of their own survival. The market, uninterested in the details, continued to trade.

“We're first timers here in from Junggar, we've been traveling for weeks to reach Ba Sing Se. We just came in from Taiyuan, as you can see, we're wearing traditional clothing of your people,” began Jian.

Each of the four men wore a light-toned tunic in a different hue, cinched with a black sash, its flaps falling over darker, matching trousers. Three of the four men wore slippers while Gong moved about barefoot, as he was the only bender of their group.

The man nodded, “Ahh, yes, Taiyuan, the island city, that palace is remarkable, isn't it?”

“Definitely a sight that's engraved into our heads for life. Anyways, how do we get around?” Jian questioned the information booth employee.

The employee looked down at Jian's map, while Jian's eyes trailed the attendant's finger as he explained the entire settlement to the newcomers. The man pointed behind him, “This here is the Jade Bazaar, the name is derived from both the Junggarian and Haijunese cultures. As you'll find, Yijai is heavily influenced by both nations. The market district extends from the southern entrance of the city to the northern entrance.”

“You'll find all kinds of merchants here: farmers selling produce, potters, fletchers, smiths, scribes, artisans, spice dealers, drug dealers. Oh, I must warn you, stay away from the con artists—they'll try to sell you a hocus pocus monkey's paw promising you wishes beyond your wildest dreams,” gestured the man, he used air quotes somewhere in his explanation, likely too many complaints about the scorpion snake oil salesman and the common rabble of scam traders.

“If you want to enjoy your home away from home, I'd suggest heading to the eastern portion of the town. The Junggarian who settled here decades ago calls it the Firuzabad District. I'm sure you know what that translates to in your tongue. You can find the Khaneh Pishgu'i in the center of the Firuzabad District. It's surrounded by the Golestan, something about it revering Madar-e Zamin,” stated the booth attendant.

The Khanen Pishgu'i was a massive temple located in the center of the Firuzabad District. When the sun faced eastward, the turquoised colored spires and gargantuan domes of the Junggarian religious temple overshadowed half of the Jade Bazaar. Many Junggarian visited the area on a pilgrimage; the gardens encircled the temple, said to have been built and maintained by the honored gardeners who revered Madar-e Zamin. The gardens were named 'Golestan', known as the 'Land of Flowers', in the Junggarian tongue.

“To our left, you'll find the Xiangyuan Fang, also known as 'Fragrant Garden Ward'. Much like the temple gardens of Khaneh Pishgu'i, you'll also find orchids and plum blossom trees here. This is where the majority of the Haijunese residents chose to live,” continued the man. He resumed, “You can find some exciting places here, the poets and bards of the Hall of Plum's Song or the 'Meiyin Tang,' as described in the pamphlets. Often, they revere the beautiful pink flowers that bloom every late winter and early spring. Their poems describe white and pink petals wafting through the air on a gentle breeze. Serene brick roads and sweet fragrances surround you as you wander the streets.”

“One can find Magistrate Zizhen spending a few times a week reciting poems at the community nights at the Hall,” stated the attendant.

Juji exchanged looks with Gong; they didn't have to work to find their target, as now they knew one of his frequented spots on his weekly routine. All they had to investigate was which evenings he participated in the poetry hall.

“The Baihua An is near the center of the Xiangyuan Fang; it's our temple devoted to our goddess, Yun. It was entirely run by an abbess and her priestesses. The Magistrate's siheyuan is a few blocks from there. But if you have any concerns or complaints, I'd direct you to the constable's office. As our magistrate is a busy person, common citizens often struggle to gain an audience. There's also the Iron Pagoda Outpost, I'd steer clear, though. Only militant types enter and leave as they please,” he explained as he slid his finger across the map and pointed at the different areas inside the Haijunese neighborhood for Jian.

Juji’s patience frayed like a rope in a storm. He had tolerated the booth attendant’s sluggish pace long enough, and the smirk on his lips was not joy but sharpened irritation. With a sudden shove, he displaced Jian from the counter, snatched the map without ceremony, and left the attendant blinking in stunned silence. The clerk would later mutter to himself about the rudeness of strangers, but Juji cared nothing for the man’s wounded dignity.

He stalked into the artery of the Jade Bazaar, the great marketplace alive with color, sound, and smell. Merchants stretched as far as sight would allow, their stalls forming rivers of trade beneath the vaulted sky. Some presided from elaborate tents of embroidered canvas, others from humble stalls, and still others only from rugs unfurled on the dusty ground. Those last sat in lotus position, their worldly treasures—a mosaic of brass trinkets, carved amulets, and shimmering baubles—spread like offerings at their feet.

The other three men hastened behind him, for Juji’s stride brooked no delay. He ignored their footsteps, his gaze darting to the teeming sea of faces that flowed about the bazaar. Most were the familiar tan-skinned citizens of Firuzabad, haggling or shouting, their voices weaving into the tapestry of commerce. Yet Juji’s eyes lingered on those who stood apart—the darker-skinned foreigners, their presence as striking as ink spilled upon parchment.

Two in particular caught his notice. They stood beneath the slanting sun, its glare casting a halo of light around their heads. Their skin bore the hue of polished obsidian, radiant and alien. The taller of the pair was muscular, with thick, coiled hair tied back with a leather cord. His companion wore his hair cropped upright, his frame wirier but no less taut with power. Their bodies bore tattoos in bold designs, marks of a heritage Juji could not place. They were not Air Nomads—of that he was certain. The Junggarian merchant whose rug they perused had strewn his wares in a glittering disarray: bronze lamps, bone-carved charms, even carpets that seemed to shimmer faintly with enchantment. Juji ignored the booth attendant’s distant voice and angled toward the strangers.

The two men raised their eyes as he drew near. Their gazes struck him like heat rolling off desert dunes. One’s eyes, deep and fierce, recalled the sagebrush swaying stubbornly against arid wind; the other’s flickered like a sandstorm, amber and green swirling in restless motion. Juji felt a ripple of unease, though he kept his face carved from stone. The taller one’s features carried a regal gravity: a broad nose, full lips, and white paint traced in deliberate patterns across his skin. The other’s face, lean and sharp, was softened by high cheekbones and a jaw that suggested quiet resolve.

Juji had never encountered men like them. Curiosity pressed at him, though he cloaked it beneath his habitual detachment. The Junggarian snapped his fingers, and the two foreigners returned their attention to the merchant’s enticing display, leaving Juji to pretend disinterest as his eyes roved the goods.

Meanwhile, Jian, Citong, and Gong finally left the information booth. The world of the Jade Bazaar enveloped them as it had Juji—an orchestra of fragrances, voices, and light. Spices burned in the air, mingled with the sweetness of incense. Coins clinked and bounced in the purses of traders. Above, the morning sun filtered through the high arched windows of the Firuzabad spires, gilding their stone ribs with molten light. To the left, tall Haijunese buildings stretched upward, their gently sloped roofs carved with motifs of the mythical chongmingniao and the twin-winged qingniao. These proud façades threw deep shade onto the road, offering relief from the sun’s blaze.

For Haijunese merchants, the shadows were sanctuary; for travelers, they were mystery. The streets of Xiangyuan Fang—the Haijunese district—told their own stories in fabric, paint, and wood. Tents shifted like restless waves. Carpets bore patterns that spoke of dynasties long fallen. Booths were not only markets but miniature histories, each competing for attention with cries and beckoning gestures.

The three companions caught sight of Juji near the Junggarian’s rug. The merchant’s hands were alive with movement, weaving promises of mystery, of power, of fortune. Jian and the others recalled, with a flicker of unease, the booth attendant’s earlier warning: beware of charms that ensnare not the body but the mind.

Juji crouched and lifted a strange object—a preserved paw of a hog monkey. Its fur was brittle with age, its claws dulled. Stranger still, it bore only three fingers; the other two had been severed, leaving crude stumps. Juji imagined some sinister previous owner who had carved away the missing digits for ritual or malice.

“Give me that,” Jian hissed, snatching the paw from Juji’s hands as though from a child unwilling to part with a toy.

Juji scowled, ready to lash back, but Citong’s hand seized his collar and yanked him sharply away from the merchant’s carpet. The sudden jolt broke whatever spell the goods had cast, and Juji blinked, as though waking from a dream. The bazaar’s noise crashed back into his ears—the bargaining, the laughter, the distant hum of music.

The Junggarian merchant, denied his easy prey, only smiled faintly and rearranged his wares.

And the Jade Bazaar carried on, vast, timeless, indifferent.

“Huh? What happened?” Juji questioned his teammates, confused.

“Something about that foreigner had you enticed by whatever artifacts he's got on display,” answered Citong.

“Who were those dark-skinned men at the stand?” he inquired.

Gong responded, “I once heard a story about a mountaineer from our clan. He ventured to the Si Wong Desert once. Talked about five civilizations that lived in the stands. I think those two belonged to one of them.” “He mentioned the Juggar,” remembered Gong, as he pointed to his sides and gestured that the side they stood on was heavily influenced by the Junggarian Empire. People native to the southern desert territory.

“The Hami are allied with the Haijun Kingdom, I've heard Deng talk about our High King trying to wed his sister to an Iso prince,” mentioned Gong.

“Those people with the giant insects?” guessed Juji.

Gong bobbed his head and resumed, “Aye, there's also the Alxa people who work the slag mines; their leader is rumored to be a living god, kind of like the Avatar. I think those guys were either Albanian or maybe Gaxunese. They're pretty similar, so I couldn't tell you.”

Jian turned to face the team. He interrupted Gong's anthropology lesson, “We have to stay focused. What's the plan?”

Juji retrieved a scroll from his sash. They huddled in a shadowed corner, and their leader opened the scroll. A map of Yijai included a painting of one of their targets and highlighted points of interest on the map, including places frequented by their target.

Jian noticed that the map held in Juji's hands wasn't up to date, so he pulled out the current map and compared it side by side. “The map we were given is outdated, look,” he paused. He pointed to the Iron Pagoda Outpost on his map, which was in the northwestern part of the parchment. While Juji's older map had the same outpost at its center.

“Oh, you're right,” Citong chimed in as he peeped over both men's shoulders.

“Well, Deng never said it was accurate information; it's a map we could use for reference,” Juji defined the scroll in his hand.

Jian resumed, “Your map doesn't have the Firuzabad District, destroy it.” He took the lead over Juji, then mentioned, “The information booth attendant said our target's name is Magistrate Gong Zizhen, and he spends some days over at the Meiyin Tang. I'll take this role.”

Juji hopped and snatched the map out of the taller teammate's hands, “No! You killed the old lady, I want this one!”

Jian argued, “Absolutely not, you will botch the mission!”

Gong stepped in and separated the two men, “Guys, let Citong take this one. It fits his personality.”

The swordsman elated, “Finally, any place that involves women, wine, and entertainment sounds like my kind of place! This should be easy for me. I'll figure out his schedule, and I'll devise a plan to eliminate him.”

“We have to find out who's the head of the Iron Pagoda outpost,” said Jian.

Gong inquired, “How do you think we'll obtain that information?”

Juji cut off the blacksmith, “How else, you idiot? Through official documents on the magistrate's desk!”

“We were tasked to kill him where he spends most of his time!” maintained Jian.

“GUYS!” cried out Citong.

The men stopped bickering. “Even if I did eliminate the target, getting into his estate while the city's on high alert would be suicide,” stated the swordsman. “This one will require the effort of the three of you to find out who their leader is and how to dispatch him.” Citong headed to the east into the Haijunese-centered neighborhood of the town. He left the other three to figure out their plan.

Juji and Jian turned away from one another, crossed their arms angrily, which left Gong in an awkward position. They wandered down a road. Juji felt the breeze as a man sprinted by him. He wore dark green clothing and had a black leather messenger tube strapped to his back. The courier inhaled air and blew it out of his mouth; his legs strided along the road to the north. His arms swung up and down as he hurried to his destination.

Jian stared at the man while Juji turned to eye Gong. Jian locked eyes with Juji while Gong was in his peripheral vision. Jian's eyes looked away since he chose to ignore the leader of his team.

Citong headed to the southeast, where the poetry house was located, as drawn on the map he held in his left hand. He gave them the newer map as they needed it more. When Citong compared both maps, the locations in the Xiangyuan Fang district remained in their exact locations.

♮♮♮♮♮♮[]

The dry, hot air entered Nu Xing's nostrils. She assessed the lush green grasslands of Li Jun County from the ridgeline where she and her teammates stood. Green became gold, alive became dead, dry stalks crunched under her boot. Mo Fu observed the small city in the distance. It looked to be built upon a rocky basin, where two dried-up riverbeds met.

A dehydrated Pi Dao attempted to spit, but nothing came out. He remarked, "Even the air seems brittle here."

Dust plumes in the distance are from traveling merchants as they pulled onto the road. Their journeys ended in just a couple of ma. As the four travelers hiked down the road, they remained quiet, studying their next objective. Lin Xi gently strummed two strings on his pipa; he saw where once a river had been, now miners walked through. They carved the old bedrock where centuries of erosion exposed copper veins and iron seams.

