76. Carrion Birds Gather

I move through the arena concourse at a pace that is fast enough to blur. But I can’t go full speed without alerting guards and getting myself questioned. Knowing the restraint costs me seconds I cannot afford to lose makes me want to rip my hair out. The streets outside are bright, crowded, festival-loud. Mortals flood toward the arena. Vendors shout prices. Gamblers argue odds.

I do not look back. My thoughts narrow as I head east.

‘Did someone notice? Who? When? What have they uncovered? If someone noticed my visits, then Celestial Jade City has become a net.’

I arrive at Wei Zheng’s shop. The tailor next door is open. A woman buys onions from a cart. Someone argues about dye prices across the road. No broken door. No sign of violence. But the presence inside, albeit tightly concealed, doesn’t hold up against my senses.

I enter. Inside, Wei Zheng stands behind the counter. His face is closed. His hands are still. Frostbite is not visible, muted even to my senses. Across from him is a Qi Condensation cultivator in the robes of a debt-office agent. The man is smiling. He does not look at me. His voice is smooth, practiced, the voice of someone who has done this many times.

“… your son’s accounts were never closed. Iron Heart Valley carried the balance after his death. The debt transferred to his next of kin. Guild fees. Material costs. Training expenses. The interest has been accruing for years.”

The man turns a page.

“With interest accruing over the past years, the current amount is considerable. Naturally, we are willing to discuss repayment terms.”

My blood cools. Wei Zheng’s eyes flick to me. Just once. Warning. Shame. Anger. All buried under his darkened face. I step forward. The man’s smile flickers before it forms. Recognition flashes through his eyes, too quick for a mortal to notice. Then his expression smooths over.

“Senior,” he says, bowing. “I am afraid this is a private family matter.”

“A customer,” I say.

“I must ask Senior to return later. The craftsman’s obligations take priority.”

I activate the Gaze.

“Hollow Scale.” I say.

He stiffens.

“The contracts you carry—two are forgeries. A fabricated claim against a dead man who owed nothing to anyone when he died.”

His smile is gone. Han Ru’s eyes harden. Wei Zheng’s face does not change, but I see his right hand tremble once beneath the counter.

“Senior,” Han Ru says carefully, “contracts are not invalid simply because they displease you. Iron Heart Valley’s ledgers were absorbed after dissolution. Many accounts were transferred. Mistakes happen. Delays happen. Interest accrues. If Master Wei wishes to contest the claim, there are proper channels.”

“Proper channels,” I repeat.

“Of course.” His voice regains some of its smoothness. “We would never trouble a craftsman without documentation.”

I look at the ledger beneath his arm, then at his stance. Then at the tiny bulge beneath his left sleeve where a spring-loaded needle rests against his wrist.

“You are very bad at this,” I say.

His smile freezes.

“At debt collection?” he asks.

“At concealment.”

I think of Ling’er hiding her aura. I think of weeks spent searching for the smallest imperfection in her control, a flaw in a river of sand. Compared to that, Han Ru might as well have entered the shop beating a gong.

“You have a decent suppression technique,” I say. “But do you really think you can fool my senses, Han Ru?”

He looks at me properly now. I let my qi stir. The air grows heavy. He makes his choice.

His hand snaps down. Smoke bursts across the shop, black and bitter, filling the narrow room in an instant. Wei Zheng has a coughing fit. At the same time, the needle in his sleeve fires with a soft metallic click.

I step aside.

The needle passes where my throat was and strikes the wall behind me, sinking half its length into the wood.

Han Ru is already moving for the door. I catch him before he reaches the threshold. My hand closes around his wrist. Frost qi spills from my fingers, crawling over his skin in a white rush. His hand locks in place. His second hand moves toward his belt. I catch that too. A second needle flicks from beneath his tongue, thin as a hair and dark at the tip.

I tilt my head.

The needle passes my cheek and vanishes into a shelf behind me. A heartbeat later, the wood around it hisses and blackens.

I squeeze. His hands creak beneath my grip. Ice crawls over both wrists, binding them together. He gasps, but the frost has already climbed past his forearms, pinning him against the doorframe. The smoke thins around us.

“Senior,” he says through gritted teeth, “you are interfering with lawful recovery work.”

“You fired a poisoned needle at my throat.”

“A… misunderstanding.”

I push him harder into the frame. His breath leaves him in a sharp gasp. A part of me calculates the cleanest solution. A single strike to the heart; ice to penetrate the walls of his chest and reach his heart within an instant.

My hand tightens.

Then I see the mark. His sleeve has ridden up beneath the ice. Just above his wrist, burned into the skin, is a brand shaped like a hollow serpent scale.

The Gaze flickers.

I stop.

Han Ru notices. Fear retreats from his face, replaced by something thin and ugly. Confidence. False, but he wears it like a borrowed coat.

“You are already too late,” he says. His voice shakes despite the words. “My partner outside saw you enter. The runner is already gone. Hollow Scale will know this shop matters. If you are clever, you will let me walk. Pay for silence before this becomes more expensive.”

‘Crap.’

My hand stays steady on his wrist. But inside, the calculation collapses.

Another agent.

I track Han Ru’s face. His pupils. The micro-tremor in his lips. He is not lying. I consider killing him anyway.

‘A quick strike. Ice through the chest. The brand would trigger, but perhaps I could be gone before—No. Too many variables.‘

I strike his pressure points instead. Han Ru’s eyes bulge. His body goes stiff, still conscious but unable to move. Frost holds him in place, slumped against the doorframe like an unpleasant decoration.

‘Maybe there is still time. Depending on the other agent’s cultivation, I can still catch—’

I open the door. Ling’er stands outside. She is holding an unconscious man by the back of his robe like a sack of laundry. His head lolls. His eyes are open just enough to show terror—the particular terror of someone conscious enough to understand what was happening before his body stopped obeying him.

I sweep the street.

The world continues around her. The woman buys onions. The tailor sweeps his step. Across the road, the argument about dye prices has somehow grown more intense. No one looks twice at a small girl dragging what appears to be a drunk man.

“Master,” Ling’er says brightly, “this customer was drunk. He fell in the street. I thought I should bring him inside before he caused a disturbance.”

She steps through the doorway. The unconscious man’s heels drag across the threshold.

Han Ru sees her. Then he sees the man she is carrying.

His eyes widen. Because his body cannot move, the reaction has nowhere to go. His face alone attempts to perform the entire process of panic. His eyebrows climb. His lips twitch. His throat works soundlessly. If he had control of his limbs, he would have either attacked, fled, or wet himself. Denied all options, he settles for trembling very intensely.

I look at Ling’er. I should admonish her. I told her to stay and watch the match. She disobeyed a direct instruction.

Instead, I ask, “You left the arena?”