Morning broke like it always did—soft light spilling across the rooftops, the teahouse's painted shutters creaking open with the breeze. The scent of steamed buns drifted through the kitchen, mingling with traces of plum and roasted barley. For the first time in weeks, there was peace.
Ziyan sat at the ledger table, brushing ink across parchment with slow, steady strokes. The logbook had grown thicker—suppliers, clients, hush payments, deliveries coded under aliases. Business had become survival, and survival had become routine.
Across the courtyard, Feiyan adjusted her sword belt while sipping lukewarm tea. She watched the open yard like a hawk, always alert—even now. But there was a slowness to her stance today, almost reluctant. For once, there was nothing to fight.
"You're watching too hard," Ziyan said without looking up.
Feiyan shrugged. "Quiet mornings are suspicious."
Ziyan smiled faintly. "Or maybe they're just mornings."
In the courtyard, Shuye stumbled backward, his wooden practice sword clashing awkwardly against Li Qiang's. The boy didn't speak—he never did—but the way he moved was precise, brutal, efficient. He stepped without sound, countered with minimal effort, and never struck harder than necessary.
Shuye wiped sweat from his brow and circled again, jaw tight with determination. "Again," he muttered.
Feiyan crossed her arms. "Still at it?"
"He's been training every morning," Ziyan said, glancing over. "Ever since the fight with the traffickers."
Feiyan's expression softened. "Good. He promised he would. Said he never wanted to watch helplessly again."
They watched in silence as Li Qiang knocked Shuye's blade aside, then stepped back, nodding once. Shuye exhaled and sank to one knee, panting. Despite his soreness, there was satisfaction in his face.
"Progress," Feiyan murmured. "Slow, but real."
In the teahouse's back hall, Lianhua adjusted the ribbons on her blouse before entering the main room with a tray of cups. Her movements were fluid now—graceful but deliberate, confident. No one told her what to do anymore. She had carved out her role as bookkeeper and hostess, striking deals with a sharp tongue and a merchant's poise.
Yet even as the morning unfolded like clockwork, something tugged at the edges of Ziyan's senses—a wrongness she couldn't name.
It came to her just before midday, in the form of a visitor.
A man in fine travel robes stepped through the doorway, flanked by two silent retainers. His gaze swept the interior—not hostile, but evaluating, as if checking a balance sheet.
"Master Guo," Ziyan greeted coolly. "You're early."
"I prefer to arrive unannounced," he replied, bowing slightly. "I find it reveals more truth."
He took a seat without invitation. One of his men set down a scroll.
"I've reviewed your most recent shipments. The numbers don't lie, Miss Li—but neither do rumors."
Ziyan's eyes narrowed. "Rumors are cheap."
"And dangerous," Guo countered. "Your associate—Duan Rulan—has gone missing. Her outposts are shuttered. Her caravans seized. And yet you remain... open."
Feiyan stepped closer, arms folded.
"Are you accusing her of something?"
"I'm saying," Guo said calmly, "that certain investors are wondering if this chaos began when you arrived."
Silence thickened the air.
Ziyan met his eyes. "If you're here to pull your money, do it. But don't pretend this empire was clean before I walked in."
Master Guo didn't flinch. "We don't need saints. We need stability."
Ziyan's voice dropped. "Then you backed the wrong woman."
A pause. Guo rose without further word and left the scroll behind.
When the door shut, Lianhua muttered, "So it begins."
Ziyan picked up the scroll, unrolling it with care. Inside were revised terms—harsher conditions, less support, and a clause allowing investors to withdraw with a single missed payment.
"They're baiting you," Feiyan said. "Trying to shake your footing."
"They'll find out I don't rattle so easily."
But her voice lacked its usual certainty.
That night, the teahouse closed early. The staff—just five of them now—retreated to their rooms. Only Ziyan remained in the main hall, the lamplight throwing long shadows across the floor.
She should have gone to bed. But she couldn't shake the feeling.
Rulan hadn't sent word in three days.
Not a note. Not a runner. Not even one of her hidden signs.
Ziyan had dismissed it at first. Rulan moved in silence, often disappearing when necessary. But this was different.
Too many threads had gone still at once.
She stepped into the private wing and stared at the empty room Rulan used on rare visits. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing was packed.
As if she meant to return.
Li Qiang stood in the doorway behind her, silent as ever. He didn't ask questions. But his stillness was telling.
"She's gone," Ziyan said quietly.
He didn't nod. He didn't need to.
Feiyan found her outside just before midnight, standing near the koi pond, watching moonlight shiver across the water.
"She'd never leave without a message," Feiyan said.
"I know."
"And the investors are watching us now. If she's really gone... we're exposed."
"I know."
Feiyan hesitated. Then, gently: "You don't have to carry all of this alone."
Ziyan looked down at her palm. The lotus mark shimmered faintly, reflecting moonlight like fire behind glass.
"I don't plan to," she said.
She turned toward the road—toward the gates that led deeper into the capital, and beyond.
Feiyan watched her with unreadable eyes.
"What now?"
Ziyan's voice was steady.
"Now I find her."