For several days straight, Ji Ming drifted around Liyue with nothing to do. Zhongli had vanished; Hu Tao and Old Meng were off working at Wuwang Hill; Xiangling was so swamped her ladle never left her hand.
Work at Yuehai Pavilion got heavier too. Ganyu occasionally tossed Ji Ming a small errand he could handle, but most of her time vanished beneath mountains of documents.
The Yun-Han troupe went on break—Yun Jin was likely reworking her repertoire. She seemed to have embraced Ji Ming's suggestions… which made him worry Yun-Han might accidentally morph into a rock band.
For the moment, Ji Ming had precisely no jobs to run.
Just as the boredom started gnawing, the Eight Brothers of the Old Nine Gates finally came knocking—each lugging some odd-shaped cold weapon wrapped in oiled paper, every one of them radiating murder.
"Fourth Brother, what's the story here?"
Too long without blood and thunder; Ji Ming had almost forgotten the old trade. He stared at the lineup of blades and clubs—then it clicked.
So the boys hadn't stayed "reformed" for long. They'd discussed raising funds at Yanshang Teahouse a few days back; today must be the first scout.
Before Broken-Finger Chen could answer, Ji Ming cut in.
"Fourth Brother—who's the target?"
"We'll see on the ground. Today's just reconnaissance. You shouldn't show your face—your status is… special."
"If I'm still your Ninth Brother, don't say that again."
Ji Ming examined the steel and laughed. From the clotted dirt and rust, these were the old caches they'd buried before prison.
Zhao "Half-Flood Dragon" picked out a mountain-cleaver, tested its heft, then tossed it to Ji Ming.
"Third seized this off a Treasure Hoarder years ago. Not Adventurer-grade, but it'll do. Rust isn't too bad."
The blade was just under a meter, single-handed grip—short, but fine for self-defense.
Liyue strictly regulated weapons and armor; carrying them required registered permits. Hence the Nine Gates buried stashes all over.
"Alright. I'll handle the main avenue. You lot haven't seen daylight in years—you're rusty on the layout. Hit the other streets."
After the reminder, Ji Ming tucked the cleaver under his coat, hid the hilt with his long shirt, and headed south from Feiyun Slope toward the main drag.
The avenue fed directly into the wharves—busier than any other street in the Harbor. And yet Ji Ming knew: beneath the visible prosperity lay an endless skein of shadows.
Since the adepti and the first settlers built Liyue, gangs had grown up on this land. For millennia, one syndicate fell as another rose, and ordinary folk suffered in the crossfire.
The officials couldn't contain it—and the high ones wouldn't. Behind every great clan stood its own dirty-work gang.
That's Liyue's rhythm: the give-and-take of "how things are done." Crack down at random, and you might smash the wrong family's enforcers. Then it becomes blood feud—unless the compensation outruns a whole gang's value.
Outfits without backing—like the Nine Gates used to be—made easy trophies for an official's performance report.
Ji Ming clicked his tongue and crouched by the curb, watching carts and crowds roll past. Thirst crept up. He called to a nearby stall:
"Boss lady, got tea? Anything that kills thirst works."
The vendor's getup was odd: a fisherman's conical hat with a veiled brim, a rain cape over everything—face completely covered, figure wrapped tight.
Which noble lady came out to "experience life," exactly?
She said nothing, passed him a bowl. Her right hand was soft as water—not a laborer's hand.
Ji Ming didn't overthink it. He drained the bowl.
"How much?"
Two fingers lifted. From behind the veil, she studied him—eyes flicking, again and again, to his waist, where the coat bulged like it hid a weapon.
Ji Ming paid two mora and grinned.
"Boss lady, maybe holler a line or two? At this rate no one's gonna stop. Your neighbors are shouting circles around you."
Still silent. Still staring. It was starting to feel… odd.
Ji Ming lost interest and glanced back to the street—just in time to spot an old pest. His lips curled.
He leaned toward the boss lady and murmured, "See that sleazebag? Yep, the short, dark one. He's coming to hassle you. When he does, don't talk. I'll scare him off."
He ducked behind the stall counter, chin propped on a palm. He could feel the boss lady's silent exasperation. He just smiled back, mischievous.
"Hey. New around here?" The thug swaggered up. "Never heard of Nine-Patterned Dragon's rules? New stalls pay 10,000 mora for the spot, then 5,000 a month for protection. Why haven't you paid?"
No response.
"You deaf, huh?" He scowled. "Ignoring my words? Don't you know this turf is mine?"
"Didn't know. I thought you covered Chihu Rock."
Ji Ming rose from behind the stand, smile clean and mean. The thug's face fell into raw panic.
"So," Ji Ming asked lightly, "which turf do you cover?"
He remembered his brother-in-law's warning: the kid was Nine Gates. Their reputation ran hot and cold—gentle to civilians, merciless to rivals.
Nine-Patterned Dragon's knees gave out. He slammed to the ground and grinned for dear life.
"I misspoke! I cover nothing. Only you, Ninth Granddad, have the right to cover the main avenue. Forget the avenue—cover the whole harbor if you like!"
"Mm. Good lad. Now scram."
Just a bully propped up by in-law status. He wasn't even on the first rung. Not worth it.
As the thug fled, Ji Ming sipped the last of the tea and watched the avenue's bustle drift by.
"Mr. Ji Ming," said a voice he recognized, cool and crisp, "does Ganyu know what you've been up to?"
…Familiar indeed.
He set the wooden bowl down, didn't look at the boss lady with crossed arms, and stepped around to read the wooden signboard:
Li Family Beef Offal.
He tilted his head.
"Lady Yuheng, that bowl of tea just now was…?"
"I brought it for myself," said Keqing, "and hadn't touched it yet."
Ji Ming handed the bowl back, gaze clear as water.
"Would you still like to drink it now?"
Keqing: "..."
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