To pass from the Southern District to the Scholars' Quarter was to walk from one world into another. The oppressive scent of soot and sweat gave way to the clean fragrance of ink and fragrant osmanthus blossoms. The raucous shouts of merchants were replaced by the muted murmur of scholarly debate and the gentle rustle of silk robes. Here, the cobblestones were swept clean, the buildings stood straight and proud, their eaves adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beasts.
Li Yunfan moved through this alien landscape like a shadow. A man walks ten thousand li and bears ten thousand regrets; for Yunfan, every step in this place felt like a fresh one. He kept to the rooftops where he could, his drunken footwork, so clumsy-looking on the ground, proving remarkably effective for navigating the precarious slopes of tiled roofs. He was a creature of the grime, and in this pristine environment, he felt as conspicuous as a crow in a flock of doves. He clutched the small package to his chest, its simple cloth wrapping a stark contrast to the opulence around him. Elder Zhu's words echoed in his mind: Be a shadow. Get in, get out.
He was nearing his destination, a lane known for its paper makers, when a sudden cry of alarm sliced through the tranquil air. It was followed by the brutal splintering of wood and the clash of steel. Peering over the edge of a roof, Yunfan saw a scene of violent chaos. A handsome carriage, lacquered in black and gold, was halted, one of its wheels shattered. Several guards lay groaning on the ground, and a half-dozen masked men, armed with cruel-looking sabers, were surrounding a lone figure.
She was a young woman, perhaps his age, dressed in fine green silk. But she was no wilting flower. In her hand, she wielded a long, flexible whip that moved with a life of its own. It cracked through the air like a thunderclap, a blur of motion that kept the thugs at bay. Her face was a mask of furious concentration, her movements graceful and precise. It was a high-level martial art, far beyond the brawling of the streets.
"Just give us the chest and the girl, and we'll let the rest of you live!" the leader of the masked men snarled, his saber tracing patterns in the air.
The girl gritted her teeth. "In your dreams, dog-thief!" Her whip lashed out in a technique Yunfan had never seen, the "Whispering Willow's Embrace," wrapping around one of the men's sabers and yanking it from his grasp. But the effort left her exposed. Two other men rushed in, their blades aiming for her flank.
Yunfan's heart hammered against his ribs. This was not his business. This was trouble of the highest order, involving nobles and skilled martial artists. Keep your head down, a voice in his head, the voice of survival, screamed. Deliver the package.
But then he saw the girl's eyes. There was no fear in them, only fierce, unyielding defiance. It was the same fire he felt in his own chest, the refusal to bow to brutality. He thought of Uncle Wei, of all the defenseless people he had seen bullied and broken.
Heaven's will cannot be defied, and perhaps this was his. With a soft sigh that was part resignation, part resolve, he dropped into the alley.
He emerged from the shadows not with a shout, but with a well-aimed rock. It struck the wrist of one of the men about to strike the girl, causing his blade to clatter to the ground. Every head swiveled towards the newcomer—the beggar boy in soot-stained robes, holding nothing but a common staff.
The bandit leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "What is this? The city is sending its beggars to defend its nobles now?"
Yunfan ignored him, his eyes fixed on the remaining fighters. He gave the girl a quick, almost imperceptible nod. "This humble one will take the left," he stated simply, as if they were two disciples practicing in a courtyard.
For a moment, the girl, Hua Ziyan, was too stunned to react. A beggar? Here? But there was a calmness in his eyes that was strangely reassuring. With a sharp crack of her whip, she signaled her agreement.
The fight resumed, now a two-front battle. Two men charged Yunfan. He met them not with strength, but with cunning. His footwork was baffling, a series of stumbles and shuffles that made his movements impossible to predict. He used his staff not just to block, but to hook ankles, to jab at knees, to disrupt their balance. He was an annoyance, a persistent fly they couldn't swat.
One of the thugs used a powerful downward chop, a move called "Rushing Tiger Claw." It was fast and direct. Instead of meeting it, Yunfan let the tip of his staff drop, redirecting the blade into the cobblestones with a jarring clang. In that split second of his opponent's imbalance, Yunfan's mind worked with startling clarity. He saw the flaw in the stance, the way the man's shoulder was overextended. He spun, his own staff held low, and swept it in a wide arc. It was a mimicry of the Tiger Claw, but inverted, using the ground as leverage. The staff connected solidly with the man's shins, and he went down with a cry of pain.
Yunfan felt a familiar, faint warmth spread from the pendant on his chest, a silent hum of approval.
On the other side, Hua Ziyan was a whirlwind of green silk and whistling leather. Her whip was a flowing extension of her arm, disarming and deflecting. But the leader was a skilled opponent, his saber work relentless. He pressed her hard, forcing her back step by step.
