54. 900-Year Old Cold Case

The first shop I enter specializes in talismans. Paper charms with fire and protection motifs, some glowing faintly, most inert. The proprietor is a Qi Condensation woman who barely looks up from her work. The prices are fair but not cheap. I buy nothing. The second shop sells pill bottles and spatial storage artifacts. I browse, Gaze active, finding nothing undervalued. The owner is a Foundation Establishment man who watches me with the particular attention of someone who thinks I might steal something. I leave.

I check Elder Frostheart’s map again, the parchment with its faded ink and outdated landmarks. I cross-reference it with a newer map bought from a street vendor. The streets have changed. The buildings have changed. The city has been rebuilt, expanded, renovated, layer upon layer. The location Frostheart marked for Wei Song’s workshop could be anywhere. I find nothing. A teahouse occupies the spot where the map says the workshop should be. It is ordinary, unremarkable, hiding nothing special. I keep perusing.

The third shop catches my eye; a hammer and a stylized wave carved into the lintel. Spirit tools. I push open the door. The owner is a middle-aged man with the focused hands of someone who works with metal daily. His fingers are stained, his nails blunt, his palms calloused. He looks up from a sword hilt he’s been repairing.

I ask, carefully, about his training. Craftsmen usually talk when someone seems genuinely interested. He is no exception. His master’s name means nothing to me. His master’s master died sixty years ago; a competent craftsman, Ling says. But the master’s master’s master—he has to think, counting generations on his fingers. Apparently studied under an old man in the eastern province. That old man was known for working on spirit tools that other craftsmen wouldn’t touch. He taught dozens of disciples. And he had an odd ability to “hear” the weapon.

“Do you know,” I ask, still casual, still browsing a display of unremarkable sword guards, “of anyone in the city who specializes in restoring ancient weapons? Damaged during a tribulation.”

He thinks. “There’s the Heavenly Craft Guild in the northern district. They take anything.”

He pauses.

“And there’s one independent craftsman. Old man. Has a shop somewhere near the eastern wall—I’ve never been, but I’ve heard the name.” He frowns, searching his memory. “Wei something. Wei Zhen? Wei Zheng? He doesn’t advertise. A bit eccentric. But he can fix anything.”

My expression does not move.

“Wei Zheng,” I repeat.

“Somewhere near there. I couldn’t tell you exactly.” He shrugs. “He mostly turns people away. Very selective. Only takes work that interests him.”

I thank him, buy a small set of formation flag connectors for Lian at a fair price, and leave. Outside, I stop and breathe the city air.

Wei Song. A style of work attributed to a founder. A lineage that traces its name back.

‘Wei Zheng. Near the eastern wall. The names could be just a coincidence. I can’t be too sure until I see him for myself.’

I set the name beside Frostheart’s map in my mind. I’ll find him tomorrow. For now, I need information of a different kind.

“I need to find someone who trades in information. Discreetly.”

He studies me for a moment. Then he jerks his chin toward the eastern end of the street.

“Two streets that way, past the baker’s stall with the blue awning. Look for a door with a red lantern.”

“The kind that’s lit?”

“If you have to ask more questions, you’re not the kind of customer they want.”

I don’t ask more questions. The street is narrow, the buildings old, the lanterns few. I find the baker’s stall and turn east. The doors blur together after a while. Wood, paint, iron handles.

Then I see it. A red lantern, hung beside a door, turned so the color faces the wall. Barely visible. Deliberately hidden.

I knock. Three quick. Two slow. One more quick.

The door opens. The woman inside is plain. Gray robes, pinned hair, unremarkable face. She could be anyone.

“Come in. Sit.”

The room beyond is small, well-lit, deliberately neutral. No decorations. No personal touches. Just a desk, two chairs, and a woman who looks like an accountant.

“What are you looking for?”

No preamble. No password. The knock pattern was enough. I settle into the chair.

“Golden Vein Trading Company.”

She doesn’t react.

“Legitimate business. Trading routes across the eastern provinces. Offices in Celestial Jade City and three satellites.”

“I know that. What I don’t know,” I say, “is what’s not in the public records.”

She tilts her head. “That depends on how deep you want to go.”

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“The deeper the better.”

She names a price. I pay. She takes the stones, counts them once, sets them aside and begins to speak. She gives me trade routes and shipping patterns. Useful noise. Then she says the thing that matters.

“–The company was founded by a disciple of the Violet Sky Sect.”

My chest tightens. I keep my face neutral.

“Which branch?”

“That costs more.”

I pay again.

“The Southern branch,” she says. “The disciple has since moved to the main branch as an elder, having been promoted due to their contributions.”

My region. The Coiling Dragon Sect’s region. The tributes we pay, the authority we answer to.

She says nothing else. There is nothing else to say. I thank her and leave. Outside, I stop and breathe.

Golden Vein is affiliated with Violet Sky.