The Red Fang hideout woke late.
Men stumbled from their mats, cursing, scratching, yawning. The air stank of stale liquor and sweat. A few dice games were already starting in the corner, voices low but tense.
I'd been awake since before dawn.
The cot they'd given me was a joke, but I'd slept on worse in my first life — snowbanks, ship holds, battlefield mud. Sleep was never about comfort. It was about readiness.
By the time Bao Liang stumbled in, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn, I'd already walked the whole length of the hideout twice, memorizing the placement of every door, window, and armed man.
"Xuan," Bao said, breath steaming in the cold air, "you're up early."
I didn't look up from sharpening my dagger. "Old habit."
He smirked. "You'll need that habit. Word is, your spice shipment… vanished."
I kept my movements steady, the rasp of the whetstone slow and even.
Inwardly, I almost smiled. Of course it had vanished. It had never existed.
"Vanished?" I asked mildly.
"Scouts say the caravan never came through the east gate," Bao said. "Rumor is, it changed route in the night. Could be they got spooked. Could be nothing." He leaned closer. "Could be you were full of shit."
I met his gaze without blinking. "If I were lying, you think I'd still be here? You think Old Jin would let me breathe this long?"
That shut him up.
Right on cue, the door to the back room creaked open. Old Jin stood in the frame, a thin pipe dangling from his lips. Smoke curled around his head like a lazy halo.
"Xuan," he said. "Inside."
* * * * * * * * *
Old Jin's quarters were small but well-kept — a sharp contrast to the filth outside. The floorboards were swept clean, the desk free of clutter. Everything in here had a place, and everything was in its place.
I respected that.
He sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair. "Our scouts tell me your information was… inaccurate."
I didn't bother pretending to be surprised. "If the merchants caught wind of trouble, they might have hired extra guards. Changed routes."
"Maybe," Old Jin said. He tapped ash into a small clay dish. "Or maybe you're wasting my time."
I let a beat pass, then said, "I know someone who can confirm where they went."
That got his attention. His eyes narrowed. "Who?"
I shook my head. "Not someone I'd name without reason. But if you want answers, I can get them."
Old Jin leaned forward, pipe forgotten. "You're confident for someone without a reputation."
"I don't need a reputation," I said. "I need results."
He studied me for a long moment, the silence thick. Then he called out, "Bao."
Bao Liang stuck his head in. "Boss?"
"Take the boy to the northern docks," Old Jin said. "Let him find his 'contact.' If he comes back empty-handed, leave him in the river."
Bao grinned at me, but there was no warmth in it. "Got it, Boss."
* * * * * * * * *
The northern docks were a mess of warehouses, loading cranes, and rotting planks slick with river scum. The air was damp, carrying the stink of fish, tar, and human waste.
Men in patched coats shouted over the groan of ropes and the slap of water. Barges bumped lazily against the piers, their crews unloading crates into waiting carts.
I walked beside Bao, listening more than speaking. Every snippet of conversation was a potential weapon.
"…Black Tigers paid double for the shipment…"
"…Iron Hand School recruiting again, paying in silver, not copper…"
That one made me pause. The Iron Hand School — a small martial sect in the city's east quarter. In my first life, they'd quietly built up strength for years before exploding into the underworld scene, starting a bloody turf war.
If they were already recruiting, it meant the timeline was slightly ahead of what I remembered. Dangerous… but also useful.
Bao led me toward a squat stone warehouse near the water's edge. Two dockworkers sat outside, smoking and spitting into the river.
"You two," Bao barked. "Seen a spice caravan pass through here?"
The older worker squinted. "Spice? You think we'd be sittin' here if we'd seen spice? We'd be drinkin' it away by now."
They laughed, showing yellow teeth.
I crouched, resting my elbows on my knees. "What about caravans changing routes? Anything unusual last night?"
The younger one scratched his chin. "Could be. Saw some wagons head north, past the mill road. Looked in a hurry."
A lie. His eyes flicked to Bao, then away. He was covering for someone.
I tossed him a small copper coin. "For your honesty."
They both laughed again, but this time it was nervous.
We left without pressing further. Bao grumbled the whole way about wasted time.
That was fine. This trip wasn't about finding a shipment — it was about finding the edges of the board.
I'd just spotted my first move.
We left the docks in silence, the planks groaning under our boots. The tide was coming in, carrying with it the sour stink of the river's belly.
Bao Liang muttered curses under his breath, clearly annoyed we'd wasted the morning. His tone was sharp enough to irritate, but I didn't answer.
