67. A Frog at the Bottom of the Well Watching Dragons Fight

I sit in the chair near the door, my senses extended, my eyes occasionally drifting to the glass. No movement or lingering shadows, but I don’t dare to rest my eyes. Ling’er writes. The brush scratches across paper, soft and relentless.

There is a kind of fatigue that comes from physical labor. There is another kind that comes from mental effort. And then there is the fatigue that comes from knowing someone is watching you and not knowing why. At some point, I do not know when, the scratching stops, and I look up. Ling’er is slumped over on the floor, her head resting on her folded arms, the brush still in her hand. The pages are scattered around her. I collect them. Eighteen manuals. Some from Qi Condensation to Foundation Establishment, for those she found avenues to build upon. I read through each one. Sword arts. Unarmed techniques. Elemental manipulations. Some are complete. Some are fragments, notes she intended to finish in the morning. But even the fragments are useful.

I recognize the gaps immediately.

Mei Lin’s hesitation. Wei Chen’s unstable footing. Jun’s lack of finishing power. The younger disciples still fumbling toward paths of their own. These manuals are answers to them. I stack the completed manuals out of reach before her arm can smear the ink. Then I pick her up carefully and place her on the bed. I stand by the window. The street is empty. The beggar has not returned. Morning arrives slowly, reluctantly, as if the night is loath to release its grip. I didn’t end up sleeping at all.

Ling’er stirs at the desk. She lifts her head, blinking. Her eyes are heavy, but they clear quickly. She looks at the stacked pages, then at me.

“Morning, Master.”

“Morning.”

She rubs her eyes. “The beggar?”

“Gone.”

She nods, stretching like a cat. I look at the window. The light is pale, the shadows thin.

“I need to visit Wei Zheng,” I say. “Stay here. Finish the manuals. Do not go out alone.”

She nods again, and is already picking up the brush as I leave the inn. No one watches me as I walk toward the eastern wall, my steps unhurried but my mind anything but. The workshop door is ahead. I knock and Wei Zheng opens the door. His eyes are tired, more than before.

“You look worse,” I say.

“You look the same.”

He steps aside and I enter. Frostbite lies on the workbench, unwrapped. But the air around it is colder.

“The progress is slow,” Wei Zheng says. He does not sit. He stands beside the bench, his hand hovering over the sword without touching. “Forcing it causes the sword to retreat deeper inward. It does not trust easily.”

He gestures to the frost crystals. The box is open. A few of the larger crystals are gone. I activate the Gaze.

Sixty-five percent. It was sixty percent when I first got it.

“You are making progress,” I say.

Wei Zheng’s jaw tightens. “I am not certain it will succeed.”

“You are making progress,” I repeat. I don’t bother telling him the number. He would not believe me, and even if he did, he would not trust it. He is silent for a moment. Then he picks up a small file and begins working on something at the edge of the blade; a hairline groove near the hilt.

“The cold is unforgiving,” I say. “You are not young. Prolonged exposure to this level of cold will damage you. Please take care of yourself.”

“I have been working on this sword for days. I will not take a break until I know whether I can help it or not.” He picks up the file again. “If that kills me, at least I will die doing work that mattered.”

“But regardless, I don’t want Frostbite fixed knowing it leads to a rapid worsening of your health. You are the most trustworthy man I could have found for this task. I’d rather you stay alive long enough to finish it.”

He does not respond. The file scratches against the groove. I take the chance to warn him.

“Be careful,” I say. “There are people watching. Not for you, for me. But if they trace me to your shop, they may watch you too.”

He sets the file down again. His eyes are flat.

“I’m not a fool. I know what cultivator weapons bring. I know what cultivators bring.” He picks up a cloth and wipes his hands. “I have avoided attention for years by not attracting it. I will continue to avoid it. I have my ways.”

He looks at Frostbite.

“I do not know why I accepted this job. Troublesome, expensive, dangerous.” He clicks his teeth, but there’s no longer any heat behind his words. “And the customer hovers like a worried husband.”

