Before dawn, no one in the salt depot slept.
The thin old man redrew the three routes on a sheet of rough paper. With a charcoal stick he circled the West Market segment—so dark it was almost a bruise.
"This stretch," he said, "stops. The incense shop is burned."
Qin Zhao stood with his back unnaturally straight—straight the way a boy stands while being punished.
Chaosheng spoke first. "Fine. Stop it. The sea-copy still goes by North Gate tonight."
Xu Jinghong shook her head. "North Gate isn't clean now. Last night they used a notched stamp to ring the incense shop—meaning they've learned our trick of 'looking real.'"
Chaosheng's eyes stayed on her. "Then how do you want to move it?"
Xu Jinghong didn't give a speech. She issued an order.
"Change the gate."
She pointed to the depot's rear wall.
"Starting today, we don't go out the front. We use the back well."
The thin old man added the "teeth of the system" in a dry voice:
"Out the back well, you still have to pass the inspection booth outside the Salt Tax Office. They check salt tickets—ticket must match the shop mark and the month-year. One wrong character and they detain man and goods."
Chaosheng frowned. "Trouble."
Xu Jinghong answered, "Trouble is what an official road looks like."
At noon, Xu Jinghong took Qin Zhao to a small street in North Huai'an.
Stalls sold broken shoes, dented pots, empty salt sacks. Prices were painted on wooden boards: three coins, five, eight.
Xu Jinghong stopped at a pot-mender's stand. The vendor had thick hands; he repaired a pot with three hammer strikes, no more.
Xu Jinghong said, "Lend me an old salt ticket."
The vendor didn't look up. "Which year?"
"Chongzhen Sixteen," Xu Jinghong replied.¹
The hammer paused for a beat. The vendor finally lifted his eyes.
"Use a ticket from that year and you'll get checked."
Xu Jinghong set down broken silver.
"I know," she said. "I want to be checked."
The vendor stared at the silver. "How much?"
"Eight mace."²
The vendor slid the money into his sleeve and handed over a yellowed salt ticket. One corner was nicked; the handwriting slanted.
Xu Jinghong glanced once, then passed it to Qin Zhao.
"Take it. You go through the booth."
Qin Zhao blinked. "Me?"
"You," Xu Jinghong said. "The debt you added—you pay the first installment with your legs."
Qin Zhao clenched his jaw. "I can get past."
Xu Jinghong's gaze didn't soften.
"Don't say you can. Go."
The inspection booth stood at the street mouth. Two Han-clothed soldiers sat behind a table. On the table: a basin of red clay, a wooden ruler.
The ruler wasn't for cloth. It was for paper. Tickets too new, too flat, too perfect—didn't look like common folk's tickets.
One soldier asked, "What's this?"
Qin Zhao answered short. "Delivering a ticket."
"Whose ticket?"
Qin Zhao handed it over—didn't pull out silver first. Rules first.
He copied Xu Jinghong: eyes steady, hands quiet.
A soldier pressed the ruler on the ticket corner and picked at it. "Nicked corner."
Qin Zhao's chest tightened. His mouth moved too fast.
"Nicked means old—"
The words were out before he could catch them. He shut himself down mid-breath.
The soldier looked up. "You know a lot."
Qin Zhao forced his voice lower. "My family used to sell salt sacks."
The soldier dragged the ticket along the rim of the red-clay basin—smearing a faint streak onto its back. The clay had fine grit in it, as if meant to leave a mark.
"Go," the soldier said, waving him on.
When Qin Zhao turned away, his palm was soaked.
Xu Jinghong waited at the alley mouth. She said only, "You almost talked too much again."
Qin Zhao ground out, "But I stopped."
Xu Jinghong nodded once. "Stopping counts as clearing a gate."
She took back the ticket, folded it, and slipped it into her inner lining.
"This ticket will carry a mark," she said. "We need it to."
Qin Zhao didn't understand. "Why do we want it marked?"
Xu Jinghong looked at him.
"So the inside hand sees it. So he believes we've changed gates."
Chaosheng approached from the other end of the alley. After hearing, he gave a single line.
"You're counter-baiting."
Xu Jinghong answered, "Yes."
Chaosheng: "The price?"
Xu Jinghong: "We lose one point, I accept it. We lose two people, I don't."
Chaosheng studied her. "Whether you accept it doesn't matter. What matters is whether they accept it."
That night, word reached the depot:
the young shop clerk from White Horse Temple had been dragged to the North Gate's rebel-hunt holding room.³ His mother had knelt outside the door all night.
Qin Zhao heard and his throat went hard. "I'm going."
Xu Jinghong didn't stop him—and didn't permit him either. She simply handed him an old salt sack.
"Wear this. Go stand at the door for a quarter-hour."
Qin Zhao stared. "Stand there?"
"Stand," Xu Jinghong said. "Go watch how the system bites. When you've seen it clearly, your mouth will slow down."
Qin Zhao went to the North Gate with the sack on his back.
Sure enough, someone was kneeling there—a woman. Torn cloth under her knees, a wooden placard clenched in both hands. On it, written large:
BEG FOR RELEASE
Below, in smaller characters:
WILL PAY TWO TAELS OF SILVER.⁴
Two taels.
Qin Zhao looked at the number and felt his skin crawl—he knew it wasn't a price. It was a measurement of despair.
A Han-clothed soldier came out, glanced at the placard the way you glance at trash.
"Two taels isn't enough. Go home."
The woman's voice trembled. "Then how much?"
The soldier answered, "Your life."
Qin Zhao stood beside her, fingers whitening on the mouth of the salt sack.
He didn't rush forward.
For the first time, he learned this: rushing forward only creates one more detained body.
When he returned to the depot, Xu Jinghong asked only, "You saw it?"
Qin Zhao answered just as short. "I saw it."
Xu Jinghong nodded. "Then remember. What you owe isn't only that clerk."
She looked at him, voice steady as a rule.
"It's every time, from now on, that you stop for a breath before you speak."
—Chronicler's note:The true price isn't casualties. It's a hole in the road-net. Once a hole appears, everyone is forced to walk narrower.
The depot's lamplight was lowered.
Chaosheng tightened the short rope around his wrist.
"Second hook tomorrow night," he said. "Three-day countdown—two days left."
(End of this chapter)
Translator's Memo (as requested)