We were halfway through a narrow lane when I caught it — a shadow breaking from the corner ahead, another sliding silently from behind.
Two men.
They didn't walk like drunks or dockhands. Their steps were careful, weight balanced, arms loose but ready. Their eyes were wrong too — cold, flat, already measuring the distance to our throats.
I stopped walking.
Bao took two more steps before he noticed. "What—"
The first man lunged, a gleam of steel flashing in his hand.
Bao yelped, stumbling back. His heel caught on the uneven cobbles, and he went down hard. The attacker went for me instead — bad choice.
I didn't dodge. I stepped into him, my left forearm smashing against his knife arm. My right hand came up, the dagger already reversed in my grip.
The point punched under his ribs, straight into the liver.
His breath went out in a wet gasp. He staggered, but I didn't pull the blade free — I twisted, tearing through flesh before shoving him back into the wall. He slid down it, eyes wide, hands pressed uselessly to his side.
The second man had Bao pinned against the wall, knife to his throat. He froze when he saw me coming, blood still dripping from my blade.
"Walk away," I said. My voice was calm, almost gentle. "Or join him."
The man's eyes flicked from me to Bao, then to his friend. He shoved Bao aside and bolted down the alley without another word.
Bao collapsed against the wall, panting. "Shit, Xuan— I—"
I wiped my blade on the dead man's coat. "Black Tiger?"
He didn't answer. His eyes shifted away.
"Bao," I said, sheathing the dagger, "you're bad at lying. Was this about the shipment, or about you?"
He swallowed hard. "I owe… a little silver. Just bad luck they found us."
I let that sit for a moment, watching him squirm. "You think it was bad luck. I think it was a warning. Next time, they'll send three."
His face paled.
I stepped closer. "Here's what you're going to do: tell no one about this. Not Old Jin. Not your drinking friends. No one. If they think I'm tied to your debt, I'll gut you myself before they can."
Bao nodded quickly, almost too quickly.
Good. Fear was better than loyalty.
* * * * * * * * *
We dragged the body to a side canal and rolled it in. The water took him without a sound, leaving only a faint red swirl before the current pulled it apart.
By the time we got back to the Red Fang hideout, the sun was low and the sky was bruised purple.
Old Jin was at his table, smoke curling lazily from his pipe. His eyes flicked over us, noting the scuff on Bao's coat, the scrape on his cheek.
"Well?" he asked.
"No shipment," I said. "But I did hear something you'll want to know."
One of his brows lifted slightly. "Go on."
"The Iron Hand School," I said. "They're recruiting muscle. Paying in silver, not copper. Quiet about it, but not quiet enough."
For the first time since I'd met him, Old Jin's pipe stopped halfway to his lips.
"That so?"
I nodded. "Dockside whispers say they've taken over the old dyehouse in the east quarter. Hiring men who know how to keep their mouths shut. Could be nothing… could be they're building for something bigger."
He leaned back, exhaling a long plume of smoke. His eyes were unreadable, but I could feel the weight of his attention.
"That," he said slowly, "is worth more than spices."
I didn't smile. "Information always is."
* * * * * * * * *
They gave me the same cot as before. The hideout was quieter at night, the hum of drunken voices fading to the occasional cough or snore.
I lay on my back, staring at the cracked ceiling, running through the day.
Old Jin hadn't pressed me for proof about the Iron Hand School. That was good — meant he was filing it away for later, keeping me in mind as a useful source.
Bao Liang was another matter. He'd be nursing fear and resentment now. Fear would keep him from talking; resentment would keep him dangerous. I'd have to decide whether to shape him into a pawn or remove him entirely before he became a problem.
The Black Tigers were already circling — not for me, but for Bao's debts. Still, it meant my name might reach them sooner than I'd like.
And the Iron Hand School… in my first life, they'd been a minor irritation until the war started. This time, they could be the keystone of something far larger, if I moved early enough.
Three threads. Three moves.
I closed my eyes. Sleep came in fits, shallow and light. Somewhere in the darkness, footsteps padded down the hall.
A faint scrape against the floor. A rustle. Then silence.
I waited until the steps retreated before I sat up.
A folded scrap of paper lay just inside the door.
I picked it up, the paper rough under my fingers. Four words stared back at me in crude black ink:
[We know your name.]
I read them twice, then burned the note over the oil lamp flame, watching the paper curl and blacken.
So. The game was moving faster than I'd planned.
Good.
Let them come.