Li Chi emerged from the Flowing Cloud Formation clutching his afflicted area, casting a mournful look at his master. The Daoist Changmei, his hair now touched with considerable white, wore the gleeful expression of a child who had just played a successful trick.

“What you experienced today,” Changmei told him, “was only a small taste of what the Flowing Cloud Formation can do. The original array had ninety-nine variations. I simplified it — reduced it to thirteen.”

“Could you explain what ‘simplified’ means, exactly?” Li Chi said.

“Listen while I continue.”

“Could you explain what ‘simplified’ means, exactly?”

Changmei glared at him. “It means I couldn’t figure out how to build the rest.”

“Now that,” Li Chi said, “sounds much more honest. The other way made you sound like some once-in-a-generation enlightened sage.”

Changmei gave him another withering look. This disciple couldn’t go a single day without knocking him down a peg — it was how you knew he was truly his student.

“Practice until you can manage it,” Changmei said. “These wooden figures in the formation can fight you barehanded, but they can also be armed with weapons. Once you can break through the formation at its most basic level, I’ll show you what it looks like when these figures wield blades.”

“Master,” Li Chi said, “I was wrong to doubt you.”

“Why the sudden admission?”

“Because I suddenly feel like you’re trying to kill me.”

Just then, Zhuang Wudi returned from outside. He scanned the room and said, “Nothing to report.”

They all stood there waiting for him to elaborate — but that was apparently all he had. The man went off to fetch water, bathe, and change his clothes. He’d made the journey to Pingchang County and back in just over a day, and on his return: three words. Nothing to report.

“From now on,” Li Chi said, “we absolutely cannot send Brother Zhuang to gather intelligence again.”

He looked at Yu Jiuling. “You’re the better man for it.”

Four days ago, they had rescued County Magistrate Yue Huanian in Pingchang County. Three days ago, they’d returned — and surprisingly, the people from Shengchang Granary had made no inquiries whatsoever. After the grain was delivered to Jizhou, payment was settled on the same day with no delay. As agreed, they’d been compensated for the lost wagon with an additional cartload of grain.

If the Yongning Tongyuan Transport Company preferred not to keep the grain, Shengchang Granary would buy it back at a high price. Manager Su swore up and down that the Young Master would not be shortchanged.

And indeed, the Young Master had not been shortchanged. Yet this calm — this absence of waves — left him unsettled.

At minimum, one thing had been confirmed from the Pingchang County affair: Shengchang Granary’s resources ran deep beyond fathoming. How many elite fighters used the granary as cover while secretly serving Prince Yu in the shadows — who could say?

A granary operation was nearly perfect as a cover. Very few people would ever suspect that a grain merchant’s business harbored hidden tigers and crouching dragons.

Li Chi regretted sending Zhuang Wudi to Pingchang County. From those three words — nothing to report — it was genuinely difficult to deduce anything at all.

“I might as well go back myself tomorrow,” Yu Jiuling said. “Better to have Brother Zhuang stay home.”

Li Chi thought it over. “Fair enough. Run another trip — I can’t settle down otherwise. The more Shengchang Granary does nothing, the more it feels like they’re planning something.”

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Yu Jiuling agreed.

The next morning, as Li Chi was exercising in the courtyard, he looked at those wooden figures and felt a powerful urge to burn every last one of them.

While he was training, Yu Jiuling got up too, gave himself a cursory wash, exchanged a quick word with Li Chi, and headed out. Pingchang County wasn’t far — by horse, a round trip took just over a day. Running at full pace, he could probably match that.

Li Chi trained, tidied up, washed, and started preparing breakfast. He had a large pot of noodles on when he went to call his master and Mister Yan to wake up. The Daoist Changmei hadn’t even risen yet — and yet Yu Jiuling was already back.

Li Chi noticed Yu Jiuling’s expression immediately. It was bleak.

“What is it?” he asked at once.

Yu Jiuling’s throat worked, as though the words were difficult to get out. After a pause, he said: “I saw Magistrate Yue. The county magistrate of Pingchang — Yue Huanian.”

Li Chi’s chest tightened. “Where?”

“The city gate.”

“I was just about to leave the city,” Yu Jiuling said, “when a convoy arrived from outside. Jing Yanli was at its head. One of the wagons had been converted into a prison cart — Magistrate Yue was inside, covered in blood.”

“Was anyone else with him?” Li Chi asked.

Yu Jiuling shook his head. “No one. The others are probably all dead. Only Magistrate Yue was taken alive.”

Li Chi drew a long breath. Then he turned and ladled out a bowl of noodles for Yu Jiuling, speaking as he did: “Eat first. After breakfast, we find out where they’re holding him — whether he’s gone directly to Prince Yu’s estate or to the Jizhou Prefecture offices. If it’s the prefecture offices, we may still have a chance.”

Yu Jiuling nodded, took the bowl, and ate. Within moments the noodles were gone. He set the bowl down and turned for the door. “I’ll go find out.”

Li Chi let out a long breath. So that Western Regions man, Jing Yanli, had been sharper than he’d given him credit for — he’d managed to track the party all the way to Tang County and bring someone back.

Li Chi turned to find Zhuang Wudi standing there, silent, expression unreadable. He’d been there for some time. His face was full of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Zhuang Wudi said. Three words. He snatched up his long blade and walked toward the door.

Li Chi grabbed his arm. “Don’t do anything rash. If we’re going to rescue someone, we get information first. Come back and eat.”

Zhuang Wudi was silent a moment. He shook his head. “I’ll wait.”

Then he went out, mounted his horse, and rode — likely toward the transport company office.

—

Jizhou Prefecture Offices.

