When the first drop of rain fell on Jiugao City, Bobo Street in the south was silent and pitch-black. Not a soul was in sight, and not a single light flickered.
Even without the rain's nourishment, the bluestone pavement here was shinier than elsewhere, polished by the soles of countless diners and passersby. Usually, even deep into the night, a few shops would remain lit. But tonight, the wind had picked up, and the merchants had packed their stalls early, closing their doors against the impending foul weather. The daytime clamor had been swept away like rising steam, and the temperature had dropped along with it.
In front of an inconspicuous shop at the corner, a blue cloth shop sign flapped violently in the wind, the three characters for "Pickle Wang" curling and unfurling with the gusts.
This shop was far too small, squeezed among a jumble of gray-tiled houses. It had no grand archway or decorative shutters, and it could hardly compare to the three-story restaurants on Sunshi Street with their decorated facades, embroidered banners, and brightly burning candles. It had only a dilapidated counter facing the street, its windows now tightly shut. Rain lashed in from the narrow eaves above, soaking the window frames in moments and drenching the figure huddled beneath them.
The rain in Jiugao City soaked through clothes the moment it touched them; there was no escaping it.
Du Laogou curled his toes and shifted his weight, his spine pressed firmly against the weathered wooden counter. He no longer cared about the tattered lantern he had carried all this way; his entire being was consumed by worry over the foul weather and the beans he had yet to receive.
*How is this Pickle Wang even stingier than Manager Qin of the pharmacy? He didn't even make the eaves wider; it’s practically driving customers away. If getting a jar of pickled beans with snow mustard is this much trouble, why even stay in business? He might as well close down.*
After enduring for less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, his stomach—which hadn't seen a grain of rice for half the day—began to growl. He instinctively looked up to gauge the time by the sky, only to find heavy clouds blanketing the heavens. A flash of lightning streaked across the night, illuminating only the broken bamboo pole that held up the shop sign.
On this starless night, the paper lantern gifted by his friend was the only light.
Du Laogou carefully brought the paper lantern closer, muttering dissatisfaction under his breath as he raised his hand to knock again on the closed window behind him.
"Manager, is it ready yet? I'm still waiting out here!"
The old wooden window creaked. The dust between the cracks had been sealed shut by dried pickling juices, letting not even a sliver of wind through.
On the other side of the window, inside the pickle shop, two pairs of faint glimmers flickered.
They were human eyes.
There were two pairs of eyes, but the sound of breathing belonged to three people.
Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the three figures in the darkness. They stood like stone statues in a ruined mountain temple—no one spoke, no one lit a lamp, and no one moved. They remained silent in the dark, the atmosphere oppressive and eerie.
The person outside grew tired of knocking and huddled back down, his shadow lingering by the window.
Gongzi Yan slowly turned toward the window, seemingly trying to discern the true identity of the beggar who had come to buy beans through the wooden planks.
"The wind and rain are coming, and the night path is difficult. How did he walk all the way from Tingfeng Hall to this place alone?"
"He carried the Swallow Lantern of Tingfeng Hall. Therefore, the brothers in the south of the city made way for him," Tang Yue said, pausing before handing over an old ceramic jar. "He also brought this."
Gongzi Yan took the jar, his hand lightly brushing over the rim. After a moment's pause, he no longer hesitated. He tore off the leather seal covering the top and felt along the rim with his fingertips. Finding a specific indentation, his knuckles protruded as he pressed down hard.
Cracks spread silently across the ceramic jar. In the next heartbeat, the entire jar shattered into fragments, revealing a thin piece of paper hidden within a false layer.
Seeing this, Tang Yue quickly took the paper. After scanning it rapidly, he reported in a low voice.
"Reporting to Gongzi, it is indeed Old Tang's handwriting. He must have anticipated that he wouldn't be able to meet you in person, so he prepared the detailed information on Ding Miao's secret strongholds in advance. I will send men immediately; perhaps we can intercept the goods..."
"There is no need for such trouble," Gongzi Yan’s voice rang out, a chill underlying his casual tone. "Once the location is found, simply set it on fire."
Tang Yue was stunned, then spoke with some reluctance. "Gongzi, you have spent months planning and playing the long game to discover the progress of Ding Miao's secret formula. Isn't it a waste to put it all to the torch? Moreover, Lord Duanyu is also investigating this matter. If we are unable to act or find it inconvenient to appear, letting it fall into his hands might be an alternative."
