Back in the dormitory, Lin Yan did not open the oilcloth bundle.
He lay on the hard plank bed and forced his eyes shut, the perfect patient hunter.
Only when dawn began to gray the windows, when the other men stirred and the yard erupted with the sounds of axes, buckets, and braying mules, did he "wake" with the rest and begin his day as usual.
He moved as he always did—silent, diligent, almost invisible.
But every sense was sharpened to a knife's edge, a net stretched taut to catch the slightest tremor.
Wang's warning tolled in his head: "Those men aren't local. Hard hands. Killer eyes."
For all he knew, those eyes were already inside the inn.
He needed a place absolutely safe—alone, unobserved.
The chance came at noon. Wang sent him to the deepest wood shed to tally a fresh delivery and stack the logs—long, dirty work no one would interrupt.
The shed was dim and damp, crammed with split timber and rough trunks. Resin and dust stung the nose.
After a careful look around, Lin Yan pulled several bundles into a crude screen in the corner, turned his back to the door, crouched, and drew the heavy bundle from his breast. His heart hammered.
The oilcloth was old and stiff, bound tight. He worked it loose in silence.
Inside were not letters or manuals, but two objects.
First: a key—odd in form, black and cold, neither iron nor copper. Its teeth were intricate, alien—unlike any lockwork he had seen.
Second: a folded sheet of cured lambskin. He opened it gingerly. No words—only hair-thin ink lines forming a stark, simple map.
Its starting shape was clearly Sishui Town. A single winding route ran west, over marked hills and rivers, ending at a point touched with cinnabar. Beside that red dot, a rough symbol—something like a hatchet.
In the lower right corner, a few crooked charcoal scrawls, as if written in haste and secrecy:
"Three hundred li west. Heishui Fort. Find the Butcher."
A key.
A map.
A "Butcher."
Lin Yan's brow tightened. What had the mute left him? What lock did this key open?
What was Heishui Fort? And the "Butcher"—a codename, or a literal slaughterman?
Was the map leading to the blacksmith's hiding place—or to something else he'd cached for the "son of an old friend"?
Questions swarmed without a single firm answer.
But one thing was certain: the blacksmith had not vanished by chance. He'd foreseen the danger and left a trail—westward, toward a place that sounded anything but clean.
Lin Yan memorized every contour of the lambskin map, every bend and mark, until he could see it with his eyes closed. Then he took out a fire-striker, hesitated, and bit down on doubt.
The corner caught.
Flame licked, flared, fed.
In moments, the map curled into a small mound of blackened ash. He could leave no physical trace.
He tucked the cold black key against his skin beside the jade pendant and the iron token.
Three secrets.
Three hopes.
Three fuses, waiting for a spark.
He scattered the ash into the dust and resin on the floor, then set to stacking timber as if nothing had happened.
By dusk, he sought out the innkeeper.
"Master Wang," he said, head bowed, voice hoarse, "thank you for sheltering me. I've decided… I'll leave at first light. Head west. See if there's a road for me out there."
Wang looked up from his accounts, studying him for a long heartbeat. He asked nothing. He only nodded. "Good. Travel carefully."
He drew a small, sturdy cloth pouch from under the counter and pushed it across.
"Some flatbreads, a bit of dried meat… and a few coppers. Consider it a send-off."
Lin Yan stared at the pouch, a mix of feelings knotting in his chest. He bowed deeply. "Your kindness—I won't forget."
Wang waved him off and bent back over his ledger.
Night folded over Sishui Town once more. Lin Yan lay awake on the common boards, letting the brief, false peace seep into his bones one last time. Tomorrow he would set out again—not drifting in blind flight, but following a road with a name and a distance:
Three hundred li west—Heishui Fort.
What waited there? Bandits entrenched in some ravine stronghold?
Another snare set by Gao Wenchang?
Or the first true foothold on the path of vengeance?
He closed his eyes and saw the map's lone red dot—like a drop of blood on white skin.
A dragon sunk deep must one day stir.
Before dawn's first light, he slung a small bundle over his shoulder and slipped through the inn's back door, into the mist.
He did not see the figure beneath the eaves of the shuttered shop across the street—
eyes cold as a hawk's, patient as winter.
That gaze followed him into the fog—measuring, questioning—
and curved, at last, into the thin smile of a hunter who has watched the burrow long enough to see the prey emerge.
Behind him, Sishui closed like water.
Ahead, the mist thickened—
and within it, the scent of steel.