Chief Constable Jiang Ran of the Jizhou Prefecture looked at the prisoner who had just been brought in and couldn’t help but let his expression shift.

Whoever had done this had been utterly savage. Yue Huanian’s four limbs were all broken. His jaw had been dislocated. His left ear had been torn off by bare hands — the ragged wound left behind was grotesque.

“Place him under arrest,” Jiang Ran said.

Jing Yanli looked at him. “But let word spread outside — let the people out there know that Yue Huanian is in the Jizhou Prefecture jail. His subordinates haven’t all been eliminated yet. Someone will come for him.”

Jiang Ran had no fondness for this man from the Western Regions. Not in the slightest. But he had no recourse.

Jing Yanli was currently the Prince’s most favored operative. He’d handled every assignment with precision and clean results, earning nothing but praise.

Jiang Ran had no wish to deal with him more than necessary, so he simply said: “Understood.”

“If the prisoner dies,” Jing Yanli said, “or if he’s actually rescued — I’ll come to you for an explanation. And you’ll pay for it with your life.”

Jiang Ran stopped mid-step.

He had once served as General of the Jizhou Military Garrison Command, commanding several thousand elite soldiers. Though fallen from those heights, he was now Chief Constable of the Prefecture — still Senior Fifth Grade, the same rank as a general.

He turned and looked at Jing Yanli, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you giving me orders? And then threatening me?”

Jing Yanli met his gaze, apparently unconcerned, and looked at Jiang Ran with contempt before turning to leave.

“Don’t move,” Jiang Ran said. “My words.”

Jing Yanli looked back. “You have a death wish?”

Jiang Ran gave a cold laugh. He raised a hand. “Everyone — bows ready. This Western Regions barbarian appears to be attempting violence against a government official. As the ancient sage said, those not of our kind harbor different hearts. Don’t wait for my order — if he dares to strike, cut him down on the spot.”

“Yes, sir!”

The constables closed in from all sides, surrounding Jing Yanli in a ring. Countless arrows were practically pointed at his face.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Jing Yanli asked.

“I know,” Jiang Ran said pleasantly, “that if you say one more word, I’ll tear your mouth off.”

Jing Yanli lifted his chin slightly. “Try it.”

Jiang Ran stepped back. “Release!”

“Wait!”

Someone entered from outside, first shooting Jiang Ran a sharp look, then turning to Jing Yanli. “Who are you?”

Jing Yanli immediately bowed his head. “Military Governor, sir — I am Jing Yanli, one of the Prince’s attendants. Surely you recognize me, sir.”

Military Governor Zeng Ling walked up until his face was nearly pressed against Jing Yanli’s, and said word by word: “I asked who you are. You answer who you are. Why do you also add the words ‘one of the Prince’s attendants’?”

Jing Yanli’s brow creased.

“The next time I ask who you are, the answer is who you are — nothing more. By adding ‘one of the Prince’s attendants,’ are you implying that after humiliating a Senior Fifth Grade Chief Constable, you’re free to humiliate a Military Governor as well?”

Jing Yanli withdrew immediately and bowed. “This subordinate would not dare.”

“Would not dare?”

“You are a man of the Western Regions,” Zeng Ling said, “yet you carry yourself more like an official than the Chief Constable himself — more like someone who gives the orders around here. I see.”

Jing Yanli was silent. He sank to both knees. “Governor, I beg forgiveness.”

Zeng Ling gave a short huff. “Remember your place. Don’t think that coming from the capital makes you superior to everyone else. As for where the capital belongs in the future — do you really have no idea? And besides all that, whatever else you may be, you’re still a man of the Western Regions.”

He waved a hand. “Get out.”

Jing Yanli and his men backed out of the room with heads lowered.

Zeng Ling turned back to Jiang Ran and gave him another pointed look. “You knew I was here. So you put on a performance for me to watch — wanted to see whether I’d save you or leave you to it?”

“Governor,” Jiang Ran said, “that barbarian was insufferable.”

“He’s nothing but a dog,” Zeng Ling said. “His master is the Prince, so naturally his dog acts with a bit of swagger.”

He patted Jiang Ran on the shoulder. “As for this Yue Huanian — there’s no need to keep him. Have it done tonight.” He lowered his voice. “If word of what happened in Pingchang County gets out, it reflects poorly on the Prince’s reputation. That Western Regions barbarian should have disposed of the man on the road. Instead he brought him back here on his own initiative.”

“The barbarian’s junior brother died in Pingchang,” Jiang Ran said. “He brought the man back to use him as bait — to lure out whoever helped Yue Huanian.”

“Which shows,” Zeng Ling said, “that he has no sense of priorities, no grasp of urgency, no understanding of affairs, and no judgment. Why are you getting worked up over someone like him? The Prince will deal with him in time.”

He raised his hand. “Look after yourself. Don’t make me clean up after you again. Otherwise, how can I put in a good word for you before the Prince in the future?”

Jiang Ran bowed deeply. “I see you out, Governor. My gratitude.”

But inwardly, he gave a cold laugh. A good word before the Prince? He’d been transferred from the Military Garrison Command to serve as Chief Constable of the Prefecture over a year ago. If any good word were coming, it would have come long before now.

He’d stopped caring.

Jiang Ran turned back to his men, then glanced at Yue Huanian. He waved an impatient hand. “Get him inside. And the rest of you — draw lots.”

The constables exchanged glances, expressions uneasy.

Whoever drew the lot would have to carry it out. Nobody wanted to be the one to do it.

Outside the prefectural offices, Jing Yanli paused for a moment, then turned and said quietly: “Post several men to watch the jail from the shadows. No one is to kill Yue Huanian ahead of schedule. No one. My junior brother did not die for nothing.”

—