"Ding Miao will accelerate his progress sooner or later; the previous plans are no longer of much use. There is nothing to regret. Besides, he has already stretched his hand into Tingfeng Hall. Shouldn't we 'return the favor'?" Gongzi Yan’s voice grew increasingly raspy. After a few breaths, he whispered, "As for Lord Duanyu... even if he hails from the Black Moon, he may not be trustworthy. He went to Qionghu Island tonight, and Di Mo will not miss the opportunity. How do we know if the white jade has already been stained by ink?"
Tang Yue finally understood. He nodded to the third person in the room while quickly handing over a sleeve-warmer freshly filled with charcoal.
"I shall send men to handle it immediately. As for the beggar who brought the message..."
Before he could finish, a sudden noise came from behind. The door plank connecting the shop to the backyard was moved aside. The sound of rain, previously muffled, instantly surged in. A wave of dampness accompanied a figure stepping into the dark room. The rain faded again as the door plank was returned to its place. A moment later, Tang Wu’s voice spoke softly.
"Gongzi, traces of the Manor's people have been found in the city. I fear tonight's matter will not end well. For safety's sake, it is best if you leave the city as soon as possible."
The blind young master sighed softly. Without much hesitation, he asked, "Is there any movement from Qionghu Island?"
"No one has been seen leaving the island yet."
As Tang Wu finished, Tang Yue’s voice rose anxiously again. "That A-13 previously offered a hundred and thirty measures of gold at the Lotus Market for your life. These past few days, we have been repeatedly attacked and forced into hiding all because of him. I worry that you have misplaced your trust, Gongzi."
Gongzi Yan shook his head slightly.
"It matters not. Even the most unruly dog will eventually return to its kennel. It simply seems we won't be seeing him tonight. Send a few inconspicuous men to watch Dingweng Village outside the city. Report back as soon as there is news."
"Understood."
A brief silence returned to the darkness before Gongzi Yan spoke again.
"The beggar who brought the message... has he not left yet?"
Tang Yue, standing by the window, paused before answering truthfully. "Reporting to Gongzi, he is still waiting at the shop door. It seems... it seems he is waiting for those pickled beans. Rest assured, once you have safely evacuated, I will give him some beans to send him on his way."
"It seems he is not a player in this game, and he likely doesn't know that he can't go back to Tingfeng Hall tonight." Gongzi Yan’s voice paused, then sounded again with a hint of weariness. "Take him with us in the carriage. Once dawn breaks tomorrow, let him go."
****** ****** ******
The thickening rain poured down through the hole in the roof. The burning desk instantly emitted a plume of blue smoke, and the firelight gradually dimmed, leaving embers scattered across the floor.
A damp straw sandal stepped onto the burning paper ash on the ground, grinding it down ruthlessly.
The thunder outside had just ceased when white light flashed again, illuminating the round face hidden in the darkness.
"What a pity. It seems even the heavens aren't on your side."
Tang Shenyan quietly observed the newcomer. He reached out and unhurriedly poured half a cup of overnight tea from the charred desk.
"He who follows the Way finds much help; he who loses it finds little. Breaking someone's roof tiles on a rainy day is not the act of a benevolent gentleman."
Ren Xiaohan wiped the rain from his face. His dull eyes fell upon the storyteller’s neatly donned clothes and the travel pack already prepared at his side.
"Since you knew I was coming, why didn't you flee with that beggar just now?"
"If I had left, would there be no one to welcome the guest? Besides, when a guest comes to visit, how can the host justify running away?"
Ren Xiaohan frowned slightly and corrected him.
"I am not your guest. I am the one here to kill you. Although I am not the only one who wants you dead, and I didn't strictly need to handle this personally, my Master wanted me to make this trip myself. So, I had to come."
Having said his piece, he stopped looking at the storyteller holding the tea. He walked over to the desk piled with broken tiles and began quickly inspecting the papers and letters that had been half-burned and then extinguished by the rain.
He picked up a half-charred sheet and brought it close, then flipped it over to examine it minutely. A look of confusion crossed his face, but he did not give up. Tossing that paper aside, he pulled another from the smoking pile, looking it over from every angle.
