Zhao Ren sat behind the long wooden counter as though he had been carved into it by time itself.
The herbal shop was spacious—far larger than most on the street—its high ceiling supported by dark beams that carried the faint scent of age and dried roots. Tall shelves lined the walls, each stacked with ceramic jars and bamboo drawers, their surfaces carefully labeled in elegant calligraphy. Sunlight filtered in through the open front, illuminating drifting dust motes and turning them into slow-moving sparks.
Yet Zhao Ren saw none of it.
His gaze rested on the street outside, steady and unblinking, as if his eyes were waiting for a single figure to appear and make the entire world shift.
If she comes today…
The thought surfaced before he could stop it.
If Liang Yue came today, she would pause at the threshold, just as she always did—half a step outside, half a step in—quietly adjusting the strap of her cloth basket. Her eyes would move first, scanning the shelves, the jars, the balance scale on the counter. Only then would she lift her head.
Perhaps this time, she would notice him first.
In his imagination, the moment unfolded with unsettling clarity. She would look up, startled, her dark eyes widening just slightly. Not fear—never fear—but surprise, like someone recognizing a familiar tune played on a different instrument. She might hesitate, uncertain whether to speak. Zhao Ren imagined himself standing then, offering a polite nod, his voice calm and unassuming as he asked what herbs she needed.
Maybe their fingers would brush when he handed her a bundle of dried leaves.
The thought sent a quiet warmth through his chest.
He imagined her smile—small, restrained, as if she were careful not to reveal too much of herself. He imagined her asking a question, something practical, something simple. He would answer slowly, thoughtfully, so she would not feel rushed. Perhaps she would linger a little longer than usual, pretending to examine another jar.
Perhaps—just perhaps—she would ask his name.
Zhao Ren lowered his gaze, exhaling softly through his nose.
Ridiculous, he told himself.
He had waited through battlefields and blizzards without letting his thoughts wander. And yet here he was, seated in an herbal shop, undone by the mere possibility of a young woman stepping through the door.
Before he could chase the thought away, footsteps approached.
A customer entered.
"Shopkeeper," the man said, bowing slightly. "I need astragalus root. How much per liang?"
Zhao Ren blinked.
"…Astragalus?" he repeated carefully.
The man nodded. "Yes. For strengthening qi."
Zhao Ren glanced over his shoulder at the shelves, scanning labels that suddenly looked far less familiar than they should have.
"I see," he said after a pause. Then, with a gesture that was both courteous and uncertain, he added, "Please… take what you need yourself."
The man hesitated. "You mean… from the shelf?"
"Yes," Zhao Ren replied. "And as for the price—" He paused, then spoke with measured calm. "Pay whatever you think is appropriate."
The man stared at him.
"…Whatever I think?" he repeated.
Zhao Ren nodded, his expression composed, though inwardly he felt a flicker of unease. He had no idea what astragalus root was worth. Less still did he know how much people expected it to be worth.
The man exchanged a glance with another customer who had just stepped in. Then, cautiously, he went to the shelf, selected a modest amount, and placed a few copper coins on the counter.
"Thank you," Zhao Ren said.
The man left, glancing back twice as though expecting to be stopped.
He was not.
Another customer came. Then another.
Word spread quickly.
Within an hour, the shop was full.
People came asking for licorice root, angelica, dried tangerine peel, even rare mountain herbs that Zhao Ren had never seen before today. Each time, he responded the same way—inviting them to take what they needed, instructing them to pay according to their conscience.
Some customers were cautious, paying generously out of suspicion or guilt. Others tested the boundaries, paying less, watching Zhao Ren's face for any sign of displeasure.
There was none.
Zhao Ren remained calm throughout, his posture relaxed, his hands resting lightly on the counter. Only his eyes moved—occasionally flicking toward the street, returning always to the same empty space.
Han Bo stood to one side, silent but alert, his expression growing more complicated by the minute.
"Are you certain," Zhao Ren asked quietly during a brief lull, "that she comes to this shop two or three times a week?"
Han Bo nodded. "Certain."
Zhao Ren's gaze did not leave the street. "Then why hasn't she come?"
"She was here yesterday," Han Bo replied. "If that's the case, today was unlikely."
Zhao Ren turned slowly. "You could have mentioned that earlier."
Han Bo lowered his eyes. "I didn't think it would matter."
Zhao Ren gave a short, humorless laugh. "It would have saved me a day of waiting."
He stood. "My waiting has failed. I'm leaving. You watch the shop."
And yet—
The next day, he returned.
And the day after that.
Liang Yue did not come.
But the people did.
The rumor of a shop where one could pay any price spread far beyond the street. People arrived from distant neighborhoods, some even from neighboring towns. They asked again and again, confirming the rule, their eyes bright with disbelief.
"Really? Any amount?"
Zhao Ren answered each time with the same calm nod.
