For several days in a row, Ji Ming drifted through his time in idle leisure.
Old Zhongli was nowhere to be seen. Hu Tao had taken Steward Meng off to Wuwang Hill for work. Xiangling was so busy that her ladle never left her hand.
Work at the Yuehai Pavilion only grew heavier by the day. Ganyu would occasionally ask Ji Ming to help with small, harmless tasks—nothing tiring—but most of the time she remained buried in documents, utterly absorbed.
The Yun-Han Opera Troupe was on hiatus. Miss Yun Jin was likely revising her scripts. She seemed to have taken Ji Ming's advice to heart—perhaps a little too to heart—and was now worried that the troupe might accidentally evolve into a rock band.
And just like that, Ji Ming found himself with absolutely nothing to do.
Right when boredom from this lack of "action" was setting in, the eight sworn brothers of the Old Ninth Sect finally showed up at his door—carrying with them a pile of oddly shaped cold weapons, each one wrapped in oilcloth, every man radiating murderous intent.
"Fourth Brother," Ji Ming asked, blinking, "what's the meaning of this?"
It had been so long since any real fighting that he'd nearly forgotten his old trade. He stared blankly at the bundled weapons—then suddenly understood.
So that was it. These righteous brothers of his had barely been out of prison before getting restless again. They'd discussed raising funds at the teahouse a few days ago; today must be the reconnaissance phase.
Before Broken-Finger Chen could explain, Ji Ming spoke first.
"Fourth Brother—who's today's target?"
"We'll see as we go. Today's just to feel things out. You don't need to show yourself, Ninth Brother—your identity's a bit special now."
"If you still recognize me as your Ninth Brother," Ji Ming said calmly, "don't say things like that again."
He glanced over the weapons and chuckled. Judging from the dirt and rust on the blades, these had clearly been buried before they were arrested.
Half-Dragon Zhao picked out a mountain-cleaver saber, weighed it in his hand, tested the balance, then tossed it to Ji Ming.
"This one was seized from a Treasure Hoarder by Third Brother years ago. Not as good as an adventurer's weapon, but usable. Rust isn't too bad either."
Ji Ming caught it. The blade was under a meter long, the hilt fit for one hand—just a short saber, but decent enough for self-defense.
Liyue's authorities strictly regulated weapons and armor. Carrying either required实名登记—official registration. That was why the Old Ninth Sect had buried arms all over the place back in the day.
"Alright," Ji Ming said. "I'll take the main street. You guys haven't been out in years—you won't be familiar with it. Hit the other streets."
After a brief reminder, he slid the saber to his waist, concealed it beneath his long robe, and left the courtyard, heading south from Feiyun Slope toward Liyue Harbor's main street.
The main street connected directly to the docks—far more prosperous than any other part of the city. But Ji Ming knew well: beneath that visible bustle lay endless shadows.
Ever since the adepti and the ancestors founded Liyue, gangs had existed on its soil. Gang warfare had plagued Liyue Harbor for thousands of years. Countless factions had risen and fallen, and the common people had suffered through it all.
The Liyue authorities couldn't manage it—or rather, didn't want to. The lofty officials all had families behind them, and those families each had their own "dirty work" gangs.
Human relations were the true law of Liyue Harbor. Crack down too hard on gangs, and you might wipe out another family's faction—instantly making them mortal enemies unless your compensation outweighed the value of an entire gang.
Groups like the Old Ninth Sect, with no background to speak of, naturally became perfect tools for padding officials' résumés.
Ji Ming smacked his lips and squatted by the roadside, watching the flow of carts and people. Suddenly thirsty, he called to a nearby stall.
"Boss lady, got any tea? I'll take a bowl—anything's fine as long as it quenches thirst."
The stall owner was oddly dressed: a fisherman's bamboo hat with a veil hanging down, a straw raincloak over her shoulders, completely wrapped up. Her appearance was impossible to make out.
Some rich young lady out here playing at 'experiencing life,' maybe?
She didn't speak. Just handed him a bowl of tea. Her right hand looked soft as water—nothing like the hands of someone who ran a stall daily.
Ji Ming didn't dwell on it. He drank it down in one go.
"How much?"
She raised two fingers, studying him through the veil—her gaze lingering on his waist, where something bulky was hidden.
Ji Ming handed over two Mora, then smiled and offered some friendly advice.
"You might want to shout a bit, you know. Doing business this quietly won't attract customers. Look at your同行—everyone else is yelling their lungs out."
Still no response. She just kept staring at him, making Ji Ming frown.
Finding it dull, he looked back toward the street—and spotted an old acquaintance. He chuckled.
Then he said casually to the stall owner,
"See that sleazy guy over there? Yeah, the short, dark one. He's probably coming to hassle you. When he does, don't say a word—let me scare him."
He crouched behind the stall, propping his cheek on one hand, grinning at her mischievously. He could practically feel her speechless exasperation.
"Hey! You new here?" the man barked as he approached. "Never heard of my rules? New stalls pay ten thousand Mora up front, then five thousand a month for protection! Why haven't you paid?"
When the stall owner didn't respond, Nine-Tattooed Dragon scowled.
"The hell? Deaf? You dare ignore me? Don't you know I run this place?"
"No idea," Ji Ming replied mildly, standing up from behind the stall. "Aren't you supposed to run Chihu Rock?"
Nine-Tattooed Dragon's face went white.
Ji Ming smiled without warmth, enjoying the terror.
"So tell me—what do you run, exactly?"
Remembering his brother-in-law's warning, Nine-Tattooed Dragon recognized him at once—someone from the Old Ninth Sect. Their reputation was infamous: harmless to civilians, utterly ruthless to同行.
His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees at once, forcing a grin.
"I—I misspoke! I don't run anything! Only you, Ninth Lord, are fit to run the main street! Hell, you could run all of Liyue Harbor!"
"Mm. Not bad. Now get lost."
Ji Ming sighed inwardly. Just a small-time thug leaning on family connections—not even close to a real gang member. Letting him go was fine.
Watching the man flee, Ji Ming took another sip of tea, leisurely observing the lively street.
"Ji Ming," a familiar voice said, "does Ganyu know about your current situation?"
…That voice.
Ji Ming set the wooden bowl down slowly. Ignoring the stall owner beside him, he walked around to the front and looked up at the carved wooden signboard.
Five bold characters stared back at him:
Li Family Beef Offal
He turned to the woman.
"Lady Yuheng… that tea just now—"
"I brought it myself," she replied flatly. "Haven't had the chance to drink it yet."
Ji Ming held out the bowl, his gaze clear and earnest.
"Then… would you still like it now?"
Keqing:
"..."
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