After repeating this seven or eight times, he finally stopped moving. He stood there blankly, seemingly lost and bewildered by what he had just seen.
There wasn't a single character on those scraps of paper. They were all blank.
But this confusion did not last long. He soon found the answer in his own way.
"You intentionally lit these scrap papers to create smoke, drawing me here to stop you." Ren Xiaohan paused, the image of the stumbling figure carrying the tattered paper lantern flashing through his mind. "You wanted to save that beggar."
This round-faced swordsman appeared dull, but when it came to the business of killing, he was far from stupid; in fact, his intuition was remarkably sharp.
It was an innate talent—ominous and chilling.
Tang Shenyan took a calm sip of tea, soothing his throat which had been made raspy by the smoke, before speaking.
"He is my friend. When a friend comes to visit, letting him leave in peace is the most basic principle of being human."
"If he is your friend, why did you give him such a tattered lantern?"
Ren Xiaohan’s voice was entirely earnest. Tang Shenyan was actually stunned by the question for a moment before he chuckled softly.
"A frustrated scholar like me is likely to be a bit shabby. But shabbiness doesn't stop one from making friends. Between true friends, such things don't matter."
Ren Xiaohan nodded, seemingly in agreement with this statement.
"Master often says that while bosom friends cannot be born on the same day, they can die on the same day. Don't worry, I am very fast. I only need to finish you off first, then I will go and finish him." As he spoke, he recalled the instructions Ding Miao had given him, reciting them word for word. "But before that, my Master wants me to ask clearly: where did the information you secretly reported to Gongzi Yan come from?"
The sound of the rain outside grew more chaotic. Raindrops pattered through the hole in the roof, striking the mess on the table between them and kicking up a mist.
Tang Shenyan’s plain face became blurred within that mist. Even the wrinkles born of sorrow seemed to smooth out. His eyes were bright, as if washed by the rain, piercing through the darkness to look directly at his interrogator.
"Did your Master not tell you that listening to my news requires payment?"
"My Master said that dead men have no need for silver."
Tang Shenyan laughed, revealing yellowed teeth with a bit of vegetable leaf stuck to them, looking both pathetic and ridiculous.
"Since it’s death either way, why should I tell you?"
The round-faced swordsman paused, racking his brain to consider this question before answering seriously.
"Because if you answer readily, I can give you a quick end. Of course, if you don't want to speak, I have plenty of ways to make you."
"Let me think..." Tang Shenyan’s voice dropped, as if weighing the offer. "What else does your Master want to know? Let's hear it."
Ren Xiaohan shook his head.
"He only asked this one thing. He said you are a nail that doesn't show its head, someone who could hide his edge in Jiugao for all these years. He said you are a tough character and told me to be careful when speaking to you."
"Give my thanks to your Master for the praise. In this world of martial arts, there are people who simply don't like to move. Wandering for years just to take root one day—living as grass upon the tiles, dying as ash beneath the furnace. As for your Master..." Tang Shenyan paused here, the smile on his old face widening. "I imagine his legs aren't very functional, requiring you to run all his errands for him."
Before his words could land, his vision blurred. In the next instant, his throat was gripped in a deathly vice. The teacup fell from his hand, splashing tea across the floor.
The young man with the round face and almond eyes stared at him intensely. The previous air of childishness had vanished completely, replaced by a near-primitive savagery.
"What kind of thing are you to dare speak of him like that?"
Tang Shenyan’s face turned a bruised purple. His eyes bulged, bloodshot to the whites, yet the gaze he leveled at the murderer was as still as a pool of stagnant water.
The young man tilted his head, studying those eyes that remained calm despite the agony. He was clearly dissatisfied with what he saw.
With a slight increase in pressure, the storyteller's hyoid bone creaked under his palm. A moment before the fragile bone could shatter, he finally let go. The useless body slumped to the floor, hands clutching his throat, curling into a ball of pain.
Ren Xiaohan’s voice rang out without a hint of emotion.
"I will ask one more time. Where did the information you secretly reported to Gongzi Yan come from?"
The man on the ground slowly raised his head. His usually peaceful features were distorted by pain, yet he still looked at him with that same loathsome gaze.
He did not like that look.
The round-faced swordsman pursed his lips and slowly drew a long blade that had no scabbard.