The city of Qiang Cheng exported copper and iron ore to Taiyuan, along with other items such as mining and smithing tools, spearheads, arrow tips, and artisanal glass pieces. The merchant families ran the city, and nothing happened without their approval. The mayor's family was heavily tied to the merchant's guild. Whether there were threats or deals involved.

Each shaft had signage above its frame that named the mine and identified the type of ore found there. The nearest mine shaft had a makeshift shrine to Shouhu-gui, the Lion Turtle of the earth. To bless the miners and the shaft itself. Offerings of incense and smooth river rocks littered the shrine. There was some dried lichen that had likely been left there several weeks ago.

The tunnels themselves were typically built underground by earthbending foremen. Prayers to Shouhu-gui were to keep any angry spirits at bay, as one of the mining shafts last month collapsed. There were small memorials for some missing men who were presumed dead in the caved-in mining shaft. The four of them continued on their stroll toward the basin city, led by Nu Xing as their de facto leader when Gan wasn't present. None of them disagreed with this hierarchy because they felt she possessed leadership qualities that surpassed their own talents, which were largely situational.

They padded through the northern gates of the city of Qiang Cheng, the pungent stench of smelted ores, burnt wood, and burning chemicals immediately filled their lungs. Black plumes of smoke rose to the sky and blotted out the basin's sun. The constant hammering of anvils and machinery echoed from down the street. The air was heavy; the pollution was thick, and in some areas, it was hardly visible. To the north of Foundry Heights were numerous wooden apartments, some of which were stacked on top of one another, totaling three dwellings.

Workers in soot-stained uniforms shuffled about in groups with their faces blackened, as most of them who finished their shifts at the foundry or the smelting shops headed for the community bathhouse or the tavern. Others wandered off to their homes, the apartments were further from the district's choking fumes. Just a few streets down was the bell tower, which was rung every twelve hours to signal to workers that they were relieved of their duties. Its sound resonated throughout the quarter like a commandment of industry.

Pi Dao observed workers not only leaving the foundries and smithies, but also the glassworks and clay kilns. The men he eyed whispered amongst themselves as they lumbered for the local tavern. The thief nudged the assassin and motioned with his head over to the weary men who headed for the pub. The other two followed behind them, and bars were where rumor mills often began, where secrets spilled for the right price. They approached the tavern; a dangling sign read, "The Split Pick."

Once they entered the tavern, the smoky air was just as thick as the air outside. The stench of burning ore clung to the clothing and hair of every patron. It was crowded with laborers, their wooden mugs filled with bitter, alcoholic spirits. A haze of sweat, soot, and whispers hung heavy in the rafters.

"You can't escape the pollution in here either," commented Mo Fu.

Lin Xi Chao pointed at an empty table near the western side of the tavern; all four of them sat on the available stools. While Pi Dao grabbed the stool of another table and brought it over. Mo Fu Fen approached the bar and drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited for the bartender to finish his transaction with another customer.

The bartender directed his attention to him and asked, "What can I get you?"

"I'll take three ales, and if you've got spirits for the lady," said the demolition man.

The bartender took out three wooden mugs and wrapped them around the fingers of his left hand while he legged it over to the kegs. As he filled the three mugs to the brim, splashes spilled onto the floor. He returned to the counter, then placed a clay tincture on it and popped the cork of a bottle of distilled alcoholic spirits, pouring the clear liquid into the liquor cup.

Mo Fu hugged two of the mugs and carried one in his right hand, while his left hand's fingers plucked the shooter. He came back with their drinks. Nu Xing sniffed her drink and noted the spicy note inside the liquor within the cup. The men clashed their mugs together and drank their brews while the assassin tilted her head back and swallowed the high-distilled contents. Her face shuddered at the potent taste of alcohol.

Pi Dao immediately spat it out, "Blegh!" he gagged.

Lin Xi's face shriveled at the taste of the horrid brew, while Mo Fu's face remained stoic. He typically favored darker beers, so this wasn't an issue for him, although it had a metallic aftertaste.

Pi Dao's face contorted into a look of dissatisfaction. "I bet they soaked iron ore into the kegs."

The three men continued to drink their mugs at a mixed-paced consumption. While some of the patrons were already half-drunk, they laughed too loudly and slammed their mugs together.

Nu Xing discreetly studied one table several steps in front of her as the men muttered in dark tones about what they had found in one of the mining shafts.

They huddled in closer, one of them spoke up, "There was a strange ore I found in the rock, when I struck it with my pick, it hummed."

A confused bearded miner pressed, "Are you sure?" "The guild will bleed us dry if they find out about this," murmured another.

Suddenly, a miner slammed his mug on the table, startling Nu Xing Bian. He shouted at Lin Xi and demanded that he play his pipa to liven the mood.

"Hey, you! Minstrel-hic—play us a song!"

Nu Xing blinked rapidly; she swallowed her pride for now. She then exchanged a glance with Lin Xi and nodded the order.

The bard rose to his feet and pulled the instrument from his back. He gently strummed some of the pipa's strings. Instantly, all eyes turned toward their table; the tension tightened for only a moment. Pi Dao and Mo Fu exchanged glances without breaking cover. Blending in was essential if they were to uncover who truly held power in Qiang Cheng.

The inebriated miner teetered from left to right. He pointed at Lin Xi and requested, "Can you pl-play...uhhh"

Men in the background shouted different titles:

"The Girls of Ba Sing Se!"

"Lanterns of the Lower Ring!"

"Kingdom's Heart"

There was a mixed reaction to the first two songs, but the third garnered the most cheers. Lin Xi knew that he couldn't mess up the song or else he would not gain favor with the laborers. He placed his left fingers on the neck of his lute and started to strum the strings as the somewhat familiar tune reverberated from the instrument.

He swayed to his own music while some of the men stepped forward to sing the kingdom's anthem, "From mountain stone, his crown was born."

"Unyielding, radiant, never worn."

"Where Shuicheng's hands lie, grain will rise! Gold from the soil beneath the skies!" bellowed out the men in choir.

The weary workers rose from their chairs, and some danced in pairs to the rhythm of the bard's song.

Pi Dao stood up and sang, "O Kingdom's Heart, forever strong! Through him the people's breath belongs!"

The bartender shouted, "The walls endure, the harvest starts!"

Everyone in that tavern echoed the final chorus, "We live and thrive through Kingdom's Heart!"

Mo Fu and Nu Xing, who weren't familiar with the song, did their best to imitate the words. The singing grew so loud that the men couldn't hear each other while they tripped over their words. The crowd in the tavern roared while the bard gave them a bow.

"Okay, now do the 'Girls of Ba Sing Se'!" shouted a drunk miner from one of the tables closer to the tavern keeper.

Men cheered and clapped while Nu Xing rolled her eyes. She hated the song, and on top of that, it was sung mainly by the worst of men. Lin Xi flicked his eyes at her and shrugged, then he shifted into the next tune. She had a hard time eavesdropping on the men as they discussed what they had found inside the mines. She needed quiet, but she wasn't going to get that while Lin Xi entertained the drunkards.

The miners' chorus thundered with a rough cadence, their mugs striking scarred tables in time; each slam echoed like a drumbeat beneath the rafters. The tavern was thick with heat and soot, and the air tasted of iron dust and stale ale.

Nu Xing leaned back in her chair as she pretended to sip the drink left behind by Pi Dao while her ears strained. Most of what she caught were half-drunken ramblings.

"Their eyes shine bright, like lanterns in the night, and they'll steal your heart away!" sang Pi Dao Suo.

Another laughed about a guild overseer who skimmed wages from the last ore shipment, only to suffer an unfortunate chain of events that ultimately led to his death. Two men murmured bitterly about the collapsed shaft in the northern mine and how Shouhu-gui was punishing them. One of them was loud enough to be heard through the music.

The same man from earlier slammed his fist on the table, "It hums, I tell you! The stone's not normal. I don't think Shouhu-gui wants us to dig deeper! It's not copper or iron, it's...something else."

His coworker shushed him quickly and muttered, "Keep your voice down! The guild pays us enough to dig, not to ask questions!"

The song surged again, drowning out their discussion, but Nu Xing had already caught the edge of it. They're conversing about an ore that hums when struck. Her team wasn't there for this strange ore, but it intrigued her.

"But we're struck down here with smoke and beer! Dreaming of the girls of Ba Sing Se!"

That ore could get her the influence she sought with the statesman who ran the town. When the men got up and left, she slipped away while her team was distracted with the diversion they pulled off. She pressed her body against others as she shimmied toward the door. The miners were too loud and flushed to notice her absence from her group.

Outside, the sun sat in the center of the sky but carried the same metallic tang of smoke that billowed from the foundry. She kept her distance and let the miners' voices guide her down the narrow streets. They stumbled in a pack, shoving each other and joking, their boots crunching against the dust of the basin. She observed them closely, hoping to catch a word about the ore or this guild, one of them had mentioned.

The men stopped at the fork in the road, one that led to the residential Hearth Ward, and the other led to the mines outside the city. One of them complained, "My pay's short again. Third week this month! The guild says the scales must be off—but the scales are fine. They're just keeping the coin for themselves."

There was a silent pause before he grumbled, "Wangbagaozi, all of them."

Another miner spat in the dirt, then mentioned, "It ain't the scales, it's their pockets. They skim the wages so they can pay the guards and keep the guild fat!"

Nu Xing hid herself behind three crates stacked on top of one another, while she listened in on the miners who argued about which way they should go.

The third miner lowered his voice as his head darted in different directions, "They stopped caring about copper and iron ore. That black-green stuff, the one that hums when you strike it, that's what they're bleeding us for."

She realized that the wages were deducted to fund mercenaries and guild luxuries, while they ensured that the workers remained powerless and impoverished. Their voices slurred but hinted at something important.

The first one snorted, "And what's that for, eh? They can't forge it, nor can they cut it. Breaks our tools like twigs. But those wangbagaozi want it carted out in crates, locked and sealed. Not a single chunk stays in the hands of the workers."

She felt it necessary to stay hidden and continued to eavesdrop, rather than risking getting close and being caught. She peeked her head slightly as she watched them down the right path, which led toward the city's northern gate. Once she felt they were out of sight, she continued her trail. She used different clutter along the road that led out of the city as she kept an eye on the men.

The second miner claimed, "Word is, Taiyuan merchants pay ten times over for a handful. Some say the ore keeps walls from falling. Others say it's meant for weapons only the highborn can wield."

She thought about the word 'highborn' and quickly understood they meant nobility. She just wasn't sure what this singing stone was. But if it's being exported to Taiyuan directly, it's definitely being sold for a fortune and will be used in the coming battle against her kingdom's armies.

The third miner halted and scanned their surrounding area, then hushed, "Doesn't matter what it does. We ain't getting paid fair for the risk. Shafts keep falling, men keep dying, and the guild calls it 'accidents'. Accidents like that only occur because we're digging too deep."

The second worker whispered, "I hear the guild meets later today in the Copper Ward. Not in the foundry, not in the hall. That's how secretive it is." The men went onto their fixed path as their voices faded deeper into the smoke-cloaked streets.

The knowledge weighed on her, and the path ahead split in two: press onward into danger and risk discovery, or return to her companions and the safety their presence offered. Either choice carried its own perils, and the outcome of her decision would ripple far beyond her own steps. She slipped back into the shadows and headed back toward the tavern.

The sound of drunken men as they now laughed out loud distracted whoever might've been watching. The echoes of song from the tavern could be heard as she approached the bar. Once inside the entranced men and her companions, none the wiser of her absence, are still at their table when she returned.

Lin Xi stopped the music, wiped the sweat off his brow, and bowed before all the patrons as he thanked them, "Thank you! Thank you! You're all too kind! It was a pleasure to perform!" Some of the bar goers neared the counter and ordered drinks for the newcomers.

Nu Xing slowly sat down on her stool and remained silent until the men who were nearby returned to their seats.

The men huddled to hear her as she reported everything in a low tone. She began, "While you guys distracted the tavern patrons, I followed a group of miners a distance." "According to their conversation, the guild tied to the foundry isn't merely mismanaging coin. They're intentionally skimming wages, the extra gold keeps the guild's coffers from going hungry, hiring of mercenaries, and there are likely other expenses the men didn't bring up," she explained.

Lin Xi offered a careful smile. "You make the call; we follow."

Nu Xing nodded and went on, "They call it 'humming stone.' One blow with a pick and the vibration thrums up your jaw until your teeth ache. It's harder than iron, breaks tools, and it refuses to take in the foundry's fires."

Mo raised an eyebrow in confusion, "Humming stone?"

Pi Dao inquired, "Well, if it can't be smelted, then why mine it? It's garbage."

"The miners said that their guild demands every piece to be hauled out, boxed, and sealed under watch—suggesting its value lies not in metallurgy, but in some hidden property," reported the assassin.

"However, mining the rock has been known to cause their mining shafts to cave in. Every fatal cave-in happens in the areas where the ore runs the deepest," she stated.

"So this guild knowingly sends men to die?" guessed the thief.

