The map lay on the desk, bathed in the grey light of dawn.
Wei Ji had not slept again. He had sat in the dark, turning the paper over in his hands until he could see the crude lines with his eyes closed.
Three X's. Three locations.
His mind, trained to see patterns in voter fraud and graft, began to connect the dots.
Kitchen Storage B. Isolated. Full of perishables, strong smells. A place where a body might not be found for days. Where a man could eat or drink something unfortunate. The Revenue Minister's banquet invitation floated to the front of his thoughts. Poison.
Garden of Whispering Willows. Open, but secluded by artfully arranged trees and rockeries. A place for a private walk. Or a private ambush. The 'stray' sword beam from the military exhibition invitation found a home here. An 'accident' during a chance encounter.
Archives Annex. Tall shelves, heavy scroll cases, precarious ladders. A place of quiet study. A place where a falling ceramic tile or a toppling case could be tragically fatal. The Head Maid's tea invitation was a summons to the inner palace's periphery. Perhaps a meeting nearby?
Three locations. Three methods. Three different factions.
A slow smile spread across his stubbled face. They weren't working together. They were tripping over each other in their haste to be the first to kill him. They didn't know about each other's plans.
That was his opening.
"Old Wen," he said as the scribe entered, shivering in the morning chill. "I need you to listen very carefully."
He laid out his plan. It wasn't a martial strategy. It was a political one. The art of the leaked secret, the misplaced word, the rumor that does the work of an army.
Step One: The Garden.
At noon, when the palace gossip said the Empress often took her solitary walk among the willows, Wei Ji made his move. He walked openly to the garden, his plain robe a stain against the vibrant blossoms. He found a gardener trimming a hedge.
"A beautiful garden," Wei Ji said, his voice conversational.
The gardener, an older man with dirt under his nails, jumped and bowed. "Minister!"
"I was just thinking," Wei Ji mused, loud enough to be heard by two maids passing on a nearby path. "I hear the vintages kept in Kitchen Storage B are exceptional. The Revenue Minister must have very expensive tastes. I wonder if the General of the Guard appreciates such things?"
He said it with a wistful smile, as if making idle chatter. The gardener nodded, confused. The maids pretended not to listen, their steps slowing.
Wei Ji left. The seed was planted. Let the military's spies in the garden hear that the Revenue Minister's poison might be linked to a specific location. Let them wonder why the new minister knew about it.
Step Two: The Archives.
He sent Old Wen with a very specific, official request slip to the Archives Annex. The request was for "any and all incident reports pertaining to training accidents, stray energy discharges, or fatalities during military sparring exhibitions from the past five years."
Old Wen was to present it at the main desk, sighing wearily, and complain loudly to the clerk. "The Minister is obsessed with safety now. After that duel challenge, he's paranoid. Thinks someone will try to make his death look like an accident at the exhibition."
The Archives Annex was a nest of whispers. The Head Maid's network would hear of it within the hour. Let her think he was specifically investigating the military's method, and that he was on guard. Let her wonder if her own 'falling scroll case' plan was already compromised.
Step Three: The Rumors.
He called the nervous messenger boy. This time, he placed a single, low-grade spirit stone—his last, from a hidden pocket in his old clothes—into the boy's hand. The boy's eyes went wide. It was a fortune to him.
"I need a message delivered," Wei Ji said. "But not on paper. I need you to talk. In the servants' hall, the stable yard, the kitchen entrances. You will say this: 'The new minister isn't just reading old reports. He's asking very sharp questions about missing resources, about budget overlaps. He's looking at the Revenue Ministry, the Military Logistics office, and the Inner Palace household accounts.' Can you do that?"
The boy clutched the stone, nodding vigorously. "Y-yes, Minister. Just… talk?"
"Just talk. To everyone. And if anyone asks where you heard it, you look scared and say you overheard the scribe, Old Wen, muttering about it."
By the afternoon, the palace began to twitch.
The first reaction came from the military. A crisp, formal notice arrived at his office, delivered by a stone-faced courier. 'The scheduled sparring exhibition has been cancelled due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts with core disciple training. Your understanding is appreciated.'