At first, he had felt that someone with half his body already in the grave and without the strength to truss a chicken was not worth drawing his blade for. But now, he thought differently.
"If I didn't have to keep you alive to speak, I could first crush your throat and then cut out your tongue. I've heard that a storyteller's tongue is as nimble as a swordsman's wrist. Don't you think it would be a pity? If you confess honestly, you can have a quick death. If you don't..."
However, before he could finish, he was interrupted by a burst of loud laughter.
The laughter was raspy and unpleasant, like the piercing sound of a rusted blade scraping against a rough city wall.
Tang Shenyan prided himself on being a man of letters and had never laughed so extravagantly. But he had seen enough of those martial travelers jeering when they heard his cheap news; he could mimic a look that would make anyone grit their teeth.
He laughed until he doubled over, laughed until he was out of breath, laughed until his untrimmed sideburns and beard trembled.
Ren Xiaohan’s pupils contracted. With a swing of his long blade, it passed right against Tang Shenyan’s temple.
"What are you laughing at? What is so funny!"
Tang Shenyan’s laughter finally died down. Blood flowed down his face and neck, soaking into his collar. He stared at his own ear lying on the ground. The laughter on his face gradually twisted, but the trace of mockery at the corner of his mouth remained.
"I thought you wouldn't be any different from those people. Even the most incompetent storyteller in this city wouldn't dare tell the same story two days in a row. You lapdogs who do others' bidding—no matter how you start, you always end with the same closing lines. Don't you ever get bored?"
"Have you lost your mind because you know your end is near?"
Tang Shenyan tremblingly raised a hand to wipe the blood from his neck, then stared at the blood on his hand from every angle.
"When I first took up this trade, I knew this day would come. It's funny—I've spent all these years in fear, but now that the day is actually here, my heart has finally settled. I've realized these old bones of mine can take more of a beating than I thought..."
His words were cut short by the sound of a blade cutting through the air.
This time, the other party severed the blood-stained finger.
"My time is limited. This is your last chance. If you still won't speak, you will surely regret it. You will regret this momentary indulgence of your tongue; you will regret your foolishness in not trading that worthless loyalty for a quick death."
The trembling storyteller looked up. A spray of blood had splashed into his eyes, yet it gave his usually pathetic and shabby features a sense of unprecedented elegance and satisfaction.
His voice was already hoarse, but every word he spoke rang out like iron beans falling on a copper plate.
"I, Tang Shenyan, do not regret three things in this life. First, I do not regret entering the world of martial arts. Second, I do not regret having no children. Third, I do not regret keeping my doors open to guests from all four directions. To live a life, nothing is more satisfying than coming and going as one pleases. I have spent all these years in this broken courtyard listening to the wind, but I haven't heard much of this 'ear-side wind' until now." As he spoke, he touched the side of his head where his ear was missing, laughter once again spilling from his throat. "Having heard it today, it is nothing special."
Within the small accounting room, white light flared again. It was impossible to tell if it was lightning from outside or the flash of cold steel within.
The long blade pierced through above the storyteller's collarbone and exited below his scapula. The sound of the blade grinding against bone reached his bloody ear canal first, followed by the delayed surge of pain that swept over him like a tide. His mouth hung wide open as his swollen throat squeezed out both a shrill scream and ragged gasps for air.
Ren Xiaohan slowly twisted the hilt, his gaze never leaving the other man's bleeding mouth. He urged with a hint of worry on his face.
"If you still don't speak, I'll worry that you won't be able to speak at all."
The numbness following the intense pain set in. The figure skewered on the long blade finally stopped moaning and screaming. His eyes rolled upward, his pupils beginning to lose focus. His lips, pale from blood loss, trembled as they spat out broken sentences.
"...Speak, I'll speak. Did you know? From Tingfeng Hall to Pickle Wang's shop on Bobo Street... if you walk slowly, it should take about the time it takes to burn half a stick of incense..."
His voice broke. He spoke with a breath as thin as silk. Ren Xiaohan frowned, unsure of what he had just heard.
He leaned closer to that ashen face, wanting to hear more clearly.
Tang Shenyan’s voice grew even weaker, yet his articulation became sharper.
"...If you take the shortcut through the back street, walk through White Cat Alley, and then pass behind the Great Elm Tree ward... it doesn't even take half a stick of incense..."