"They're trying to disguise this as a coincidence, but what will happen if it occurs more than once? I'm sure they're not even recording the incidents in their official records," added Lin Xi.

"Where's the ore going?" Mo Fu questioned her.

She replied, "I heard them say it's being transported to Taiyuan, the merchants there pay tenfold the price of copper or iron for even small fragments. One of them mentioned it was possibly made into weapons for their commanders. Another said it reinforces walls."

"Maybe the ore can't be earthbent, but if it can't be smelted, and it can't be earthbended. Then how would they apply this stuff to the ramparts of their cities?" Pi Dao asked, puzzled.

"There must be something they know about how it's crafted into weapons or defenses. We could utilize this kind of information to our advantage. Maybe Gan can send some men to take control of this city and mine their resources for Yeman," Mo Fu commented. He turned his attention to Nu Xing, "What happened next?"

"I chose not to continue, after all, I was alone. Before they split ways, they mentioned a guild meeting was being held in the late afternoon, in some unknown location within the Copper Ward," replied Nu Xing.

What is this humming stone? What did the Haijunese find that kept them so tight-lipped? They needed to plan out their next set of moves, as this was all part of something larger and more dangerous. They knew they couldn't let the Haijunese throne get their hands on this.

She knew the mayor alone was not shaping the fate of this city. It was this mysterious miner's guild. A deeper conspiracy was at play here. One that she and her team needed to handle carefully, or they risked drawing the attention of the local government's powers.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

Zuqiu endured the early hours of training with dutiful persistence. He marched through drills, checked weapons, and completed every errand his First Lieutenant demanded, but his mind betrayed him at every turn. Even the rhythm of his steps faltered, his thoughts looping back to Zhongli: the brightness of their laugh, the warmth of their hand brushing his arm, the exhilaration of sneaking into the zoo, and the guilty delight of stolen food devoured in shadows. The barracks had long grown used to his awkwardness; the others mistook his distraction for clumsiness and timidity, nothing more than Zuqiu being himself.

By late morning, he was dismissed, and with dismissal came a restless freedom. Yesterday's meal with Zhongli lingered like a secret vow, a promise to meet again in the Southern Tusuzu Sector. He told himself the arrangement meant more than chance—that it proved Zhongli wanted to see him, and that belief, however naive, carried him forward with hope he scarcely recognized as fragile.

It took him an hour and a half to cross the city and descend into the lower residential district. There, near a weathered fountain whose water trickled lazily into the basin, Zhongli waited. They reclined in the shade with the kind of ease that came only to those unburdened by rank or orders. Beside them, Po, the woolly rat, busied himself with scraps, twitching whiskers dusted by sunlight.

Zuqiu's heart stumbled as severely as his steps. He fidgeted with the edges of his uniform, tugging at sleeves and smoothing fabric until his nerves betrayed him completely. Far from making him appear composed, the fussing only marked him as what he was—an anxious soldier boy out of place among civilians.

Zhongli looked up at last. Their dark brown eyes gleamed in the light, full of sly amusement. A smile curled slowly across their lips, carrying with it the teasing cruelty of someone who already knew the effect they had on him.

"You're early, soldier boy," Zhongli called, voice carrying over the burble of the fountain. "Were you that bored?"

Zuqiu blushed and stammered excuses, "Ahh—yeah, actually, I finished my duties pretty early. Record time in fact."

They prodded, "Do you always obey so quickly when ordered around?"

Zuqiu tried to laugh it off, but his awkwardness only deepened Zhongli's amusement. He cleared his throat, "I'm bound by the code of the Haijunese Army to obey my captain's commands."

They teased him playfully on the surface, but beneath it was subtle sharpness—Zhongli enjoyed the control; Zuqiu was eager to please. Zhongli placed a finger on their lower lip as they scanned their background, then suggested, "Hmm...we should go somewhere a little more private."

"I know a hidden garden space that's a bit more secluded. Follow me," Zhongli said.

Zuqiu hesitated and scratched the back of his head, "Oh... I-uh...I'm not sure that's a good idea. I don't want to get caught by someone from the Defense Sector while wearing my uniform."

Zhongli rolled their eyes and nudged him forward with their words, "What's the point of being dismissed from duty if you don't live a little?"

Zuqiu followed; he was both nervous and thrilled—a moment which showed how easily he could be convinced.

As they walked, Zhongli glanced at Zuqiu, then pressed, "Your captain commands you, your first lieutenant drills you, your father raised you for war. When was the last time you made a choice for yourself?"

"I—I've made choices. I chose to serve, to uphold my father's honor—" he responded before being interrupted.

"No, you didn't choose to serve; you were forced by our laws. You've only carried the weight others gave you," faintly smirked Zhongli.

"That's not true... It's my duty to serve, Wanggoudexin. The Earth King and the Code of the Golden Sun is what keeps us safe, keeps us whole," Zuqiu stumbled on a few words as he gave a reply.

Zhongli grabbed him by his hand and pulled him into a crevice between two buildings. A patch of grass with a rickety and rotted-out wooden bench that sat on the near-right wall.

Zhongli and Zuqiu both sat down. Then Zhongli's voice sharpened as they leaned forward and lowered their tone, "Safe? Whole? Tell that to the children starving in southern Tusuzu, or to me when I was left on the street with nothing but scraps. Laws didn't feed me, the Code didn't keep me alive."

"But maybe you could," Zhongli mentioned with a sly smile.

Zuqiu's cheeks warmed, now flustered, "Me? I—I wouldn't even know how."

"By seeing, and by choosing. Not what your father wants, or what the Earth King demands. What you want, Zuqiu," Zhongli convinced him as they brushed a strand of hair from their face, their eyes held on his until he turned away.

Zuqiu thought about it for a brief moment, but he wasn't sure. He was spoonfed his entire life, until he was hauled by cart off to a small training camp near the Outer Wall of Ba Sing Se.

Zhongli realized he was dumbfounded, then suggested, "Hey, how about you get me some food? Enough to keep me fed for a week, maybe even enough that I can share with some friends." Po climbed Zhongli's left shoulder. They turned to face their pet woolly rat, then chuckled, "I think Po heard food and she climbed up my shoulder."

"I wouldn't even know where to get that much food," Zuqiu quietly confessed.

Zhongli's lips curled in amusement, while they gently tapped their finger on their chin thoughtfully, "Well, if you're lost...what about the barracks?"

Zuqiu immediately declined as he shook his head and waved the idea off, "No way, I can't steal from the army. What if I get caught? I'd get court-martialled and permanently dismissed. I'd dishonor my father, I'd shame everyone back in Yafao."

Zhongli tilted their head, lips curled as if they were letting him in on something clever. "Look, you're already in uniform. No one will suspect you. And honestly...do you really think they'd notice one crate of rations missing?"

He swallowed hard, he tried to convince himself as much as they did, "If no one's counting...then maybe it wouldn't matter. Just one crate, right?"

Zhongli smiled and bobbed their head.

Exile's Refuge, Arboreteum Sector, Taiyuan

Fangzhu arrived in Exile's Refuge after a long day of drills and duties in the Defense Sector. He's greeted warmly upon his appearance, having already become a familiar face within the week. Some elders spoke about the temples they came from and what they were like before they were exiled. Young families raised children who already showed signs of airbending. Wanderers who've chosen the refuge as their permanent home. It was almost bittersweet to him; he still bore the weight of his own exile.

He felt both comfort and longing here, as if he were back home; he shed a single tear. As if being here healed his inner child. It reminded him of what he lost, but also offered a glimpse of what he might regain.

Zisaka, his meditation teacher, exited the community center and welcomed Fangzhu again with open arms. Zisaka smiled, "Back so soon, brother? The walls of the Defense Sector must not be as peaceful as our home."

Fangzhu appreciated Zisaka's company—their shared exile made Fangzhu feel less isolated. Fangzhu and Zisaka gave each other a gentle hug, then Zisaka gestured for him to go up one of the ramps.

"Come—I have tea brewing at home."

Fangzhu was right behind his new friend.

The two talked over tea, discussing balance, self-restraint, and the struggle of reconciled military service with Air Nomadic principles. Zisaka poured a blended tea into the teacups, then slid one over to his friend.

Fangzhu blew a gentle breeze on his steaming cup of tea before he took a sip. The first sip brought a flicker of surprise; his brows lifted before his features softened. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not for the taste itself, but for the memory it carried, as though the years in exile had suddenly folded back on themselves.

"Is this...Hollow Wind herbal infusion?" wondered Fangzhu.

Zisaka nodded, "The merchants here say the herbal infusion is blessed by our people in the north. The same temple you came from. It usually tends to be cheaper than the tea imported from Jongmu."

Despite the warmth of the refuge and the hospitality from Zisaka, Fangzhu felt a rift within himself. He realized the refuge represented peace, while his daily life was bound for war. A moment with the community sparked something in him, though; he believed watching the children play with airbending reminded him of his innocence. Hearing the elders speak about rebuilding fractured communities gave him hope.

While he was lost in thought, Zisaka sipped more tea.

"What's on your mind?"

Fangzhu hesitated, "When I walked in earlier, I saw the children playing. It reminded me of what I've forgotten—innocence. Before war, before exile—and the elders spoke of rebuilding—it stirred something I didn't expect. Hope."

"But when I look at myself now...dressed in military garb for the Haijunese. I wonder if I've strayed too far from who I am," he added.

His friend Zisaka gently reassured him, "We are all wanderers now, Fangzhu. Some of us here by choice, others were pushed. The uniform you wear does not strip you of who you are—only you can decide that." "I have worn armor, too. I have bent air not for play, but for survival. The world forces us into contradictions. The question is not whether you fight—but whether you remember why you fight. If you still carry compassion, if you still remember those children's laughter, then you have not lost yourself," Zisaka leaned in closer with a steady voice.

Fangzhu paused before he replied, "So...even in the army, I can still choose to live by our teachings?"

Zisaka smiled faintly, "Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But every act of kindness, every refusal to let cruelty harden you—that is the Air Nomad way. The uniform may command your body, Fangzhu, but your spirit is still yours to guide."

"You're right, I believe after this campaign, I'm going to return to Taiyuan and stay here at the refuge. If you'll have," Fangzhu spoke firmly. He no longer wanted to live as a soldier, but as a man of peace.

✻✻✻✻✻[]

Citong approached the poetry house, the Meiyin Tang, a man on an earth pillar bashed spark rocks against each other to light the wicks of the lanterns. The lit ones glowed softly in the late afternoon. The fragrance of plum blossoms drifted in the air as petals littered the tiled street.

The small poetry house hummed with conversation, laughter, and the sound of stringed instruments. The hall was packed with townspeople, scholars, merchants, officials, and traveling poets. The air was smoky with incense and thick with the scent of rice wine. Performers stood on a low dais as they recited verses about love, war, and the beauty of the plum blossom. While the crowd was raucous at times, they clapped, jeered, and roared with laughter when a bawdy poem was performed.

Citong's eyes scanned the crowded room until he noticed a plump man in his mid-30s, with a moon-shaped face, his hair and widow's peak were covered by a futou. A button nose, round cheeks, his narrow eyes were a deep brown, and he wore a thin, long goatee on his slight double chin. His yellow-colored robes were adorned with floral patterns featuring plum blossoms. The official flower of the city.

There were attendants nearby; he had a subtle commanding presence; however, it looked more like projected authority despite being insecure. The need to be admired and respected made him overcompensate. This explained why he regularly visited the poetry house. His attempts to dominate the Meiyin Tang have failed miserably, as he's constantly outshone by the talented poets and musicians. His dignity slipped away with every refill of his porcelain mug.

Citong noticed he sat in the front at a reserved table surrounded by local dignitaries. The one crucial detail observed by the swordsman is that the magistrate never touched tea or water. He drank nothing but alcohol. It's a shame the crowd was too dense and too alert. Otherwise, this could've been a clean-cut assassination by knife.

Citong sat several tables closer to the door of the establishment. He thought to himself, "If this magistrate continues to drink, I can put something in his drink that should make it look like alcohol poisoning." "In a hall filled with clinking cups and constant serving, no one would suspect a thing."

Citong blended in with the crowd, pretending to be another patron. He ordered a drink, feigned laughter at the poems, and meandered closer to the magistrate's table under the cover of the crowd's movements. He observed carefully: each time Gong Zizhen's cup was drained, a servant rushed to refill it. As the afternoon wore on, the magistrate became visibly intoxicated—his laughter louder, his clapping sloppier, his body swaying with inebriation.

Citong was thankful he slipped a vial of poison into his sleeve this morning. A poet finished a passionate verse—the room erupted in applause.

The magistrate rose to his feet, his cheeks flushed from the drink, his voice loud and commanding. He raised his cup high and called for a toast, "A toast to Li for another wonderful poem." Although this was the third time he raised his cup for a toast. Servants bustled to fill cups and jugs so that no one in the house was left without a drink. All eyes turned to Zizhen, patrons stood, and cups were lifted, voices united in a drunken cheer.

At the same time, in a shuffle, few paid attention to small movements near the serving tables. A servant set down one jug of wine momentarily and assisted with pouring another. Citong edged closer as he blended with the crowd, cup in hand, feigning eagerness to refill. His hand slipped into his sleeve, and his fingers brushed the vial.

