A night gust lifted the corner of a silk brief on the desk of the Qingzhou Castellan's study.
Xuanhu stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, a mountain-shaped shadow. Candlelight flickered at his back, washing the desk where a opened cipher lay—few words, each like a blade.
"…The redeemed courtesan Bihua is in truth the late Mu clan's surviving daughter from the War Stratagem Bureau—birth name Mu Wanhua… Thirty years ago the Mu household was annihilated; an infant girl was extracted by the Inner Guard and disappeared…"
Xuanhu lowered his eyes, tapping the desk with a knuckle, thinking a long while.
Since taking Qingzhou, he had brushed the kingdom's hidden ledger; of course he knew the true bones of that extermination. One of the Six Directorates, the Mu line had been stripped and destroyed overnight—rumor swirled, but none dared pry too deeply.
Now a single sheet raised the dead again—and pointed at a widow who should have blown off with the dust of the past.
His gaze fell to the last line:
"Do not move yet—observe in secret. If she seeks out old contacts or begins probing, remove her without delay."
He closed the letter and slipped it back into its box, sighing under his breath. "So those people still refuse to let go."
He sat, called for wine, and looked up into the night. "Bihua… or Mu Wanhua… If you truly know certain things, even I won't be able to keep you safe."
—
Elsewhere, a good ten li from Muyun, the small village of Sanghe had already sunk into night. Outside the village stood a vine-choked stone pagoda, weathered and long neglected.
A gray blur skimmed through the trees and came to rest before it.
Qingshui halted, studying the ruin. However long it had stood, it still had not fallen.
She flicked her fingers; an octagonal copper plate slipped from her sleeve and began to orbit the pagoda, as if tasting the air.
"As I thought. The ley here is severed. What are the four wardens even doing that we have to check these one by one."
She crouched, feeling along the base until her fingertip found a hairline crack hidden under moss.
The array eye that should pool the earth's breath had been sealed—by human hands—and with artful care. Without the Water-Luminary compass in her palm, no one would have noticed.
"This method again…" She narrowed her eyes and rose. "Same as the other sites: cut the vein, draw calamity. Soon the village yields will fail, disease will take hold."
Wind tugged her hems. Leaves hissed. A chill winked along her spine.
"Am I here to mend the imbalance… or cover the crime?"
She stared at the pagoda's peak, long and still.
She remembered the Water Luminary's order at dispatch: "Verify whether a force is sabotaging Haihan Circuit's ninety-nine warding pylons. Track those responsible."
So why was she always a step too late?
As if someone moved ahead of her—break, depart—and she, forever behind, could not catch a sleeve.
With a small sigh, she took out a narrow box. Inside, liquid silver shimmered. She scooped a smear; her fingertip glowed with starlight.
She pressed that starlight into the crack, lips shaping a quiet spell. The bright strand paled, sank, and the fissure closed as if it had never been.
Done, she sprang to the treetops and flowed back toward Muyun along her incoming path.
Deep beneath the mended seam, a thread-fine gleam still quivered—like an eyelid not fully shut—lurking in the earth.
—
At first wash of light, Muyun woke.
In the little courtyard on Willow Lane, no smoke rose yet, but a wooden thunk—thunk sounded on the packed earth.
Qingshui sat cross-legged, a blade of grass in her teeth, tapping a stick against the ground with one hand while pointing at the doorway with the other. "Out. If you don't, I'm coming in."
A tangle-haired Layne stumbled out, rubbing his eyes. "Whyy— I thought you're teaching me today."
"I am," Qingshui nodded. "After I test you."
"Test what?"
"Whether I can make you cry."
"Huh?" Layne froze.
Bihua stepped out with a washbasin and frowned. "Why are you hitting him?"
"I'm not really hitting," Qingshui grinned, tossing Layne a shaved stick. "I'm testing whether he can avoid it."
Bihua set down the basin and folded her arms, watching without a word.
Unbothered, Qingshui rummaged out a small cloth pouch and tipped a few river stones into her palm. "If you want to train, first learn your own measure."
She lobbed one.
Layne flailed aside and nearly tripped.
She tossed the second.
"Hey—heyhey—wait—!" He yelped and scrambled again.
She stayed her hand on the third and yawned. "Not bad. Some reflex."
"You're throwing rocks at me!" Layne protested.
"I didn't throw hard." She was perfectly matter-of-fact. "If you stand and eat it without moving, it means your path is… enduring blows."
Bihua asked quietly, "You truly know the arts?"