"Your fancy academy techniques are pretty, little lady, but they lack killing intent!" he sneered, his blade slicing a tear in her sleeve.
Yunfan saw his chance. The last thug before him lunged. Yunfan ducked under the wild swing and, using the man's momentum, pushed him directly into the path of the leader. The two bandits collided in a tangle of limbs.
It was the only opening Hua Ziyan needed. Her whip shot out, coiling around the leader's ankle. With a sharp tug, she pulled him off balance.
Yunfan flowed forward. He didn't use a grand technique. He simply brought the end of his staff up in a short, sharp jab into the man's solar plexus. The air rushed out of the leader's lungs in a pained gasp. He crumpled, defeated.
The remaining thugs, seeing their leader fall, lost their nerve. They scooped up their injured comrades and fled, melting back into the alleys they'd come from.
The lane was suddenly, unnaturally quiet. Hua Ziyan stood panting, her fine robes disheveled, a streak of dirt on her cheek. She looked at the beggar boy who stood calmly amidst the fallen guards and scattered debris. He hadn't overwhelmed them with power; he had dismantled them with strategy and an uncanny sense of timing.
"This one is in your debt," she said, her voice a mixture of exhaustion and genuine gratitude. She cupped her fists in a formal salute. "May I ask for my benefactor's name?"
"This humble one is Li Yunfan, of the Beggar Sect," he replied, his voice even. He gave a slight bow, his eyes already scanning the street, wary of any returning threat.
"Li Yunfan," she repeated, tasting the name. "Your skill is… unorthodox. I have never seen a beggar fight with such… clarity." Her eyes, bright and intelligent, took in his patched robes, his simple staff, and the quiet dignity in his posture. He was nothing like the grimy, groveling beggars she had seen before. There was something more to him, a depth hidden beneath the soot. "You saved my life. This is a debt Hua Ziyan will not forget."
Before he could reply, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The brief, intense fight had drained him more than he realized. The strange warmth from his pendant faded, leaving a familiar emptiness in its place. He clutched his staff for support, a flicker of weakness crossing his face.
Hua Ziyan's sharp eyes caught it. "You are injured!"
"It is nothing," Yunfan said, straightening up, his pride stung. "This one must be on his way. I have a task to complete."
He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "Wait! At least take this, as a small token." She held out a small, heavy purse of silver taels. It was more money than he had ever held in his life.
He looked at the silver, then back at her. He simply shook his head. "The Beggar Sect helps its neighbors. Today, you were a neighbor." With a final nod, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of a side alley, leaving Hua Ziyan staring after him, the purse still outstretched in her hand.
A few minutes later, he stood before the Jade Brush Pavilion. It was even grander up close, its wooden doors polished to a mirror sheen. Taking a deep breath, he walked up and knocked.
The door was opened by a stern-faced attendant who looked Yunfan up and down, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Beggars use the back gate for scraps. Be gone."
"I have a delivery for the master of the house," Yunfan said, holding out the package.
The attendant sneered. "The master does not accept… charity. Now, leave before I call the watch."
"My Elder, Zhu Tong, sent me," Yunfan insisted, his voice firm. "He said the master was expecting it."
At the mention of Elder Zhu's name, the attendant's expression faltered for a fraction of a second. With a sigh of profound irritation, he opened the door a little wider. "Wait here. And do not touch anything."
He returned moments later and led Yunfan through a tranquil courtyard with a gurgling fountain into a large study. The room smelled of old paper and expensive ink. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with scrolls and leather-bound volumes. Seated behind a large mahogany desk was an old man with a long, thin beard and wire-rimmed spectacles. He was writing, his brush dancing across a sheet of rice paper. This was Master Feng, the proprietor.
"You may leave the package on the table," Master Feng said without looking up, his voice dry and scholarly.
Yunfan did as he was told, placing the cloth-wrapped item on the polished wood. He gave a respectful bow, ready to depart. His task was done.
But as he turned, the movement caused his robes to shift. For a single moment, the dark stone pendant swung free from his collar, catching the light from a paper lantern.
Master Feng's brush froze mid-stroke. A single drop of black ink fell onto the pristine paper, blooming like a dark flower. Slowly, the old man lifted his head, his eyes, magnified by his spectacles, fixed on Yunfan's chest. His gaze fell upon the pendant.
The scholarly air around him shattered, replaced by an expression of utter disbelief, and something else… fear. His knuckles were white where he gripped his brush.
"Boy," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. He rose slowly from his chair, his eyes never leaving the stone. "Where… by all the spirits under Heaven, did you get that stone?"