No more invitation. No more 'accident' in the garden.
The second came from the Ministry of Revenue. A flustered junior clerk brought a scroll. 'Minister Hua Tai regrets to inform that the banquet of welcome is postponed indefinitely due to a sudden, severe Qi imbalance in his stomach. He wishes you good health in your endeavors.'
Wei Ji almost laughed. The poisoner had a stomach ache. How poetic.
The third was the most subtle. A small, exquisite porcelain jar was delivered by a silent maid in the inner palace colors. It contained rare Silver Needle tea leaves. A note accompanied it, in elegant, feminine script: 'For the diligent Minister. May this tea calm the mind and sharpen focus. Do not overwork yourself. The empire needs clear eyes. —Su Lin, Head Maid.'
A gift. A warning. A retreat.
Old Wen returned, a faint, incredulous hope in his eyes. "Minister… it worked. The Archives clerk turned pale when I made my request. He could not process it fast enough."
Wei Ji nodded, but the satisfaction was thin. These were retractions, not victories. They had pulled back their first probes. The next would be sharper, harder to see.
He looked at Old Wen, who was arranging the few writing tools they had. The old man's hands trembled, but not from cold this time. From a nervous energy.
"Old Wen," Wei Ji said softly. "You were more than a scribe once, weren't you?"
The old man froze. The hope in his eyes shattered, replaced by fear. Then, slowly, by resignation. He sank into the chair Wei Ji had given him.
"I was… a nothing," Old Wen whispered, staring at his twisted hands. "A low-level clerk in the Revenue Ministry. But I had ears. And I had a sick daughter. Minister Hua Tai's people… they offered money for reports on my superiors' conversations. Who was discontent. Who was ambitious."
He took a shuddering breath. "I did it for two years. Then, my daughter died. The money stopped. I made a mistake—I tried to blackmail the man who recruited me. For a final payment. To bury her properly." He held up his hands. "This was my punishment. A 'training accident' that shattered the meridians in my arms and back. I can hold a brush, but I will never cultivate again. They threw me here, to this dead office, to rot."
He looked at Wei Ji, his eyes wet with shame. "I was told to watch you. To report your actions to a cook in the kitchens named Hong. He is a gambler, deeply in debt to the Revenue Minister's estate master. He is the one who… who would have prepared your meal."
Wei Ji felt no anger. Only a cold clarity. "Why tell me now?"
"Because you gave me a chair," Old Wen said, his voice breaking. "Because you called me an asset. Because you are the first person in twenty years who did not look at me and see broken furniture."
The confession hung in the cold air. It was a gift. A terrible, precious gift.
"Cook Hong," Wei Ji repeated, committing the name to memory. "Thank you, Old Wen."
The old man wept silently, shoulders shaking. It was the sound of a long, long weight being lifted.
As evening fell, Wei Ji felt a fragile sense of control. He had identified one poisoner. He had forced the other wolves back into the shadows. He had, perhaps, gained a sliver of loyalty.
A servant brought a simple dinner tray: rice, boiled vegetables, a pot of tea. The servant was new, a face he hadn't seen. He placed it on the desk and left without a word.
Wei Ji looked at the tray. The tea pot was ceramic, plain. Steam curled from the spout. He lifted the lid. The tea inside was dark, smelling of bitter herbs and something else—something faintly metallic, like old copper.
He did not drink it.
He carried the pot to the dead tree in the courtyard, visible from his window. He poured the steaming liquid onto the hard, cracked earth at its base.
The effect was immediate.
The few, thin weeds growing near the base turned black, shriveling into dust in seconds. A faint, acrid smoke hissed from the soil. The patch of earth darkened, dying.
Wei Ji stared, the empty pot cold in his hand.
His gambit had worked. The planned accidents were cancelled. The poison plot was exposed.
And yet, the poison had still come.
Someone wasn't playing the game of invitations and mapped locations anymore. Someone was cutting through the noise. They had bypassed Cook Hong, bypassed the plans. They had simply sent a new face with a deadly pot.
The timeline had accelerated. The three-day warning was a lie.
The first move had begun, and it was not the one he had countered.
It was a move in the dark. And it had almost worked.