The candle beside him had long since guttered out, leaving only the glow of coals in the brazier and the soft flick of shadows on the silk-paneled walls. Below, the city still murmured… the voices of its people drifting through the alleys like ghosts too restless to sleep.
Sun Yizhen—though no one here dared call him that—stood barefoot at the center of the floor, silk robes half open, his hair tied back in a loose black knot. The lacquer tray before him held five sealed scrolls. The wax was unbroken. The messages inside already known.
He'd heard them spoken before they were written. That was the thing about secrets in this city—none of them ever stayed quiet for long. Not when he owned the ears.
He reached for the second scroll. Cracked the seal.
Inside, a simple update: Baiguang had pulled back four units from the rice trail. No battle, no engagement. Just vanished from the supply line and rerouted northeast.
Interesting.
