The door to the warehouse broke open under Li Qiang's shoulder with a thunderous crack. A startled shout went up from inside, followed by the sharp scraping of chairs on tiled floors. Ziyan stepped through the shattered doorway in his wake, her mark glowing beneath her sleeve, pulse steady as a funeral drum.
Men in merchant silks leapt to their feet. One reached for a concealed dagger. Li Qiang moved first — the flat of his hand slammed into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. He dropped soundlessly, twitching on the floor.
"Block the exits," Ziyan ordered. Her voice was quiet but it carried, slicing through the rising chaos like a drawn blade.
They advanced deeper into the building. Paper lanterns swung wildly overhead, casting the long hall in shifting gold. Servants scattered, clutching account books to their chests. A guard rushed from a side room, sword half-drawn. Li Qiang twisted past him in a ghost-silent blur, driving a short blade up through the ribs. The guard gasped, eyes wide with surprise, then slumped to the ground.
Another pair tried to bar their path with curved knives. Ziyan didn't hesitate. Her palm shot out — the mark flared, heat rushing down her arm. The air rippled. Both men staggered back, clutching at fresh burns across their chests as if they'd been struck by invisible brands.
Li Qiang finished them without breaking stride.
At the end of the hall, heavy lacquered doors stood slightly ajar. Voices spilled out: urgent, fearful, demanding reassurances that were not coming.
Ziyan pushed them open with the flat of her hand.
Inside sat the inner council of the Merchant Guild — men whose silks draped richly over well-fed bellies, whose rings glittered like tiny hoarded thrones. A map of the eastern provinces lay spread across a low table, pins marking supply routes and tribute lanes.
When they saw her, they lurched to their feet. One old merchant with a delicate fan stammered, "This is a private session under the Imperial Office of Commerce—"
Ziyan's mark burned. "Not anymore."
One tried to slip behind a side curtain. Li Qiang was faster. His blade flashed once, and the man dropped with a strangled cry, crimson staining the pale cloth.
A moment later, four martial artists — clearly hired guards — burst in through another door, weapons drawn. They moved with disciplined fluidity, trying to encircle Li Qiang.
It didn't matter.
Li Qiang slipped among them like smoke, blade singing. A forearm opened, spraying blood across the table; another guard crumpled with a silent hole beneath his ribs. The third spun to counter — Li Qiang pivoted inside the arc of the man's slash and drove his elbow into the man's temple. The guard's body shuddered and fell. The last dropped his sword and backed away, hands up, face ashen.
Li Qiang simply stared at him. The man bolted through the door, fleeing so quickly he left one sandal behind.
Silence fell. The merchants stared, some with hands pressed over their mouths to keep from vomiting.
Ziyan approached the table, boots quiet over pooled blood. She laid one hand flat on the province map, pushing pins aside with her palm.
"You will tell me who ordered Zhao's death," she said softly. "And you will tell me why your ledgers show funds marked for 'special tithes' in connection to these rituals outside the capital walls."
A heavyset merchant swallowed hard. "We — we manage many donations for temples, my lady, it is tradition to—"
Li Qiang grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the table. A tooth skittered across the map. The man sobbed, clutching his bleeding mouth.
Ziyan leaned close. Her breath was warm on his ear. "Tradition does not spill blood on hidden altars. Speak."
It did not take long. Greedy men were always quicker to beg for mercy than to hold their silence. Under threats, under the cold press of Li Qiang's knife into soft flesh, it spilled out:
"Yes — yes, the Minister of Education ordered it! He said Zhao had become careless, that the cult's secrecy was threatened by his loose words. He promised us protection — cheaper taxes — if we handled the payments and the disposal. We never expected Zhao to be executed so… publicly."
Ziyan's blood roared in her ears. Her father. Calm, quiet, politely irrelevant to court power struggles — but with strings that tied to murders and demon pacts. Her mark seemed to twist in her skin, as if alive.
"And now?" she asked.
The merchant's breath came in wet gasps. "Now he's still here — still in the Eastern Capital! He's been hosting small councils at his estate, under the pretense of organizing the upcoming spring exam. New scholars mean new officials — men who owe their start to him, ready to fill ranks for the war. It's how he's tightening his grip."
Li Qiang stepped back, letting the man crumple to the floor.
Ziyan looked around the room. Wealth hung on every wall: silk screens painted with mountain gods, delicate porcelain vases. On a side shelf, piles of ledgers were stacked neatly beside carved ivory seals.
She turned one over in her hand. Her lip curled. "This is what your empire is built on. Paper promises, blood prices, ghosts you think you can pay off with incense."
Then she dropped the ledger back onto the table and drove her dagger through it, pinning it in place. Ink seeped out like a small wound.
When they stepped back into the alley, dawn was just creeping across the rooflines, painting everything in pale grey.
Ziyan drew a long, slow breath. The streets felt brittle underfoot, as if the whole city was made of old porcelain that might shatter at a touch. Lian'er waited with Lianhua at the far end of the alley, eyes wide as they spotted her.
"Well?" Lianhua demanded, voice hushed.
"It was my father," Ziyan said. The words tasted like iron. "He ordered Zhao dead to keep the cult quiet — to keep the court from sniffing too close to whatever monster he's promised his soul to."
"And now?" Li Qiang asked quietly.
Ziyan's hand dropped to rest on Lian'er's small shoulder. "Now we prepare for the spring exam. If he's gathering loyal scholars for the war, we'll be there to greet them. And if the Merchant Guild thought this was the end, they're wrong. I'm going to gut every hidden contract they've ever signed."
Above them, temple bells rang faintly — calling for morning prayers none of them would offer.
Ziyan looked up at the pale sky, her mark pulsing once, hot and sure. The future lay tangled in knives and ledgers, oaths written in old blood. But this time, she was ready to carve her own lines through it.