As he bent near the jug, he uncorked it with practiced ease and tipped a thin stream of poison into the wine. The dark liquid vanished instantly into the jug, its scent masked by the aroma of alcohol. He resealed the vial and slipped it back into his sleeve before anyone glanced his way. A servant grabbed the jug without noticing it was misplaced from where he last left it and refilled Gong Zizhen's cup first.

Zizhen drank deeply, savoring the taste as the hall resounded with cheers. Mo Citong stepped back into the crowd, lifted his own cup in mock celebration, the picture of a loyal reveler. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Gong Zizhen resumed his laughter, shouting praise for the next poet to take the stand. But as the jug emptied and refilled in his cup again and again, his flush deepened, his laughter slurred, and his posture started to sag.

To the crowd, it looked like routine drunkenness; to the swordsman who remained expressionless, it was the beginning of the end. Mo quietly exited the Meiyin Tang, into the cool late afternoon air, and the echoes of laughter and poetry continued in the background.

Meanwhile, while Mo Citong infiltrated the Meiyin Tang, the other three trailed through the Xiangyuan Fang district. They spotted runners, clerks, and low-ranking officers as they moved between the magistrate's siheyuan and the Iron Pagoda outpost.

One particular courier that sparked their interest had been seen earlier today. His tunic was dark green, and he carried a black leather messenger tube. He walked with a brisk stride. Juji called it out with a glance.

Jian slipped into the courier's shadow the way a knife slides into a sheath—measured, exact, invisible if one did not know where to look. His pace held steady, the distance between them stretched just wide enough to prevent suspicion. Every few steps, his eyes flicked to the alleys and intersections ahead, mapping possible escapes before the courier could even attempt them. To Jian, the streets were a Pai Sho board, each move calculated two to three steps in advance.

The Smith covered the nearer flank. Gong was broad-shouldered and purposeful, the kind of man whose presence filled space even when he tried to blend in. He trailed closer to the courier's path, ready to intervene if the pursuit failed. His role was simple—should the prey bolt, Gong would cut him down like an iron wall dropped in his way.

Juji, further back, played the part of both ghost and trickster. He did not follow so much as orbit, drifting from stall to stall, slipping behind vendors, pausing where food smoke clouded the air. His task was deception. If eyes turned, they would find him dawdling with a skewer of meat, or emerging from an alley as though by chance, a face familiar but never long enough to be fixed in memory.

The market itself seemed determined to test its coordination. A canopy of umbrellas crowded the lane, their silks patterned in bright geometrics that filtered the sun into a restless patchwork of light. Carpet sellers sprawled their wares beneath them, vibrant reds and blues clashing in woven chaos. The air was thick with the bite of spice smoke and the musk of unwashed beasts. Awnings sagged with the weight of summer dust, and groups of schoolchildren scattered in shrill laughter like flocks of startled birds.

Jian moved as if he belonged among them. A basket swung lightly from his arm, its weight negligible, a prop to mask the precision of his footsteps. He never lingered directly behind the courier, always to one side, adjusting his line as naturally as if drifting with the tide.

Gong, meanwhile, bent over the displays of a smith's stall, his calloused hands brushing hammers and chisels he did not need. He looked every inch the blacksmith weighing quality, though his eyes never left the shifting back of their quarry.

Juji reappeared ahead, lips shining with oil from some food vendor's skewer, his expression the perfect mask of a hungry wanderer with nowhere urgent to be. The three of them moved like points in a shifting constellation, constantly rotating, never overlapping in a way that would betray their intent. When the courier glanced over his shoulder, he never saw the same man twice.

Yet the courier was not blind. There was tension in his shoulders, a twitch in the hand that brushed against the satchel at his side as though the touch alone could anchor its contents to him. He skirted past the Haijunese administrative booths with careful distance, steering clear of the military houses and their armed guards.

Gong noted the evasion with the certainty of a craftsman. A standard courier had no reason to avoid soldiers unless what he carried could condemn him. Sensitive goods, then—perhaps letters, perhaps coins, possibly worse. Gong filed the thought away like a hammer returned to its rack.

A moment later, the courier stiffened. A heavyset man trailed several paces behind him, and though the fellow's gaze seemed fixed on the path ahead, his bulk was undeniable. The courier's breath caught, a thin, frightened gasp that wheezed into the spice-laden air. His hand clutched the satchel harder. Then the man turned abruptly toward a stall, arguing over fruit as if that had been his aim all along. Relief broke across the courier's face in a trembling exhale. He resumed his stride, heart still hammering, unaware that the actual predators moved unseen around him.

Jian drifted across the street, narrowing the angle once more. His stride was effortless, a shadow's echo of the courier's own. Above, Juji had taken to the rooftops. He leapt the gaps between tiled eaves with the silence of a hunting cat, each landing muffled by the dust that clung to the city's stones. From his vantage, the courier's path unfolded like a board game, every alley and corner visible. Gong glanced upward, caught the faint movement, and nodded across the lane to Jian. Wordless, they fell back into their coordinated rhythm.

The courier wound deeper into the bazaar, threading lanes where voices rose and coins clinked. At every turn, the hunters adjusted—Jian circling left, Gong flanking right, Juji appearing unexpectedly ahead. The market itself conspired to cloak them. A vendor's cry masked the scrape of boots; a passing cart veiled a sudden change of pace. To the courier, it must have seemed a coincidence, the same faces seen and lost, never fixed long enough to form a pattern.

But the pattern existed. It pulsed around him, a living net of shadows and bodies. Jian's gaze tracked every twitch of the courier's shoulder. Gong's weight readied itself to close the trap. Juji's vantage promised foresight that no ground-bound prey could hope to escape.

The courier touched his satchel again, fingers trembling. He glanced left—saw only children skipping rope. He glanced right—an old smith inspecting wares. He dared a glance behind and caught only the briefest glimpse of a soldier boy buying food. His pace quickened despite himself.

Jian subtly grinned, unseen. The man's fear betrayed him. His path narrowed toward the district's edge, where alleys gave way to the broader road. The net was closing.

Above, Juji crouched on the edge of a roof, ready to drop if the courier broke. Gong shifted his stance, broad and immovable as iron. Jian matched the courier's stride, patient as a blade still in its sheath.

The courier pressed onward, unaware of how thin the air had grown around him.

The hunt was not yet sprung, but already it belonged to them.

The courier scanned the bustling street with furtive eyes, searching for shadows that did not belong. His hand brushed the satchel at his side once more before he slipped into a narrow lane, its stone walls damp with shade, its silence muffled compared to the noise of the market behind him. There, in the gloom, a lower-level sergeant waited. Their meeting was quick and discreet, words exchanged in hushed voices beneath the eaves.

Above them, Juji crouched on a rooftop, balanced like a crow in the rafters, his breath steady as he strained to catch every syllable. Names passed between them, routes, intentions. Then came the phrase, spoken in the courier's tight voice: "This message is for Commander Yelu's eyes only."

The moment shattered like glass.

Wood splintered inwards as crates along the alley imploded with sudden violence. Nails burst free from their seams, sharp as darts, driving the two men back and pinning their sleeves and shoulders against the wall. Before the courier could draw enough air to shout, a strip of metal snapped across his mouth, silencing him with a muffled choke. His companion's throat worked with the beginnings of a cry, but terror strangled it; the sergeant sagged against the wall, wide-eyed, too frightened to summon even a scream.

The trap closed with precision. Jian stepped into the lane's mouth, sealing one end with his body and blade. From the other side, Gong raised his hands, earth rising in answer. Walls folded from stone and dirt, shutting out the light, hemming their prey in with brutal finality. What had been an alley was now a cage.

Jian's voice carried, low but clear, its weight leaving no room for refusal.

"Who do you deliver your messages to at the Iron Pagoda?"

The courier's eyes flared above the gag, defiance flashing where his mouth could not. He flicked his gaze sideways, toward the sergeant, the meaning plain: say nothing. The second man froze, torn between loyalty and fear, his silence trembling in the dim light.

The alley breathed heavy with dust and dread, every figure caught in a stillness that could shatter at any heartbeat.

"WHO DO YOU DELIVER YOUR MESSAGES TO AT THE IRON PAGODA?!" shouted Jian. He whistled, and Juji notched an arrow and shot it near the courier's left hand. The courier's muffled, frightened screams were forbidden from escaping.

"His name is Commander Yelu," revealed the sergeant.

"Does Commander Yelu meet you himself, or do you pass the scrolls to his men?" he inquired.

"The men receive scrolls; the commander is usually always busy," replied the soldier.

"What seal marks your orders—Gong Zizhen or Yelu?" he pressed.

"Both," said the man.

"How many men call him their commander?" he questioned the sergeant.

"All the foot soldiers in this damned city," stated the soldier.

"Which gate will get me into the outpost, unnoticed? Where does your commander stay when he's not at the outpost—chambers inside the barracks or a house in town?" Jian prodded.

The sergeant shook his head, "He doesn't own a home outside the base; he lives in the Iron Pagoda."

"Does he travel outside the outpost, or is he always cloistered inside? If Yelu were killed, who would take his place?" Jian demanded.

"Sometimes, to Magistrate Zizhen's estate, Magistrate Gong will assume the title of commander," stated the sergeant.

"Describe him. His face, his demeanor," requested the barbarian.

"He's tall and broad-shouldered, a scar on his right cheek—the kind of man who appears battle-hardened. Uneased eyes, always looking for a challenge, heavy stubble, and a square jaw. Always wearing ceremonial armor, a sash bearing the insignia of the Kingdom," the soldier described his superior.

Now they knew; his name was Yelu, and he lived inside the outpost. He looked battle-hardened, and his most distinctive feature was the scar on his cheek. Juji notched another arrow and struck the courier dead. He knew it wasn't a good thing to allow both of them to live. The sergeant wanted to cry after he watched an ally die, but he knew that any noise or negative reaction and he'd be following. He removed the scroll from the dead messenger's satchel and ran off in the direction of the outpost.

♮♮♮♮♮♮[]

After the tavern, they noticed a few better-dressed men leaving in small groups. These men weren't miners—their boots were clean, their hands soft, and they carried ledged or pouched instead of tools. Mo Fu briefly recalled seeing some patrons as they slipped coins onto the tavern's counter. They kept the brew flowing as the music played. A show of power that kept the miners complacent. He also realized those weren't the workers but handlers instead. The demolition man nudged the assassin and nodded over at the men.

Nu Xing gave a hand signal, and all four trailed the men throughout the Foundry Heights. One group headed to the warehouses near the western wall, where they stored shipments of ore. While the other group, more secretive, went toward a wealthier street lit by lamps—the Copper Ward, a district known for artisan metalworkers, copper foundries, the mayor's residence, and the guild houses.

She perched on a rooftop and connected the dots: the "guild" must be a merchant consortium tied to the Copper Ward, not just miners. In the Copper Ward, the group witnessed the handlers being greeted at a carved wooden doorway marked with lanterns bearing the sigil of a balanced scale.

Lin Xi, who blended in as a bard, recalled overhearing that the balanced scale was the symbol that represented the Jade Ledger Society. Their presence there confirmed it: this guild both controlled the foundry workforce, the merchants within the walls, and the profits from selling humming stones to outside merchants. By treading behind the guild members inside or as they stalked them from across the street, they saw more men arrive—not workers, but merchant lords from Taiyuan, based on their dress.

Wine was brought into the location, and guards stayed posted at the doors. The meeting was about business, the humming stone being discussed, and profit divided. Two hours later, they split up into different areas near the building. From within the tavern after the many songs played by Lin Xi, they've picked up on miners and tavern drunks who've mentioned a fat merchant lord, who profited most from the new ore sales.

This merchant wasn't one of the guild's senior faces, but rather a mid-tier profiteer—entrusted to move goods quietly and funneled coin back into the Jade Ledger Society. They described him in flashy robes, jewelry that outpaced his actual rank, and an entourage of two or three hired guards. He was arrogant and greedy, but was careless when drinking.

Nu Xing moved like a shadow among shadows, trailing the merchant lord with the ease of a predator who had circled prey many times before. The man, swollen with wealth and arrogance, left the Copper Ward with little concern for what lingered behind him. He believed his fine silk robes and his guild's influence were a shield enough. He did not notice the figure gliding a dozen paces behind, nor the way the alleys around him seemed to bend subtly to guide his steps.

Pi Dao worked quietly from the edges, hidden behind crates and barrels left to rot in the alleys. His earthbending was precise, deliberate. A door that might have provided an escape sealed itself with the faintest grind of stone; cobblestones shifted underfoot to funnel the merchant toward narrower lanes. Each manipulation was small enough to seem accidental, but together they drew the man steadily into the trap laid for him.

Mo Fu lingered farther back, heavy pouch at his hip, his expression calm but eyes sharp. The powder within that pouch was no weapon in the traditional sense—it was confusion, chaos, the kind of trick that could snarl a patrol of guards in the crush of the streets. He was their safeguard, the disruption waiting to bloom if steel flashed in the wrong hands.

