Since the "silk incident," Lin Yan's position at the inn had shifted in subtle ways. Innkeeper Wang no longer confined him to chopping wood and hauling water; sometimes he was asked to check simple ledgers, or to write letters for illiterate travelers. The pay was meager, but it gave him moments of respite—time to think, to observe, to plan—rather than losing himself in endless physical toil.
He made careful use of this hard-won "leisure," turning his attention outward. His best source of information was Zhao Qi. The young constable, guileless and open-hearted, could be coaxed into talk with nothing more than a bowl of coarse tea or a piece of malt candy.
From Zhao's scattered tales, Lin Yan pieced together the power lines of Sishui Town: the magistrate, whose ties to local gentry ran deep; the clerks and aides who managed law and finance, each with their own networks; and Wang the innkeeper, who after more than ten years in this crossroad of merchants, drifters, and petty officials, clearly possessed influence that went far beyond a humble inn.
"Our Master Wang—he's got ears everywhere," Zhao once boasted in a conspiratorial whisper. "Even the county yamen comes to drink tea with him when they want to know what's happening on the streets."
Lin Yan etched it into memory. He knew he was walking on the thinnest of ice. One misstep, and he would be lost forever. He had to find this "Mute Uncle"—the iron token's promised contact, perhaps his first foothold on the road of vengeance. But searching for him must raise no suspicion.
The chance came on a drizzling afternoon. Zhao Qi ducked into the inn to escape the rain, grumbling about a case:
"…You know Qingshi Alley in the west of town? At the end there's a blacksmith shop. The owner's a mute, a strange fellow, kept to himself. Shop's been shut for half a month. Then, word came from the neighboring county—an outlaw might've slipped into our area. Someone claimed to see a stranger near that alley. I went to check, but the smithy was locked tight. Neighbors say the mute vanished without a trace. Not a word, not a body. Nothing."
Qingshi Alley. The mute blacksmith.
Lin Yan's heart pounded, blood surging to his temples. He forced his expression into blank indifference, even managing to pour Zhao another bowl of coarse tea.
"The mute blacksmith… vanished?" he rasped, feigning idle curiosity.
"Exactly!" Zhao sighed. "Alive, he's gone. Dead, no corpse. And in this cursed weather, I still have to chase phantoms."
Lin Yan asked no more. He knew that every extra word was a risk. Yet never had his goal seemed so near—or so ominous. If "Mute Uncle" had truly disappeared, was it mere coincidence? Or was it tied to the Ling family's downfall?
In the following days, Lin Yan used errands for Innkeeper Wang as cover to take detours toward Qingshi Alley. The place was narrow and damp, reeking of coal ash and iron rust, a poor quarter of craftsmen and laborers. At the far end, the smithy stood shuttered, a rusty padlock hanging from its door. Moss crept up the stone steps. Clearly abandoned.
He dared not go close, dared not question the neighbors. He was only a menial at the inn; any undue curiosity might draw notice. He could only linger at the mouth of the alley, memorizing its layout, the flow of people, possible vantage points.
But on his third visit, feigning a casual stroll, a chill seized him—a sense of being watched, sharp and cold as a serpent coiling along his spine.
He snapped his gaze toward a shabby stall across the way where a man kneaded dough for flatbread. Nothing amiss. Yet from the second floor of a teahouse diagonally opposite, behind a half-rolled bamboo screen, shadows shifted. He could not make them out.
Illusion? Or…
Lin Yan lowered his head at once, lengthened his stride, and blended into the flow of passersby, heart hammering against his ribs. He dared not look back. It was the same suffocating danger he had felt in the capital, when the hunters closed in.
Could it be… that Gao Wenchang's claws had already reached even this remote town? Were they searching for the mute uncle as well? Or worse—had they caught his scent?
That night, lying in the crowded dormitory of the inn, Lin Yan stared into the dark. The excitement of finding a lead had given way to cold dread.
The shadows in Qingshi Alley hid more than one missing blacksmith. They might well conceal a snare, a trap laid precisely for him. The iron token against his chest seemed to burn with heat.
What now? Dare he probe deeper, or should he bide his time, waiting for the safer moment?
Outside, the wind keened like mourning wraiths. He knew he was in the midst of a vast, unseen game of chess, and the enemy might already have set the board. That locked smithy—was it a doorway to hope, or the mouth of a pit with no return?