The shop grew loud. Voices overlapped. Coins clinked. Han Bo's patience wore thin, but Zhao Ren endured it all, his eyes constantly searching the street beyond the crowd.
His men—disguised in plain clothing—stood at intervals along the road, pretending to browse stalls or chat idly, all waiting for the same signal.
Three days passed.
On the third afternoon, Zhao Ren let out a slow, restrained breath and turned toward Han Bo. Beneath the calm surface of his expression, impatience had begun to gather, heavy and unyielding.
"Is it possible," he asked quietly, "that she has started going to another shop? Or… why hasn't she come? Her father is a physician. Could it be that the herbs she took before haven't run out yet?"
Han Bo shook his head at once.
"No. That shouldn't be the case. I made inquiries. She has always come to this shop. She doesn't buy herbs from any other place nearby. And besides—" he gestured subtly toward the shelves lining the walls, "there are rare herbs here that even the larger, distant shops don't always have."
Zhao Ren's brows drew together. He cast a brief glance around the crowded shop, then said in a low voice,
"With so many people coming and going… won't all the herbs be gone before she arrives?"
Before Han Bo could respond, the atmosphere inside the shop changed.
Heavy footsteps struck the floor.
Several men entered at once, dressed in soldiers' uniforms. Their movements carried little of true military discipline; instead, there was an air of deliberate arrogance. Their shoulders were squared a bit too proudly, their boots striking the ground louder than necessary. Their eyes did not look at people as equals, but as prey—measuring fear, searching for submission.
One of them stepped forward. A crooked smile hung at the corner of his lips, his eyes glinting with calculation.
"We are soldiers of the king," he announced loudly. "By royal order, we are here to collect tax."
Zhao Ren slowly lifted his head. His gaze was calm, but something cold settled deep within it.
"The taxes were paid not long ago," he said evenly.
The man laughed—not with amusement, but with mockery.
"This is a special levy. Every shopkeeper is paying today. And if you refuse…" he dragged out the words deliberately, "…there will be severe punishment."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the shop.
"How can the king do this?"
"This is too cruel."
"Is there no justice left?"
Zhao Ren's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Each whispered complaint reached his ears, and every word poured fuel onto the fire burning inside his chest.
Suddenly, he straightened.
"Then we should go to the king himself," he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear. "I have heard that the king is a great and virtuous man."
He emphasized the last words just enough—intentionally.
For a brief moment, the smile on the soldier's face faltered. Then he narrowed his eyes and replied,
"The king is easily angered. If you bring such matters before him… he may even sentence you to death."
The shop fell into an uneasy silence.
Inside Zhao Ren, the fire surged violently. Though his face remained composed, a dark shadow settled in his eyes—the kind that appeared on the battlefield just before blood was spilled.
Han Bo took a subtle step forward. His muscles tensed, his gaze sharp, ready. He needed only a single command.
Zhao Ren turned his head slightly toward him.
"I trust," he said in a calm, controlled voice, "that you know very well how their tax should be paid."
Han Bo gave a small nod.
The men in soldiers' uniforms relaxed, certain now that they would leave with money in hand. Greed gleamed openly in their eyes.
Zhao Ren and Han Bo looked at them in silence. A faint smile curved both their lips—not a smile of concession, but the stillness before a storm.
My name bears enough infamy already, Zhao Ren thought coldly.
Let's see what becomes of you later.
At that very moment, one of Zhao Ren's men hurried in, breathless, and leaned close to whisper in his ear.
She was coming.
The fire in Zhao Ren's eyes vanished at once, as if smothered by a sudden rain. His voice dropped to a murmur.
"Pay them."
Han Bo stiffened in surprise.
"But—"
Zhao Ren stepped closer and spoke in a whisper meant for him alone.
"We'll deal with them later. I don't want Liang Yue to see them. If she does, she might turn away and never enter the shop. I won't allow that."
Han Bo said nothing more.
Zhao Ren quickly adjusted his hair, straightened his robes, and seated himself properly, arranging his posture as though the past several days of waiting had left no trace upon him.
Han Bo handed over the money. The impostors accepted it with satisfied expressions and left the shop.
And then—
Liang Yue appeared.
She stopped before the shop.
But she did not enter.
Her gaze drifted to the flower stall across the street, where several rare medicinal flowers were displayed. She crossed over, selecting carefully, her movements gentle and deliberate.
Zhao Ren watched her as if the world had narrowed to her silhouette.
When she turned back, her eyes lifted—and met his.
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw Chen.
The resemblance struck her so suddenly that she forgot to breathe. Her chest tightened, memories rising unbidden—the riverbank, the armor, the silence.
She took a step forward, then another.
And then she realized.
It was not him.
Her expression shifted—confusion, then composure. She steadied herself and entered the shop.
Zhao Ren watched her closely, a thousand unspoken questions reflected in his eyes.
She did not recognize him.
And yet—
For the first time in days, his waiting had meaning