And Lin Xi, ever the performer, busked nearby at a crossroads with his pipa. His song was clumsy by design, too uneven to earn coin but perfectly convincing as the background noise of a drunkard's amusement. His fingers plucked strings while his eyes swept the crowd, his watchful gaze catching every movement the merchant lord made. He was cover, noise, distraction—all without once betraying his true purpose.

The merchant lord left the bustle of the Copper Ward's roads behind and slipped into an alley. His pace quickened, a nervous energy beginning to surface as though he sensed, belatedly, that something was amiss. He had walked these streets often enough to know their shortcuts, yet tonight they seemed different, unfamiliar.

It was then that Mo Fu acted. He spilled powder deliberately across the stones before the man's feet, throwing up a pink cloud that clung to cloth and hair alike. He staggered into it with convincing panic.

"Ahh! No!" Mo Fu cried, doubling over in mock distress as the wealthy target stumbled into the haze.

The grains spread quickly, coating the silk with faint stains and painting the man's finery in muted pink dust. He coughed, blinking rapidly, too disoriented to realize that the powder was harmless.

From behind, Nu Xing appeared, cutting off his retreat. Firelight guttered in her hand, a thin flame dancing along her fingers. The threat was clear.

Pi Dao inhaled, focused, and drew stone into shape with practiced precision. The small lock on the satchel at the man's side glinted in the firelight. Stone warped into the mimicry of a key, its ridges imperfect but close enough. With one sharp motion, he snapped the satchel free.

The bag fell to the ground, spilling its secrets across the dirt. Receipts tumbled out, followed by contracts stamped with seals, and letters written in careful hand. Correspondence that should never have left the guild hall lay scattered before them, damning evidence in ink and parchment.

Lin Xi seized his chance. He darted close, snatching a mug from under the hand of a drunkard who sat slouched in the shadows of a doorway. The man bellowed at once, half from surprise and half from anger at losing his drink.

Another patron stumbled out into the street just then, wiry and thin. The drunkard's finger jabbed accusingly at him. "Hey! Why do you do that?"

The skinny man blinked, startled. "Sir, I have no idea what you're babbling about."

The drunkard answered not with words but with fists. He lunged, his swing wild and clumsy. The thin man slipped aside, shoving him away.

"Hey!" one of the nearby patrolling guards barked, drawn by the scuffle.

The drunkard stumbled again, caught himself on the wall, and launched another strike. This time, his fist landed square in the man's gut. The victim folded over, hands clutching his belly, his face twisted in pain. The guards surged forward, attention fixed entirely on the brawl. Perfect. The distraction held.

In the alley, Nu Xing inhaled the mingled scents of wet straw, old plaster, and the iron tang of hot metal drifting from a distant forge. The lantern guttered low against the wall, its flame weak, its shadows long.

The merchant lord pressed himself back against the plaster, dust staining his silks. His jeweled fingers shook as though stripped of all their usual confidence. For the first time, he had no guild power, no merchant lord; he was only a man, cornered and afraid.

Mo Fu stood before him, a living barricade that blocked every chance of escape. Behind him, Nu Xing's fire hissed in her palm, a serpent ready to strike.

And near the gate, Lin Xi's pipa thrummed again—an off-key, sticky chord that made two more guards pause and glance over, dismissing the sound as nothing more than the clumsy play of a drunk. The song hid the silence of the alley. The song kept the world outside from listening too closely.

Together, the trap had sprung.

The merchant lord had nowhere left to run.

Nu Xing's voice came low and cold, a blade wrapped in velvet, "You profit from men's bones. Tell us the name of the guild that ships the humming stone—or we burn everything you own and feed the remains of your family to the moo-swines."

The merchant gulped with terror, although he broke a sweat, he attempted to smile, then stopped.

"The—the Jade Ledger Society," he rapsed. "Please. Not my home, leave my family alone."

This confirmed it, the workers were right. The name of the merchant guild was known as the "Jade Ledger Society".

Pi Dao's fingers dug at the satchel strap, earth-shaping a seam open with the lightest pressure, as if he picked a pocket with a phantom's touch. He held a folded manifest up: a stamped crest—a jade colored balance scale.

He asked flatly, "This is your mark?"

The merchant's mouth went dry, "Yes. Yes, that's theirs. I only move it, I swear! I don't see who signs the ledgers." His eyes nervously darted to Mo Fu, then Nu Xing. He added, "They pay well. They send carts from the Copper Ward. They call the shipments, 'special consignments'."

Lin Xi stepped forward, his voice calm with a performer's practiced sympathy, "Special consignments to where?"

"To Taiyuan," his words spilled out of his mouth; he was visibly terrified of the strangers.

"Caravans leave at dawn—three days from now. They go downriver, then across the plateau. The crates—they're labeled with the Ledger sigil and a second tinier stamp. A tiny spiral seal. It belongs to the leader of the guild; he's the magistrate of this city."

Mo Fu questioned him, "What's the name of your magistrate?"

"His name is Wei Shanchao, a humble and fair man, well loved by the citizens of this city. You want to seek an audience with him, I'd recommend you visit his office," answered the man.

Mo Fu's hand was a promise against the merchant's chest. "Which warehouse?" his voice was dry, with no flourish. "Where do they hold the crates before they go out?"

The merchant's gaze darted left and right; he had no courage left to hide in pomp.

He revealed to the strangers, "North wharf—the third warehouse from the pier, the one with the cracked turquoise door. They keep it locked tight every day and every night. Guards rotate twice, at sunset and midnight. The foreman is a man named Min De. He signs the manifests. The carts leave before dawn, three days from now. Before the watch changes."

Pi Dao folded the manifest, smoothing the creases with a flat thumb. He set it back in the satchel, resealing the strap with an earth whisper as if nothing had been touched. He looked up at the merchant, "Who pays you?"

"Our money flows in from the city's economy, but if you mean for the shipments, then middlemen. Taiyuan buyers. Perhaps the governor of Pingyao, Xingren Wuqi. There's also a small vassal house called the Song of Rivers. They give double for discreet runs. The Jade Ledger moves it, the Song of Rivers buys it. I swear, I only handle the ledgers!" the merchant lunged for any shred of bargaining.

"If you promise me coin and a way out, I can tell you more. Names. Times. Routes." negotiated the man.

Nu Xing's eyes didn't flinch. "We pay nothing for traitors. We pay for facts."

She stepped closer until the lantern threw their faces in the same pale light, their nosetips practically touched, "One more detail. Who in the guild met the magistrate? Who carries the stone to him?"

The merchant lord's chin quivered. "An attendant named Han brings the sealed crates when Magistrate Shanchao is in town. He never opens them—the magistrate's hand on another note, but the spiral seal was on every one. Shanchao's seal. That's all I know, I swear!"

Mo Fu let the silence stretch, then he shoved the minor lord forward a pace, not cruelly, just enough, "Leave the city tonight. If you're found here tomorrow, you'll be the one they hang to prove they're cleaning house."

The merchant lord scrambled to his feet and stumbled away. He clutched his crushed satchel and the memory of Lin Xi's music. He never looked back.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

The late-afternoon sun had begun to set; the early evening pressed against the Defense Sector like an indigo blanket. Lanterns along the perimeter throw low moons of light, but the barracks yard is mostly shadow: stacked crates, a dozen sleeping bodies under canvas, and the dull metallic scent of ration oil and iron.

Zuqiu kept his shoulders high despite the tremor in his hands; the uniform felt heavier than it should've been. As if every seam was stitched with honor and expectation. He moved the way he was taught—slow, intentional, invisible—but each step was an uncertainty of fear: distance to the watchtower, the rhythm of the sentry's boots, the arc of the sky. His breath fogged and tasted the copper of his own anxiety. He told himself the reasons Zhongli gave him—"you're already in uniform," "no one will notice one crate"—until the words were a rope he climbed.

The first gate was easier than he expected: a tied sergeant nodded at him without looking up from his pipe. Zuqiu offered a practiced salute and a lie about an extra-and-duties check. The sergeant grunted; the gate opened. Every small complicity thinned the line between soldier and thief. The storeroom is a low building, a belly of shadow and stacked wooden ribs. Lanterns hung like floating moons, but Zuqiu kept to the deeper dark and put his fingers on the familiar grain of crates. He knew the markings—unit numbers, supply codes—having learned them as a habit. He's supposed to be conserving and cataloguing these; tonight, the inventory will be rewritten due to the absence of a single crate.

He found the crate quick because his hands were steady while his heart beat like a drum. Rations—dried meats, blocks of dense bread, jars of thick oil—packed to feed a dozen men for a week. The smell alone made his stomach lurch. He slid the crowbar from under his cloak with the same careful motion he's used for weapon checks. The lid gave with a sound like a small critter's whimper. He thought then of Zhongli's giggle, of Po's greedy nibble. He thought of the alley, of Zhongli's hand on his; the memory was warm and intimate, unlike the way his uniform felt. He tugged a handful of sacks toward the door.

He planned to move them to a shadow by the wall—easily concealed, easy to carry. A soft scrape: a crate shifted, a thin board complained. It might be nothing. It might be everything. Zuqiu froze, then tasted panic in his mouth. The sentry's boots now sounded further, higher-pitched with a near-pass. A cough echoed from the far corner, a reminder that the storeroom was not empty after all. Zuqiu should have left then, but fear and longing held him fast.

He closed the crate, slid it back into his bedroll, then strapped two sacks to a spare harness he remembered in a corner and shouldered them. They weighed more than he expected. They weighed like consequences. He moved like someone who learned how to be quiet inside the sound of his own fear. Outside the storeroom, the early evening breathed cold. Zuqiu slipped between the darkness, following the specific route Zhongli had suggested, one that skirted patrol patterns.

His back pricked every few steps as if hands might have closed around his collar. He hugged the wall of the barracks, then the outer shell of the supply shed, then the low hedge that divided guard from street—the same hedge Baoshou lectured him and the others not to jump over because it "marked boundaries". Boundaries blurred tonight.

A watchlamp swung with the wind, and for a beat, he saw his own face—a pale, frightened soldier—reflected in the oil slick of a puddle. He felt ridiculous, then noble, then like a traitor; each label fit and didn't fit at the same time. He thought of the children Zhongli mentioned—children with hollow cheeks who would've eaten and slept better for a month because of this necessary theft.

He thought of his father's voice: "Honor before self." The voices were like a chorus; he wasn't sure which to obey.

A shout broke the air, metal on metal as a patrol collided with a loose gate. Someone laughed, a foolish sound, too close. Zuqiu's breath stumbled. The path he had planned through the alleys was blocked; he clenched his jaw and pivoted onto the street.

He saw a recognizable face not too far from where he stood, Biehe, a much younger soldier. His eyes adjusted, and they widened as he saw the outline of the ration sacks. "...Zuqiu?" Biehe's voice cracked with disbelief. "What are you doing?"

Zuqiu stammered, " I-I was just—"but the words stumbled over each other like drunks. His throat locked.

Biehe's face shifted from confusion to alarm, "You're stealing." The words weren't shouted, but they ran out as if they floated by the night air itself. He took a step back, his voice rose now, "Guards! Over here! Thief!"

Panic surged through Zuqiu. He lurched forward, desperate to hush him, to explain, but his boots slipped on loose gravel. The sacks swung wide and nearly toppled him. By the time he regained his footing, torchlight already cut across the yard.

Two guards rounded the corner, spears in hand.

One barked, "What's going on?!"

Biehe pointed straight at his comrade, "He was stealing the rations crate!"

The guards closed in fast. Zuqiu's mouth opened, but nothing escaped—not excuses, not denials, not even his name. Hands seized his arms, rough and certain. The ration sacks spilled to the ground with a dull thud, and the loaves rolled across the stones.

"Caught red-handed," one guard growled as they forced Zuqiu's wrists together; the rope bit into his skin.

Zuqiu's heart pounded like war drums. His mind flickered—not to his father, not to his captain, but Zhongli's sly smile. When the warmth of their hand brushed against his, and the words they'd whispered: Do what you want, Zuqiu.

The torchlight blurred. He was dragged back to the barracks, each step heavy with shame. Behind him, Biehe stood still in the courtyard, he watched the arrest with stunned, uncertain eyes. And that was where Zuqiu's night ended—not with freedom, not with food for Zhongli, but in the grip of his own brothers-in-arms.

Sparkling Leaf Teahouse, Northern Tusuzu Sector

The Sparkling Leaf Teahouse was a place of prestige, with sliding screens painted with peonies, perfumed incense in carved holders, and silken cushions scattered across polished wood. Lantern light shimmered on porcelain teapots rimmed with gold.

Avani arrived alone, her uniform exchanged for a civilian dress that felt both strange and vulnerable. It wasn't often that she removed her lamellar protective vest, she exhaled and steeled herself—for a battlefield of whispers and etiquette. The air happened to be sweet with jasmine and honey, but to the Avatar, it tasted like judgment.