Ren Xiaohan blinked, assuming the storyteller had lost his mind from the pain and was speaking nonsense.
He was about to question him further when he suddenly saw those unfocused eyes shift, their gaze fixing on his face.
"...Pickle Wang is an old shop in this city. His pickled beans with snow mustard are the most authentic. The mustard is crisp, though he occasionally shorts the weight, so you have to keep an eye on him. But none of that is important. What matters is that while it looks far from there to the vicinity of Four-Son Street in the south, it actually only takes half a quarter-hour. You are indeed fast, but that Gongzi’s movements have always been very efficient. Since we've wasted so much time here, what do you think the sky looks like outside?"
Ren Xiaohan’s dull eyes trembled, and he slowly turned toward the back.
The night was fully visible through the broken window that hung by a hinge. In the cloud-covered sky, a trail of black smoke could be seen rising from the southeast, seemingly growing more intense.
Ren Xiaohan’s expression changed. That usually expressionless round face was instantly occupied by a multitude of emotions. Those emotions tore at his soul in turns, causing him great distress. His knuckles creaked as he gripped his blade tighter.
"No, it shouldn't be like this... That was what Master ordered... what Master ordered... it can't be, it can't be..."
The satisfied storyteller let out a long sigh. He licked the blood from his teeth, closed his eyes lightly, and began to hum a little tune.
He could never remember the lyrics, and his melodies were always jumbled. He seemed to treat the stories from the operas as his own, or perhaps he had mixed his own story into the lyrics.
He didn't know many tunes, but his own story was very, very long—so long that he couldn't finish it in a day and a night.
"...A world of red dust, a hundred years spent. Idle business, waking from a dream to wander... the tea hour has long since passed..."
Through his increasingly heavy eyelids, he felt a white light flare.
It seemed that dawn had come.
Tang Shenyan lightly swayed his head, his voice coming in fragments.
"...There is no place in this world that the wind cannot reach. One day... one day..."
The voice of the storyteller of Tingfeng Hall came to an abrupt halt.
In the end, he did not finish this final story.
Ren Xiaohan violently pulled the blade from the man's throat. His movement was too fast; blood inevitably splashed onto him, soaking into a small dark patch on his clothes.
He frantically raised his hand to wipe away the bloodstains, but only made a greater mess. Like his mission tonight, one wrong step had led to another.
He finally gave up on trying to fix it. Using his short, thick fingers, he untied the cloth bag fastened tightly at his waist. He pulled out a piece of scorched rice crust, carefully broke off a small piece, put it in his mouth, and began to chew rapidly. As he chewed, he whispered.
"What should I do? I didn't get the information, and I got my clothes dirty. Master is going to be angry. What should I do? Master is going to be angry..."
Tonight, the sound of the wind would no longer ring through Tingfeng Hall.
The copper-beaked rain swallow under the eaves spun around—head to the east, tail to the west—looking as if it were about to spread its wings and fly.
Inside the dilapidated accounting room with its leaking roof, the figure of the round-faced swordsman was already gone.
Rainwater overflowed from the floor inside, carrying a crimson hue out into the storm-drenched courtyard.
***
| Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation |
| :--- | :--- | :--- |
| 酱菜汪 | Pickle Wang | A small pickle shop in Jiugao City. |
| 燕子灯 | Swallow Lantern | A specific type of lantern used as a signal by Tingfeng Hall. |
| 汤越 | Tang Yue | A subordinate of Gongzi Yan. |
| 汤吴 | Tang Wu | A subordinate of Gongzi Yan. |
| 丁渺 | Ding Miao | The "Master" mentioned by Ren Xiaohan; likely an antagonist. |
| 断玉君 | Lord Duanyu | Literally "Jade-Breaker Lord"; a figure being tracked or monitored. |
| 黑月 | Black Moon | A sect or organization. |
| 狄墨 | Di Mo | A character associated with Qionghu Island. |
| 丁翁村 | Dingweng Village | A location outside Jiugao City. |
| 壬小寒 | Ren Xiaohan | A round-faced assassin/swordsman working for Ding Miao. |
| 琵琶骨 | Scapula / Lute Bone | Often referred to in wuxia as a critical point for disabling a person. |
| 四条子街 | Four-Son Street | A street in the southern part of the city. |
