The next morning, Li Chi packed a few things and prepared to go along. Zhuang Wudi saw that Li Chi intended to join the convoy and couldn’t hold back a smile. “Don’t you trust us?”

Li Chi nodded. “I don’t, obviously. Business that falls into your lap for no reason — something’s wrong with it, without question.”

“If you think something’s wrong,” Zhuang Wudi said, “why did you accept it?”

“Because the grain he wants to transport is probably real grain.”

Zhuang Wudi thought for a moment. “Grain at this time of year — it would almost have to be official grain stores. Pingchang County is the closest county to Jizhou and basically its southern gateway. Shengchang Grain Store going to Pingchang County for grain means moving official reserves into Jizhou — which means Jizhou is running short on grain?”

Li Chi nodded. “That’s also why I’m taking grain instead of silver. If Jizhou is already running low on grain stores…”

Zhuang Wudi reflected for a moment. “Then Prince Yu isn’t far from raising his army. When provisions and horses are plentiful, there’s no urgency to move; when the grain is nearly gone, if you don’t act, you can’t even keep your troops fed.”

He frowned. “The reserves running dry this suddenly — something’s off.”

“Which is why I want to see for myself,” said Li Chi. “If Jizhou truly has little grain left, we may need to leave this city.”

Zhuang Wudi immediately brightened. “Then there must definitely be very little left.”

He thought of something and asked: “Won’t skipping the Academy cause trouble?”

Li Chi said: “I, Li Chi, have become the kind of person I hate. I’m about to skip three days of class on the strength of my connection to Mister Yan, without so much as asking for leave.”

Zhuang Wudi: “So it turns out you’ve always disliked Xiahou Zuo like this.”

Li Chi: “…”

As they spoke, everyone had the convoy assembled and ready: thirty large carts, thirty drivers, sixty cavalry riders — very nearly the full capacity of Yongning Tongyuan’s resources.

Just as the convoy was about to set off, Shengchang Grain Store’s Proprietor Su arrived with about twenty men in tow. He seemed uneasy and said he’d be traveling with Li Chi’s group, his own convoy being escorted by a different company.

Li Chi noticed that while Proprietor Su was wearing a long robe as before, it sat bulkier than the previous day. Under the outer garment, almost certainly, he’d put on armor.

This trip, Li Chi concluded, would likely be harder than he’d anticipated.

If Jizhou was running short on grain and didn’t want to send the military in openly to haul it out of Pingchang County’s granaries — alarming Pingchang’s residents would be bad enough, but causing panic in Jizhou itself would be worse — then they’d need another way.

Before departing, Li Chi said quietly to Zhuang Wudi: “Stay alert. If something feels wrong, we leave.”

The convoy set out in force from Jizhou. The grain store’s people seemed to carry some weight: at the city gate, one of the grain store’s errand boys said a few casual words at the front, and the gate soldiers waved them through immediately without so much as a cursory inspection.

—

Meanwhile, in Pingchang County.

Seven or eight men in plain clothes but carrying weapons stood guard outside a residential property, every one of them tense-faced and edgy. They seemed to be afraid of something — a look of barely contained panic in each man’s eyes.

Inside the residence, a man of about forty was in the courtyard carefully packing belongings. He sorted his books into boxes with the devotion of someone handling objects of supreme value.

He was lean and tall, which made the clothes on his frame seem slightly oversized. His long robe bore a few patches in places and had clearly been worn for many years — faded from its original blue to something closer to off-white, worn and well-washed.

“Sir.”

A young man of about twenty came in from outside, stepping quickly to the older man’s side and bowing. “The carriage is here. We need to leave quickly.”

The one addressed as “sir” was the county magistrate of Pingchang, a man named Yue Huanian.

He had served as county magistrate of Pingchang for sixteen years. By any logic, such a long tenure should have long since resulted in a promotion — yet he neither knew how to court favor nor how to flatter superiors. He simply kept his head down and worked. Over those sixteen years, the people of Pingchang had known a steady security because of him.

Brigands had been raiding outside the city walls. Yue Huanian had rallied the people to form civilian militia, and had personally led them to repel three separate incursions — despite having no martial training himself, he was never the last to step forward.

The young man was called Qiu Qingche — Pingchang’s chief constable. He had originally been a wandering martial artist. Coming to Pingchang, learning of Yue Huanian’s character and conduct, he had gone to offer his services — saying he was willing to serve as the magistrate’s personal guard.

Yue Huanian’s first words back to him were: *I have no money to hire you.*

Qiu Qingche had asked: *Will you feed me?*

Yue Huanian had replied: *The food is not good.*

Qiu Qingche had smiled: *That’ll do.*

Two people with nothing in common had found common cause. Qiu Qingche had been in Pingchang for four years; in his third year, he had become the county’s chief constable. The people had taken to calling him “Constable Che” rather than “Constable Qiu,” because, as they said it, Magistrate Yue was the marshal and Qiu Qingche was the cart — and every one of them was happy to be a foot soldier under Magistrate Yue’s command.

Yue Huanian looked at the several packed crates, then looked at the cart waiting at the gate. After a moment’s silence, he reached into one of the boxes and lifted out several books, his face filled with quiet anguish.

“Leave them.”

He said.

Qiu Qingche’s expression changed immediately. “Sir — these are your most prized collection. How can we leave them?”

Yue Huanian said: “Too heavy — the cart won’t move fast enough. These books mean as much to me as life itself. But compared to all of you, they are lighter than a feather.”