Tao Feng glided forward, radiant in emerald robes embroidered with plum blossoms. She clasped Avani's hand warmly, her voice pitched for all to hear, "Everyone, our guest of honor has arrived—Avatar Avani. I've told you all about her." Avani awkwardly smiled and bowed stiffly; a few young women tittered behind their sleeves. Tao Feng pointed at each noblewoman and introduced them to the Avatar, each a node of influence in this city.

The first one was slender and sharp-featured, with long black hair pulled tightly into a high bun bound by a silver pin shaped like a stork-crane. Her brows were thin and arched; they gave her an almost permanent expression of skepticism. She wore a pale lavender silk robe with wide, embroidered sleeves featuring delicate wave patterns. She wore it deliberately simple compared to the others, a quiet show of discipline. She seemed to project severity and intelligence—someone raised in the shadow of laws and judgments.

"This is Lady Xun Mei, the granddaughter of the Secretariat of Justice, Caipain," Tao Feng introduced the woman.

Next to her was a woman in a vibrant robe of scarlet and gold with floral patterns, chosen more for its bold impression than for elegance. Her bracelets jingled when she gestured animatedly. Her rounded cheeks, full lips, and large brown eyes sparkled with curiosity. Her hair was coiled in a looser, more playful style, decorated with small golden bells that tinkled softly when she moved her head. She was a touch flamboyant, excitable, and outgoing. She wore her family's wealth openly, with an eagerness to dazzle.

"This is Jia Lanying, daughter of Shanggu of the Lanying family, a well-respected merchant lord here in the city. She's the heiress to his empire," she presented the woman formally.

The third woman was tall with angular features softened by clear, smooth skin. Her hair was parted down the middle and braided into a crown around her head, threaded with jade beads. Her gaze was steady, her dark eyes never wandering. She looked reserved and commanding. She carried herself like one accustomed to watching and judging silently before she spoke. She wore a deep indigo robe with gold trim, a stately yet straightforward look. The fabric was thicker than the others' silks, more formal, as if she were always prepared for an audience with someone important.

The woman bowed her head at the Avatar and introduced herself, "My name is Hu Shan, daughter of Hu Jun, Commander of the Pingyao Provincial Guard."

Avani bowed her head for each one that was named.

The last one looked up and beamed. She was small and delicate, with round, soft features. Wisps of hair escaped her braid, no matter how carefully it was pinned. It gave her a dreamy, almost childlike air. Her hands were stained faintly with ink. She was gentle and approachable. She seemed out of place among the sharper noblewomen, but her kindness made her memorable. She wore a pale peach robe with subtle plum blossom embroidery. The sleeves were a little blotched, likely from paint she forgot to wash off. She carried a small sketch gan tucked into her sash.

"This is Meng Yuelin; her father is the head scribe for Governor Xingren Wuqi," finished Tao Feng.

Xun Mei spoke first, "The law binds all of us, but not equally. Soldiers bleed, we nobles sip tea. Which do you prefer, Avani?" questioned Xun Mei. Her tone was cunning; she probed to see if the Avatar could handle ridicule.

"I don't have a preference. I go where Wanggoudexin sends me," stated Avani.

"Oh, but you must have so many stories from the frontlines! Is it true the soldiers sometimes trade rations for inappropriate paintings of women and illegal substances?" pressed Jia Lanying. She hinted at knowledge of smuggling and corruption, though she didn't realize the weight of what she said.

"Smuggling? Corruption? Not that I know of," denied Avani. Then she thought in disgust of her brothers-in-arms and added, "Those men aren't lonely enough."

"A soldier at our table. How refreshing. Tell us, Avani, do you sharped your own blades or do you have servants for that?" asked Hu Shan.

Avani shook her head, "Unfortunately, I do not, back at home, that's a different story."

"Do you like poetry? My family has a plum blossom garden. You'd be welcome there if you ever wished to watch me write poems," said Meng Yuelin.

Avani declined, "I never had much time for hobbies, I'm usually always pretty busy with things." To Avani, these were not women but masks—of politics, wealth, and expectation. Servants poured steaming cups of oolong. Plates of sugared lotus seeds and candied ginger were set out.

Tao Feng raised her cup in Avani's honor, "To new friends, and to courage beyond the sword!"

The women echoed the toast, though some voices carried more sincerity than others. Avani had been taught to bow to royalty, to parry the barbed words of commanders, to speak with the careful weight of someone always watched. Yet among women her own age, she was off course. Their laughter seemed light as silk, their chatter effortless. To her, every question felt like an interrogation, every smile a puzzle she had not been trained to solve.

Porcelain clinked gently, fans fluttered, silk sleeves shifted; the women raised their cups in graceful unison, each movement practiced from childhood. Avani lifted hers a moment late, the gesture stiff and too careful. She took a cautious sip, and she nearly winced as the steam burned her tongue. The others sipped exquisitely, and they exchanged small giggles over nothing at all. She mastered the art of bowing before kings and orders delivered in a storm of steel, but here, with a cup of tea in hand, she felt like a child trying to mimic the grace she had never been taught.

Lady Xun Mei's sharp eyes caught the hesitation. She lowered her fan and murmured just loud enough for the circle to hear, "Such care, you'd think she was testing poison, not drinking tea."

Jia Lanying giggled, bracelets chiming, "Or perhaps she isn't used to anything finer than a soldier's rations." More laughter rippled across the table. Avani set her cup down too quickly; the porcelain clinked against the saucer.

He back straightened as if before a commander, "I am accustomed to protocol. Formality is expected of me." The Avatar's words were flat, the tone of a report.

The noblewomen exchanged glances—her seriousness was precisely what they found amusing.

Xun Mei pressed with a conniving smirk, "Protocol even among friends? Tell me, do your comrades salute when passing you bread at supper?"

Lanying leaned forward, eyes wide with mock-innocence, "Does she laugh at all? I can't imagine it—Avani, what does your laugh even sound like?"

A flutter of muffled titters followed. Avani's lips parted, but no answer came. She looked down into the surface of her tea, and heat rushed to her cheeks. Words she could've summoned with steel in her hand abandoned her now, before women her own age.

Then Tao Feng's fan snapped shut with a sharp crack. The sound startled the circle into silence. She smiled but her tone carried iron beneath silk, "Enough."

Her gaze swept the table, settling on each in turn, "Avani has been trained to address the royals, generals, and heads of government since she was a child. Is it any wonder she falters among friends, when no one ever gave her the chance to practice friendship?"

The girls shifted uncomfortably. A few lowered their eyes, shame colored their cheeks. Tao Feng's smile softened. She placed her hand lightly on the Avatar's wrist. She reminded them, "Give her time. You may find she has more to say than you expect, once you stop treating her like a curiosity."

The tension ebbed, though the sting of mockery lingered like steam against Avani's skin. She lifted her cup again, hands steady this time, though the tea still tasted more of judgment than oolong.

Yuelin spoke up, "Avani, you've come so far already. Tell us, what was your childhood like? Did you always dream of serving in the Haijunese Army? Or did you dream of marrying a powerful man and having children like the rest of us?"

Avani stiffened. She didn't often speak of her youth, and here, under the gaze of other noblewomen, her story felt raw. "I didn't have a normal childhood. I didn't get to make friends with girls my age or play with dolls like the rest of you. My companions were ministers, the Council of Five, the Yanzhao, the Haijun Royal Family, and my bending masters. And my dolls..." her lips curved in something that was not quite a smile—"were the dummies whose heads I severed with the elements." Avani's words came low and intentional; they were weighed with quiet pride, as though the cruelty of her youth had been reforged into armor she alone could wear.

The table fell silent, tea cooled in forgotten cups. Avani's words lingered, dark and intentionally unsettling as they were proud. She then added, slightly saddened in her tone, "I used to get bullied by the other girls. Because Earth King Shuicheng strictly prohibited my parents from binding my feet. He said it was important to not limit my earthbending abilities." Her words sliced through the air again—with less iron, and more ache.

Jia Lanying gasped; she covered her mouth with her sleeve. "Unbound feet? That must've been dreadful... wonder they teased you." Her sympathy rang shallow, the kind of pity that bruised instead of soothed.

Xun Mei tilted her head, a smirk fell before it returned as a malicious grin, "So proud of cutting heads, are you? I suppose some girls learn embroidery, others learn decapitation." Her voice was mocking, but th edge was defensive—as though she needed the barb to shield herself from Avani's bluntness.

Hu Shan studied the Avatar with her calm, piercing gaze, "The Earth King denied you a woman's beauty for the sake of your strength. That is both a gift and a theft." Her words carried weight, neither mockery nor pity, but instead recognition.

Meng Yuelin set her cup down with trembling hands, "That sounds...lonely." Her voice was quiet; it meant more to Avani than the group.

Avani glanced briefly towards her teacup, then met Meng Yuelin's gaze. "Oh I was never lonely, I can't recall a time where I wasn't under the watchful eye of Prince Xuanrong. He spectated my training as I grew from a novice into a master." The words were delivered without bitterness, almost matter-of-fact, but beneath them lay something colder: the truth that her childhood companion had not been a friend, but a watcher.

Lady Lanying gasped; she lowered her cup so quickly that it sloshed. "Prince Xuanrong himself?" Her tone was half-incredulous, half fearful.

Xun Mei arched a brow, her lips curled into a thin smile, "How very...flattering, to command the Prince's constant attention." But her eyes betrayed unease, as though she understood the dark implications.

Hu Shan didn't smile. Her eyes darkened, "Flattering? No. That's not admiration."

Meng shrank back slightly, her soft expression troubled, "That sounds suffocating..."

A hush fell quickly. No one spoke the truth aloud—Prince Haijun Xuanrong's presence was not an honor, but a shadow. Every noblewoman in that room knew the name Prince Haijun Xuanrong pressed any room like gravity, inescapable and absolute. To hear Avani speak of him so plainly, as though he were nothing more than a guardian at her side, left the circle unsettled. Some saw envy, others danger, but all felt the shadow of his glare as it stretched over the table.

The silence that followed the Avatar's words about Prince Xuanrong hung like smoke. No one dared breathe too loudly. Even the fountain's trickle beyond the teahouse walls seemed silent, as if the water itself feared his name. It was Tao who broke the spell. She snapped her fan open with a bright flick, the lacquered wood caught in the lamplight. Her smile was perfectly measured—soft enough to soothe, sharp enough to remind the others she controlled the tempo of the gathering.

"Well, we've wandered into heavy matters," she said lightly, her tone almost chiding. "Childhood and princes—all very grim. Let's return to sweeter topics. Avani..." Her eyes remained on the Avatar with warmth that was half genuine, half calculated.

"Tell us, in all your years of training and duty, did you ever have time for love? Ever find yourself with a secret crush, as we all once did?" The question floated across the table like a tossed flower. Sone of the girls bent forward eagerly, fans rose to half-hide their grins.

Xun Mei chimed in, "Or was romance yet another indulgence the Earth King denied you?"

Meng's gaze softened, hopeful, almost as if she were pleading with Avani to reveal some trace of ordinary girlhood. She glanced down at her teacup again as though she might've found warmth there, then spoke plainly, her voice stable but lacking softness.

"My devotion was measured in discipline, not in dances or poetry. Crushes? My first loyalties were to generals and bending masters, not to whispers of romance," answered Avani.

A silence came after. Some exchanged nervous looks, others grinned behind their fans.

Then Avani added after a pause, "Although...my first kiss was with Lord Biaoqin Congxiong. After a night of spirits and revelry at the Reveler's Den."

The circle leaned closer now, the conversation no longer a game of teasing but a thread of scandal pulled too far. Congxiong's name had turned the air bitter, stirring memories of indulgence, power, and immunity. For Avani, it was not a confession of love but a scar revealed—her first kiss stolen by Congxiong. She spoke the name without caution, unaware of how it curdled the air among the noblewomen, who knew the rumors she did not. All five women erupted in overlapped whispers, some scandalized, some pitied her.

Tao Feng's fan snapped half-shut, her eyes narrowed, "Congxiong? That vile brute? Hardly worth the name of a kiss. He preyed on your inexperience."

Meng's cheeks went pink, and her voice tightened with anger, "Avani, that wasn't romance. That wasn't real. He took advantage of you."

"She speaks the truth. You were a victim, Avani. Men like Congxiong do not answer for their deeds—not when their families hold power," Hu Shan leaned forward, her voice was firm.

"And his mother? Steward to Governor Wuqi. The Yanzhao would never dare to imprison him, not with such ties. You were wronged, and nothing will be done," Lady Lanying clucked.

Avani held her cup tighter; the steam blurred against her face. She didn't flinch at their pity, though her silence spoke volumes.

Xun Mei snickered, breaking the heaviness with her silver tongue, "Well, I've known Congxiong in my own way. He once groveled at my feet, begging me to warm his bed. Pathetic, really. I declined, of course—but he did have the gall to try."

She sipped her tea with intentional calm, "And I happen to know his closest companion—Mouzi of the Cui family. Birds of a feather, those two."

As the tea cooled and the candied lotus seeds dwindled, the chatter continued onto other topics. What had begun as talk about Avani's life, to her romance that had gone dark over the name Congxiong. Avani, who said little, found herself learning more by quietness than she ever had by speaking.