Qingshui shrugged and smiled. "You still don't believe me?"
"I want to know how you'll teach. What's the principle of tossing stones?"
"First teach him not to get hit and cry," Qingshui winked. "Then teach him to punch until others do."
Bihua's face gave nothing away. "You have one day." She went to boil water for Layne's wash.
"Today we train: standing stake, stepping, circling, and—stone-avoidance."
"Stone… avoidance?"
"Mm." She fished out another handful with a sunny smile. "Free stones today. Pain included."
Layne gaped. "This counts as martial arts?"
"Dodge." She clapped. "Not all training is forms and flourishes. Some people spend a lifetime practicing one thing—running."
"What's that school called?"
"School of Staying Alive," she bared her teeth. "Specialty of its disciples: living."
From inside, the corner of Bihua's eye twitched—but she held her peace.
The sun climbed the eaves, warm light washing the yard. Qingshui, toe light on the dirt, moved with that odd blend of looseness and hidden weight. Layne suddenly felt it: perhaps this ragged woman truly knew a thing or two.
—
After lunch the little table was still warm. Layne lay on it bonelessly, having been pelted all morning, then run through stances until noon. He poked at the last two grains of rice.
Lounging in the doorway with a tea cup, Qingshui watched Bihua wash bowls and went, "Huh."
"We've been sharing a courtyard and I still don't know your names."
Layne shot up a hand. "I'm Layne!"
"Easy to remember," she squinted. "Again, carefully. If I shout wrong in the street, we'll both look foolish."
"Lái—like 'come'; and -ne is… um… '恩'…" He flailed for an explanation.
"Got it, Lái-mm." She spared him and turned to Bihua. "And you? I can't keep calling 'hey, hey, hey.'"
Bihua's hands paused on a bowl. "Bì, as in jasper; Huá, as in splendor."
"Tsk," Qingshui clicked her tongue. "A Layne and a Bihua—names too pretty to eat."
"What good is pretty," Bihua said mild as water, "if you can't fry it for supper. If you could, you'd be named Rice-Bowl."
Qingshui choked. "So you do bite."
Bihua smiled. The distance between them shortened a hair.
Then Qingshui seemed to remember something dire and asked Layne, "Who handles the money at home?"
"My mother."
"And who cooks?"
"My mother."
Qingshui's eyes widened, then slowly cut back to Bihua wiping bowls. "So if I want more dishes, more bedding, more coal… I'll have to please your mother first?"
Layne nodded hard.
Qingshui sighed. "This life isn't as easy as I imagined."
Bihua almost laughed aloud and retreated into the inner room.
Qingshui watched her go and murmured the names under her breath—"Bihua, Layne"—as if writing them stroke by stroke on her tongue. She leaned back, sunlight painting her face in lazy warmth.
—
Nightfold. Muyun sank into quiet.
In the dark courtyard, lamps were out. Bihua and Layne slept deep; the boy muttered in his dreams—clearly martial training wasn't lighter than the classics. A rim of fire still warmed the kitchen, light pooling in the curve of a fallen tea bowl.
On the roof, Qingshui sat on the ridge in a thin coat, legs swinging, a new stem between her teeth. Tonight the stars were thinner, as if some gauze veiled the sky's eye.
She looked down at the mild clay-brick house, even the window paper glowing with the color of sleep.
"Bihua. Layne." She repeated their names soundlessly, eyes unreadable.
"Travelers, that's all," she whispered—to herself more than anyone. She turned a blue jade token in her fingers; in its center one character—Li—ringed by ripples like water.
She knew what she was doing.
Maybe Bihua's guard still bristled; maybe the child's eyes were too clean. All day she had asked little and written nothing. But she knew—if nothing stirred by tomorrow, she would have to send the stage report.
"Pieces can't idle," she chuckled softly. "Or other pieces will take them."
She pocketed the badge and readied to slip back inside—then lifted her head.
Far to the east, a glimmer flared and died.
Her smile thinned. Eyes narrowed. "Interesting. Again?"
—
Qingzhou, the same night.
The cipher was out on Xuanhu's desk once more. He rolled a black-lacquered dagger under his fingers, gaze on the line below the ink:
"If she seeks out old contacts or begins probing, remove her without delay."
Three soft taps of steel on wood. A shadow separated from the darkness at his back.
"Watch Mu Wanhua and Layne. Muyun, Willow Lane. Without showing yourselves."
"Yes."
Propped at his desk, Xuanhu's eyes lowered. "May you know nothing—then at least this life may yet be spared."