I almost smile.

“I will check in again soon. Until then.”

I bow my head and leave, beginning the journey back to the inn. Scanning my surroundings, I breathe a sigh of relief and walk. The second day of the tournament begins soon. And with it, the first day of the Foundation Establishment bracket. There are bets to place, and fights to watch. I quicken my pace.

Shen Qiao is already near the arena when I arrive, tucked against the same red banner from yesterday. His ledger is under his arm. His eyes scan the crowd. I do not greet him. I simply stand beside him, facing the same direction, and speak low.

“We were watched last night.”

His hands tighten on the ledger.

“What do we do?”

“Stick to the plan. But be more vigilant than before.” I keep my eyes on the crowd. “When you leave tonight, watch for anyone following. Change your route. Double back. Make sure you are not compromised. They may be watching you too.”

“… You expected this.”

“I expected danger.” I glance at him. “It is not possible to win as much as we have without drawing attention. Someone was going to notice. Someone did.”

“Then why are we still here?”

“Because the one watching us is a mortal; paid to watch, to remember and report.” I turn to face the arena entrance. “If we were a true threat, they would send cultivators. They would not need to watch; they would simply act. The auditors from the Crimson Dragon Alliance—if they had flagged us, we would not have made it out of the arena yesterday. They do not need evidence. They do not need justification. Who would stop them?”

I shake my head. “This is smaller. A minor information broker, maybe, keeping tabs on everyone who wins more than expected. But it doesn’t mean we can be lax. A single spark can start a prairie fire, after all.”

He is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods.

“I will be careful.”

“Good.”

We join the line and quickly make our way past the concourse, but the arena is different today. The sixteen platforms are gone. In their place, eight larger platforms rise from the floor, each one twice the size of the previous rings. The fighters file in beneath the roar of the crowd, and they’re reintroduced one by one, their names echoing through the arena. The crowd cheers less indiscriminately now. They are picking favorites.

I note who they cheer for. The ones with sect banners. The ones with handsome faces. The ones with flashy techniques. I note who they ignore. Bao Gantian, shuffling onto his platform. Mu Jianyu, inspecting his sword. Fighters without patrons, without pageantry, without the right kind of followers. People are still coveting title and pedigree over what they have actually seen. Which means Bao Gantian and Mu Jianyu are undervalued.

I leave Ling’er in the stands. Shen Qiao heads toward the Silver Hall. I walk toward the Jade Hall. Today, I do not blend in.

The Jade Hall is crowded. Cultivators cluster around the counters, arguing odds and trading information. I find a man near the center of the hall, his robes expensive, his voice loud. He is debating the merits of the remaining fighters with a small audience.

I step into his conversation.

“Formation tricks only carry you so far,” the man is saying. “Mu Jianyu will not last past the next round.”

I scoff loudly. He turns. His eyes narrow.

“You disagree?”

“I think people put too much weight on sect backing.” I cross my arms. “Mu Jianyu has advanced this far without a patron, without a famous master, without anything except his own work. That is proof.”

The man’s companions exchange glances.

“Proof of what?” he asks.

“Proof that he is not being carried.”

The man laughs. “Formation tricks. The moment he faces someone who has seen them before, he will fold.”

I meet his eyes.

“Then put stones on it.”

His eyebrows rise.

“I am putting one mid-grade on Mu Jianyu,” I say. “Right now.”

The man’s companions murmur. One mid-grade is not nothing. The man studies me. Then he barks out a laugh.

“You are either very confident or very stupid.”

“I am confident that he will reach the top eight.”

“Fine.” The man turns to the counter. “One mid-grade on his opponent. We will see who is laughing when the top eight are announced.”

He places his bet with a flourish. I place mine with a shrug. The clerks record the wagers. The man’s companions clap him on the shoulder. They do not look at me.

I walk away.

Internally, I thank him. He does not know it. He will never know it. But he helped me. His loud dismissal, his confident sneer, his easy laughter… they made me look like a fool chasing yesterday’s fortune. Someone not worth investigating.