Xun Mei swirled her tea lazily, its contents almost gone, her voice lilted with feigned carelessness.

"Our great Earth King's decrees are so...thorough, are they not? Some whisper that he watches the provinces too closely. Others, that he does not watch them closely enough."

She fixated her eyes on Avani, sharp as a pin, "But surely a loyal soldier would know which one it is."

Avani felt every eye turned to face her. She finished her tea and then commented, "The Yanzhao serve as Wanggoudexin's eyes and ears. They are extensions of his senses; they are always watching and always listening."

The room fell silent soon after, Jia poured more oolong tea into her cup then she leaned closer, bracelets chiming.

"Always watching, always listening? Perhaps. But what does it matter if food still finds its way to the tables of the high families?" Her eyes glittered with pride as she tipped the teapot back.

"My father makes sure of it," she lowered her voice, though not nearly enough that she kept it private. A giggle slipped between her words. "We arrange...special deliveries. Rations, wine, silks—sometimes to places the Yanzhao would rather pretend not to see. But everyone profits, and so everyone stays quiet," mentioned Jia.

Her candor was reckless, like a child who flaunted stolen sweets, but the weight of her family's name made her bold. Around the table, a few fans snapped open to hide shocked expressions while Shan's dark eyes squinted. She gave a warning glance to her friend Tao.

Her words cut through Jia's bragging like a hot knife through butter, "Careless words are dangerous. Guilds, barracks, even the palace itself—nothing escapes scrutiny. Step too far beyond the line, and you will not be asked to return." She fixed Lanying with her calm, commanding stare until the young woman startled and looked away.

Lady Yuelin, uncomfortable with the tension, tried to steer the talk elsewhere. She placed her cup down carefully; her ink-stained fingers betrayed her gentler habits.

"We speak of decrees and corruption as if they were games. But I would rather hear of blossoms. Avani, do you like gardens? Perhaps one day you might visit my family's plum grove and paint with me," she suggested.

Avani nodded, "You reminded me of the gardens in my family's siheyuan, we have dwarf koi fish in our artificial pond. I'd love to join you sometime. If you'll have me."

The circle shifted uneasily—some amused, some wary, some eager to return to safer ground. Avani said little, yet in the clamor of voices she gathered more truth than she expected. In their laughter and gossip, the noblewomen had revealed the fractures of Taiyuan itself. The tea party ended with Tao promising more gatherings; she hinted that she wanted Avani to be closer to the noblewomen's circle.

Some of the women seemed genuinely charmed, while the others, including Xun Mei, remained skeptical. Avani left with a head full of conflicted impressions, admiration, suspicion, envy, and faint longing for the kind of friendships she'd never had.

The teahouse door closed behind her, and the night air felt heavier than the chatter she left behind. She had stepped into their clique, but whether as a guest, pawn, or threat, she couldn't yet tell.

✻✻✻✻✻[]

Magistrate Gong Zizhen was flushed; he leaned heavily against the table, mug always raised. He bellowed approval for every performance, desperately appearing magnanimous and cultured. His speech slurred beyond drunkenness. Sweat beaded on his temples despite the cool evening air. His hands trembled when he lifted his cup.

One of his servants chuckled, “The magistrate has overindulged again.”

No one saw the poison; they only saw a man who became the butt of the same joke he always was. Zizhen tried to stand for another toast, but stumbled; he nearly toppled the table. He raised his voice, “Another! Another! For the beauty of plum blossoms—“ before he coughed mid-sentence.

Servants rushed to assist him, clearly embarrassed for their master. Local dignitaries exchanged looks, some snickered, others frowned. Zizhen took one more deep drink, he swallowed hard, and suddenly he stiffened. His face drained of all color, then flushed deep red.

He gasped and clutched at his chest, he knocked over cups and plates, and toppled a table as he collapsed dead on the floor. The hall fell into an uneasy silence, broken by a woman's frightened cry. His floral robes spread like wilted petals.

Some laughed nervously— “he's finally drunk himself unconscious.”

When he didn't move, murmurs echoed through the crowd. Officials pushed through, attendants panicked, and a servant shouted for a healer. Quiet chatter from those who witnessed the scene.

“Too much wine.”

“No...something else.”

Juji knew they were already running out of time. Mo Citong returned to his team an hour later, and it was then that Juji knew Zizhen was already dead. There was no lengthy contemplation of a plan, as it already existed as a rough outline. The team decided in the moment to execute this alternate plan, realizing there was no way they could've infiltrated a heavily patrolled military base that evening.

“Do you guys remember when I talked about a plan I had on the way to this city?” their leader wondered. The three of them nodded.

“Gong, I need you to set a structural sabotage and powder keg at the bottleneck; prepare metalwork to drop the false eave,” he ordered the blacksmith.

“Mo, you're going to give the final blow on the commander; make sure you're ready to cut stride and cover exfil,” he told the swordsman.

“Jian takes the bottleneck and holds it at all costs,” he said to the barbarian.

Juji climbed to a vantage point, from there he notched an arrow that knocked down a lantern post near the outer lane, just outside the city's outer gate. Simultaneously, he set two small controlled fires at supply sheds near the western entrance. To ensure a visible smoke alarm.

Sentries shouted, patrols scrambled. The watch system reported a possible raid on the west approach. A sequence of watchtowers banged their drums, which warned those in Xiangyuan Fang District to remain in their homes. Civilians woke up in their homes, and screams echoed from inside. Yelu personally mounted to respond—jaws set; the move was on.

This sequence spread to the rest of the city, as bonfires were lit on watchtowers throughout the city. Towers banged on their drums, as guards rushed to barracks to grab weapons, and some mounted. Yelu and his men poured out of their military outpost into the streets of the Haijunese district. They funneled into a street while Gong triggered pre-arranged metalwork to restrict patrol movement, and he subtly sheared paths so the only usable approach funneled through a narrow lane where Jian stood.

Jian braced in the bottleneck. He knew this position was a mortal risk, but would it buy crucial time? Mo Citong skewed toward the command column, eyes sought the scar and the commander's gait. Juji waited on a roofline and—when the commander's vanguard bunched—he took a single, decisive snipe at a recognizable advance sergeant. The shot was loud and precise. The hit caused immediate panic in the lead; it struck the man in the neck and knocked him off his ostrich horse.

The men broke formation, and many rushed to the fallen man, closing their ranks. This forced the whole contingent to compress and bunch. That compression channeled them into the prepared narrow lane. The team noticed the compression; they had no time to alter their plans, so they all moved to their ambush positions immediately.

Jian met the first wave in the lane, and he traded blows with one to hold them back. He roared a battlecry cry that boosted the morale of his teammates. Mo Citong slipped toward the commander within the now-bunched formation, trying to find fleeting openings created by Juji's shot and Jian's hold. Gong stood by his trigger: the iron lattice was primed, the rope threaded, a powder keg in place overhead and nearby. He timed it to hit when the most significant number of men stood beneath the rigged false eave.

Juji kept moving—either he shot at thin reinforcements or signaled the others; his snipe had done its job, but he remained ready to fire one more arrow if a direct shot at Yelu opened. Mo Citong failed to find the opening and instead ran off.

The contingent of men, led by Commander Yelu, cut through the smoke as their armor flashed. They pressed into the lane. Jian fled behind Citong. He slammed into a civilian and tossed the man at the men who rushed behind him. The civilian crashed into two mounted men and knocked them off their ostrich horses.

As the pressure rose and the others edged to leave, Jian roared, “Go! Now—leave me!”

They hesitated; he screamed again with horror and love, “Leave. I said—GO!” Jian walked back under the eave; meanwhile, Juji sprinted to another position where he could get a clear shot at the powder keg.

Gong watched from a distance as men piled up on his friend Jian. Jian, now at the edge of the platform, was apprehended by the enemy soldiers. Juji lit the tip of an arrow with fire and launched it. Jian shed a tear as he was surrounded by enemies with their weapons drawn. Gong pulled the final tab, the rigged eave caved, and the arrow struck the powder keg as it dropped on the men.

Iron spikes fell, and burning timbers ripped through the column. Yelu and the eight soldiers, along with Jian, were torn apart by shrapnel and fire. Mo Citong screamed in the direction of the explosion. The world closed in until it was only Jian's face, burning and bloodied and stubborn in its last clarity. Mo Citong cried out again, a raw animal sound that tore from him and scattered across the burning lane like a thrown thing.

The memory of Jian's slump would've come to him later, again and again. Juji and Gong were pulling him, frantic hands on shoulders, and the three of them slipped through smoke-dim alleys that smelled of ash and iron. As they fled, Citong's voice broke in half a dozen times. Between ragged breaths, he spat apologies at the night—not to his gods, not to his commanders, but to the man who had held the gate.

“I'm sorry...brother...forgive me.”

The words were small and useless and would haunt him like a knuckle-deep ache. Behind them, the lane answered with dull thumps of men who lifted bodies and the far, thin echo of someone who shouted a name that would've soon meant war. They vanished into the city's maw, they carried the bruise of that scream with them—a ripple that wouldn't smooth away.

Sentries and patrols flooded the lane, survivors searched bodies, anguished cries, and fires were tended to. Officials arrived and attempted to control the rumors. Investigators found Jian dead, parts of his body were charred by the explosion, and his right leg was missing. On his person: an Oma Kingdom insignia—clear and damning evidence that barbarian spies infiltrated their city.

A guard witnessed the badge, which gleamed in the moonlight, and he ran off to report to his superior. After all, Magistrate Gong Zizhen and Commander Yelu were only decoys for the real leader. Once the report was given to the local dispatch hun, it was then rushed to the real leader of Yijai.

A slit of night framed him—a glassless aperture high in a townhouse that bent over the lane like an eyebrow. From that height, the city was a bruise of lantern light and drifting smoke. The Meiyin Tang's uproar had long since been swallowed by the streets, but thin threads of ember still smoked where men had set and snuffed small fires. Below, lantern-bearers and guardsmen moved like careful beetles, as they stamped at orange tongues and ripped away scorched canvas.

Guards in Haijun gold worked with the disciplined urgency of people rehearsed for catastrophe. A twenty-eight-year-old man with tan skin, a head as bare and smooth as a drum, the trace of a jaw that had learned to hold words in reserve. He had a tight, coiled body and a patience that seemed darker.

When he shifted his eyes, the irises caught the lamplight and held it—hazel, not quite the common brown or green of Yijai. A color his attendants murmured about in private in this world that color meant things the city rarely named aloud: sandbenders, born to long ridgelines and dry wind. It lent him a quiet, unsettling gravity, as if he carried within him a slight, inexorable wind.

His name was Nariin. He didn't move now because there were no motions to be made; motions belonged to lesser people and to soldiers. He watched the men below tamped out a flare, observed a sergeant of the guard as he barked an order, watched a lantern-smear reveal a body turned face-down in the gutter, and then be dragged away without ceremony. He counted nothing aloud. He let the tally sit behind his teeth.

A knock reverberated from the door. He closed his eyes and said aloud, “Come in!”

“The decoy leaders Gong Zizhen and Commander Yelu are both dead. Eight men were also killed in an explosion. We found another corpse with the Oma Kingdom insignia on it,” reported a soldier.

“These were assassinations done by Oma Kingdom spies,” corrected Nariin.

The subordinate asked, “What shall we do?”

“Send word to my scribes immediately to prepare reports for General Taifeng Da in Fort Li Jun, and Governor Xingren Wuqi in Taiyuan,” commanded Nariin. The subordinate inclined and retreated. Outside, the last sparks guttered. Nariin's hazel eyes watched as the embers died.

♮♮♮♮♮♮[]

Pi Dao scouted the North Wharf, noting the guard rotation times and locating the third warehouse with the cracked turquoise door. He identified egress routes, load ramp, windows, ventilation routes, and the foreman's office where manifests were kept. He needed to locate Han's usual approach path.

Nu Xing positioned herself near the dockside shadow between lamp posts. Lin Xi settled near the gate, where he played a tune. Lin Xi mimicked Han's handwriting and created a short, urgent note for the magistrate. It read:

“Special inspection: sealed consignment requires Magistrate Wei's immediate oversight before shipment—Han.”

After he wrapped the letter, he stamped it with a seal. Pi Dao stole from the merchant lord's satchel of belongings, from earlier. Han came as he always did: a small, dutiful shadow, a shallowed breath with the oily work of the week.

A bundle of ledger-sheets under his arm. He didn't see Nu Xing until her shadow filled his path. She stepped from the shadows as if the night itself had pressed forward and spoke.

“Han,” she said, her voice like a velvet rope. It held no question.

He flinched, “My lady—“ He did not have the words the right way up. Fear rearranged them, “I—what is it?”

Nu Xing's hands brushed the strap of his satchel, an almost casual touch that carried the weight of a warning.

“Tell Wei there is a seal misread in a consignment. Tell him the crate bears a spiral seal and he must see it tonight—now. If he refuses, say he will answer for it in the morning,” her thumb rested at the small dagger at her hip. The blade's silhouette made the promise precise.