Qiu Qingche understood perfectly. Weighted down like that, the cart would be slow — and no one could say when those people might come.

“Let’s go,” said Yue Huanian.

He took one last look at the crates of books and shook his head. “I hope they fall into the hands of someone who loves books — not someone who burns them for warmth.”

He stepped out the door. The seven or eight guards moved forward at once to surround him. At the very moment Yue Huanian was stepping up into the cart, several arrows came whistling out of the shadows — before anyone could react, two of the guards were struck down.

“Magistrate Yue — you’re leaving?”

From around the corner of the street came a figure — a gaunt, angular middle-aged man, wire-thin as a bamboo pole. Yue Huanian was himself lean, but with a larger frame that made his leanness less severe; this man looked like skin stretched thinly over bone.

He wore magnificently fine clothes, clearly expensive, in striking contrast to the patched robe on Yue Huanian.

Dark-clad figures appeared on the rooftops around them, bows drawn, covering Yue Huanian and his guards from above.

Yue Huanian looked at the man for a moment, then said: “Liu Yingzhan — you are nothing more than a grain merchant. Yet you conduct yourself this brazenly before me, a sitting official.”

The man smiled. “No wonder you spent sixteen years as a county magistrate and never climbed a single step. If you’d been even a little more shrewd, you wouldn’t be in this position now.”

He walked forward as he talked. “I’m not going to stop you from leaving, Magistrate. But you need to tell me clearly: half the grain in the official granary has gone missing. Where did it go?”

Yue Huanian said coldly: “What business is it of yours what happens to official grain stores?”

“Magistrate Yue — I’ll say it plainly. If you don’t tell me where that grain went, you’ll die badly.”

Before Yue Huanian could respond, Qiu Qingche had already pulled him back by the arm: “Sir — get in the cart.”

He stepped forward to block Yue Huanian, drawing his long blade. “Today we place our lives in the balance to protect the magistrate’s safe passage from the city.”

“Yes!”

The remaining guards answered in unison, blades drawn.

“Break through!”

Qiu Qingche called the order, leaped onto the driver’s board, seized the reins, and shook them hard. The horse let out a cry and charged forward.

Arrows fell from all sides. The guards used their long blades to deflect and bat them away — willing to take arrows themselves rather than let a single one reach the interior of the cart.

Liu Yingzhan watched the cart bearing down on him and sighed. “More foolish than I expected.”

The cart was nearly upon him. This wire-thin man simply extended a hand and pressed it against the horse’s face — then pressed down in a single smooth motion.

The draft horse screamed. It could not withstand the force of that pressing hand; both front legs buckled involuntarily beneath it. The momentum had not yet spent itself, and the force drove the horse’s head straight into the ground.

When Liu Yingzhan pulled his hand away, his five fingers were streaked with blood — all five had been driven into the horse’s skull.

The cart came to a sudden halt. Liu Yingzhan grabbed one of the cart shafts and broke it sideways — a sharp crack, and the thick wooden beam snapped clean, its jagged end jutting out like a spear. It was driven straight and hard into the side of the cart.

Qiu Qingche kicked the broken shaft away and swept his blade horizontally at Liu Yingzhan’s throat. Liu Yingzhan stepped back — his body drifting like a leaf, settling softly at a distance.

But the movement had broken his focus, and the archers overhead hesitated to fire freely.

“And you think a county constable can stand against me?”

Liu Yingzhan looked down at the blood on his hand, unhurried. “If you know what’s good for you, hand Yue Huanian over and come with me. You’ll live better following me than following a penniless county magistrate.”

Qiu Qingche turned his head and said: “Sir — get down from the cart. Stay close behind me. As long as Liu Yingzhan is here, they won’t dare fire.”

He said his piece and then launched off the ground — a burst of compacted earth exploded beneath his feet.

His blade swept horizontally. Liu Yingzhan stepped back again. The blade cut air.

Liu Yingzhan, who had retreated a full step, seemed tethered by an invisible elastic cord — barely touching the ground, yet snapping back into Qiu Qingche’s face.

“You’re not good enough,” said Liu Yingzhan. “Not in skill, not in strategy.”

Qiu Qingche made no reply. He brought the blade down again. Liu Yingzhan sidestepped, and in the same instant as the blade fell, his palm reached for Qiu Qingche’s throat.

Qiu Qingche made no wide evasive movement. He tilted his head to one side and raised his shoulder to intercept the five fingers.

Liu Yingzhan’s eyes sharpened. “Naive.”

With a wet sound, his five fingers drove into Qiu Qingche’s shoulder.

But Qiu Qingche’s eyes sharpened too.

His blade dropped from his hand. His other hand caught it mid-air. Left hand, underhand cut, driving upward — a wet sound, and a long gash opened across Liu Yingzhan’s body.

The magnificent brocade robe was split open, revealing a layer of dark-gold soft armor beneath.

Qiu Qingche’s expression changed.

“I told you — truly naive,” said Liu Yingzhan.

He looked toward Yue Huanian, who had stepped down from the cart, and smiled again. “As you can see, Magistrate — you cannot escape. Either you tell me where the grain went, or I will tear your loyal guards apart, one by one.”

Qiu Qingche said: “You’re rather naive yourself.”

Liu Yingzhan paused. Something dawned on him. He looked down.

The soft armor had a cut through it.

He looked at Qiu Qingche’s blade.

“A serrated blade?”

—