Han's mouth worked, “Please—my wife—my boy—“

“You speak, you live,” she said. The sentence was simple enough that it sounded like law. “You delay, you do not. Call him. Use the attendant's bell. Tell him to come alone,” she added.

He gulped, and with hands that shook like a child's, he slipped a hand into his satchel and drew out a small, lacquered bell. His knuckles were white where they gripped. He whispered the line she taught him, and like a man learning prayers, he ran fast, with the taste of bile at the back of his throat. Han's feet sent him clattering down the pier.

Lin Xi's tune tightened, a thread pulled at the guard's attention. Pi Dao closed a seam at the warehouse's side door. He turned the usual route into a channel that would've forced the inspection point near the low inspection alcove by the pile of cedar crates. Mo Fu loosened his sleeve so the tiny knife lay warm and ready.

Twenty fenzhong later, Wei Shanchao arrived; he brought two lights with him —a lantern borne by an orderly and a single attendant whose hands were steadier than his master's. Wei's robes were immaculate and faintly too loud for the wharf. He walked like someone who had always moved under scrutiny. He smiled the smile of authority practiced at court—an expression that softened or sharpened according to the audience. Tonight, it was a worn mask, but it served its purpose.

“Master Wei,” Han gulped. “A sealed consignment. The manifest bears the spiral stamp. It needs your signature tonight. They say Min De's men are nervous,” reported Han.

Wei peered at the manifest Lin Xi prepared: a copy so clean a lamp couldn't find fault. The spiral seal's wax, impressed in a half-formed circle, gleamed like a gravestone. Wei's hand hovered; he motioned the attendant to set the ledger on the inspection table. His retainers lingered at the doorway, the beam of iron between the warehouse and the pier. They didn't know yet they'd been trapped.

Lin Xi's pipa hummed a lullaby. The guard's attention thinned. Pi Dao knocked a crate lightly; the path required Wei to pace forward, to lean in close ot the papers. The alcobe nudged him into a posture of reading that was not quite secure. It gave the others the angle they needed.

Nu Xing moved as quietly as an exhalation. Her blade was a mutter against cloth when she took it. She stood just behind Wei, the polished steel an eventual punctuation of the night. No drama, no plea—only the efficient geometry of motion. Wei read and frowned in that peculiar private way men had who liked the grinding of power. He never saw the hand that slid like a shade between his ribs until the cold cut the thought from him.

The blade found the space between the sleeve and the lung with an authority that had nothing to do with the law. He inhaled as if to call for his guard, and then he did not. The lantern light shook—then guttered as someone kicked at a lamp in the doorway, a contrived, clumsy gesture from Lin Xi, the sound prepared to cloak the soft, final noise. Wei's mouth formed a surprised shape, as if a small animal had been caught. He clutched at the manifest and fell slowly to one knee. The ink ran into the grain; the spiral seal bled into the paper as if the ledger itself were on fire.

“No bangs,” Nu Xing muttered to the others as she drew the blade free and held it to her robe to catch the first sullen drops. “Quick. Clean.”

Mo Fu was at the magistrate's shoulder in the same breath—pockets checked, seals plucked, the man's ring finger eased open, and the small spiral coin that might've mattered slipped into Mo Fu's palm. Pi Dao slid a crate further, closed the angle, made the doorway quick, boxed off space. Lin Xi's hands stilled over the pipa; he put the last chord under his breath and closed his eyes for the moment it took to breathe in.

Han wept, “Forgive me—please,” he rasped, the prayer of a small man who traded his life for another day.

Nu Xing's face never changed. She cupped something small and pressed it heavily into Han's palm—a coin, an instruction, a single breath.

“Leave by the west row. Tell no one what you touched. Tell them the magistrate collapsed.”

They moved with the same silent choreography they had honed: Pi Dao's palms formed a small, loosened ring in the floor, revealing a shallow hollow for hands to hide a bloodied cloth and the magistrate's seals, if they wished to remove them. They didn't have to drag his body far; the wharf's planks would show the impression. They left Wei where he died, on the ledger-strewn board, which had its own logic and made the death immediate and domestic, not a spectacle. It was neat; it was mortal.

They took what they needed—an impression, a ring, a folded slip of paper—and left no more than a footprint turned inside-out. Pi Dao closed the earth-hollow with the slightest sweep of his palm; the wood settled as if nothing had been moved. Lin Xi stepped out to the gate and let a note of a single mournful phrase hang in the air. It was a sound like an obituary and like a lock. Mo Fu's fingers trembled only once; then he kept his hands sturdy when there was work to be done.

They departed by the service row they had mapped earlier—Pi Dao's gentle touch turned a wedge of sod into a temporary step so they could ease themselves over the pier's shaded edge and into alleys that smelled of rope and fish. Han slunked away to the west row, a small man spared by a small bribe and a larger fear. They didn't celebrate. The night held no room for that. Only the weight of the ledger's spiral in Mo Fu's palm, the cold absence where Wei's breath had been, and the strained, sharp sound of Lin Xi's lute eased into a tune that meant: Move. Go.

Behind them, the warehouse still drew breath. A lantern waned in the doorway, and a guard's footfall creaked toward a shape on the planks. In the dark alleyways, they pooled for a heartbeat to reorient—their silhouettes stitched back together like a coat—and then split, each shoulder took the shape of business.

They vanished into Qiang Cheng's sleeping rills with their worn, new facts. The cracked turquoise door, Han's frightened face, the manifest now a memory that someone else would read. The ledger had been balanced tonight, and the city had not yet sobbed. What would follow—investigators, rumors, a messenger's ostrich horse galloped toward distant ears—was not their concern. For tonight, they kept the law of necessity; they had kept the cost to themselves.

Nu Xing's voice, low and broken only at the edges, said as they melted, “We move at dusk.” The other three simply nodded. The world transitioned toward morning, and with it, to consequences no one could have measured until daylight pried the truth from the splinters.

⋆⋅⋆⋅⋆[]

Lantern light swung like judgment over the training yard. Men stood in rows, shoulders squared and faces tuned to the practiced blankness of soldiers, but under the blankness something small and furious hummed—disappointment, speculation, the private counting of who would do what when given the chance. Zuqiu was brought forth with his wrists tied; the rope cut red crescents into his skin. He kept his head low, salt lines tracked through dust along his cheeks. Every breath he took seemed like a theft.

Captain Shuaige Qishi was a pillar in uniform: broad, unyielding, the slow-moving law that fed and disciplined them. He stepped forward with the calm of a man who'd spent years turning choice into command. His hand closed on Zuqiu's private patch and, with a single practiced motion, ripped it free. The badge dropped onto the ground with a soft, irrevocable sound.

“We fed you,” Shuaige began, his voice restrained and cold.

“We clothed you, we trained you—and this is how you betray us?” His words cut into the private. Around him, the company shifted; some eyed the ground to hide the twitch of shame in their faces. Others couldn't hide the small, bright spark of judgment.

Zuqiu tried to answer, but found his throat wouldn't budge. “I—I—“ The words died before they reached the air.

Shuaige barked, “Silence!”

The command snapped the atmosphere taut, and every younger man inhaled as if they braced for something that fell. He continued, “You've dishonored this company, you've dishonored our military, you've dishonored your family, you've dishonored the Crown. How dare you!”

Avani stepped through the crowd, not in deference but in the sort of forwardness that had become her hallmark. “What's going on here?” she asked, her voice even, but it pushed like she always gave to his pronouncements. The line of soldiers watched the two of them like it was a duel they'd seen before.

Taobing, precise as always, announced the charge, “Muchang Zuqiu stole a crate of rations and was high-tailing it out of here.”

Biehe peered down, then turned away in shame of turning in his peer. Shuaige's lip quirked like a snapped wire.

“Avani,” he said without heat—his displeasure entire in that single syllable— “I am punishing my soldiers according to the law.”

“Did you interrogate him?” she bluntly inquired, raising a brow. She crouched to Zuqiu's eye level in a move that made the younger men tilt inward. “Did you ask him why? Did you look?” Her eyes skimmed the rows; some faces softened under the pressure of her gaze.

“There's nothing to question him about—he was caught stealing a crate of rations,” the captain's reply was automatic. The kind of phrase that had been drilled into him until it fit his jaw like armor.

Avani met his stare and did the thing that had always unmoored him. She named the human inside the rule, “Who was the food for, Zuqiu?” she questioned him, her voice low enough for only the boy and the nearest men to hear.

Zuqiu looked up through a mask of shame, his face torn and honest.

“Orphans.”

“I met a girl my age. I've been seeing her every day after being dismissed from duty,” he revealed. The admission split the yard, shock, a flicker of pity, the quick calculations of younger hearts.

Biehe's shoulders dropped a little; Taobing's jaw tightened.

Shuaige's mouth dragged into a hardness, “For the price of stealing rations, you will be exiled from your service and sentenced to one year of penal servitude,” he declared, the law read like a litany.

Avani's hand went to the rim of the cangue in her mind before she remembered she didn't command. She moved anyway—closer, fierce. “One crate of food won't kill the army,” she said, each word pitched to ruffle the captain's conviction.

“Give the crate to the children. Discipline matters, Captain, but we are defenders of people, not the punishers of hunger,” insisted Avani.

Shuaige's nostrils flared, “You would undermine discipline for sentiment?” he snapped. As if the two of them were opposing armies.

“I would rather choose mercy over spectacle,” Avani shot back. “Because a punished boy won't feed those children. But a crate will show me that the law's muscle has a heart,” the Avatar said calmly, she tilted her chin toward the assembled men.

A ripple ran down the ranks—some murmured agreement; older, sterner faces hardened. Shuaige studied the faces of the men present; he felt the weight of the law and the teeth behind it. He thought of the precedent, the rope that tied obedience to survival. Avani's challenge annoyed him like a burr under a cuff that was persistent, truthful, and uncomfortably human. For a long heartbeat, he stood, the captain against the first lieutenant, the law against the itch of mercy.

Then, with a short exhale that sounded like surrender or strategy, he relentlessly sighed, “Fine. He won't be exiled.”

Avani's shoulders loosened in a motion that betrayed relief and the small victory of a woman who had pushed a man to change his mind, “That's fine,” she agreed, but Captain Qishi's face didn't express ease for long.

“However,” he added, as his voice dropped, “he will still be punished.” The words landed like nails hammered into wood.

“One hundred beatings.”

The company winced at the thought of bamboo sticks against their backs and barked. Counts made a cold current pass through them. Avani's lips pressed thin. “Lighter,” she said, non-negotiable and straightforward.

Shuaige blinked at the bluntness of her demands—an odd reverse of rank—and then, after a second that felt like ages, he motioned at the cangue, “Fine, fine...he will wear a cangue for the rest of the time we're in Taiyuan.”

It was a compromise that bore both their marks: the captain's insistence on visible recompense, the Avatar's insistence on mercy's limit. It would shame Zuqiu daily and still let him serve in the army. Avani asked, “And the crate?” Her voice steadied, and her eyes searched the company's faces for a human answer.

Shuaige hesitated, the law's edges grinded in him, then gave a single curt nod, “The crate will be delivered to the children. I trust that under your guard, it will be taken to the orphans.”

Avani beamed and said nothing. Her lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. Whatever answer had risen in her throat fell away unsaid. Only the faintest shift in her posture betrayed thought—chin lifted, eyes unreadable. Around them, the others mistook her quiet for agreement, but silence was her only concession.

Biehe's expression crumbled—relief mixed with the cold knowledge of duty. Airen and the others shifted; the immediate pressure in the yard eased as the mechanics of implementation took hold.

“You're all dismissed,” ordered Shuaige as he turned away.

Er Baoshou cut the rope around Zuqiu's wrists with a dagger. The young man fell to his knees and sobbed—not just for the punishment, but for the shame of being seen, for the knowledge of how small his choice had been under the weight of larger systems.

Avani crouched and laid a hand on his head—an illicit comfort in the face of military law. Her fingers were gentle. Baoshou watched them both—his face a map of lines he had learned to draw in eras of command.

“You can wear the cangue tomorrow,” he finished.

“Yes, First Lieutenant,” croaked Zuqiu, his voice and emotions raw. The cangue would've been visible proof that the company's law had been applied; Avani's concession had spared him exile but not humiliation.

As the men dispersed, their ranks rearranged into the small routines of camp life. Some muttered about mercy being weakness; others—the quieter ones—caught Avani's eye with something like gratitude. Shuaige faced his ranks and spoke orders that readied the guard to prepare a proper rations crate as promised, his voice the same machinery it always was—command, trimmed by the awkwardness of being defied.

Avani stepped back into the crowd with a face smoothed out by fatigue, not victory. She had moved a man from rigidity, not broken his logic. Shuaige's stare stayed on the Avatar as she left the yard. He held a tiny private rage that he hid in the folds of duty. It would have simmered, like a sore, and no doubt the two would have met again on some other battlefield of principle.

For Zuqiu, the night ended in small rusted comforts and big wooden shames. He slept in the barracks beneath the weight of the cangue to come. The company's discipline had been tempered by mercy, but the ache of what he'd done—and who he had done it for—would not easily be soothed.

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