That evening, after dinner, Wan Qingping and Zhou Minghu headed toward the city. Wan strolled with a swagger, hands clasped behind his back, while Zhou hunched like a thief, glancing around nervously with a wooden club clutched tight in his fist.
"Minghu," Wan asked, eyeing him, "you remember what I told you?"
"I remember," Zhou muttered, voice low. "When Big Brother says fight, I swing the stick—legs, arms, backs. Right?"
Wan grinned. "Not bad. Keep it simple for now. Do this well, and you and your mother will never go hungry again. Put your back into it, and afterward we'll feast on roast chicken."
These past few days, Wan hadn't been wandering the city just to eat and watch street performers. He had been quietly mapping its underbelly, probing its factions.
Chishui City was no small town. With nearly a million souls and three hundred li of land under its rule, it was one of twenty-three walled strongholds scattered across the realm. Each city was a domain unto itself, lorded over by a hereditary "City Lord," warlords in all but name. Once, long ago, they had answered to a Zhou royal house. But the royal grip had crumbled centuries back, and now each City Lord ruled like a petty prince, fighting, allying, marrying across borders to cling to power.
Chishui's ruler was Lord Gongsun Yan—three sons, nine daughters, seven grandchildren, and enough family scandal to fill a storyteller's scroll. He kept six thousand soldiers in peacetime, thirty thousand in war. His alliances with nearby Yanling City had kept him stable for generations.
But Wan Qingping had no illusions. He wasn't mad enough to tangle with the great houses. Not yet. Tonight, his target was smaller: a pack of thirteen or fourteen street thugs calling themselves the Shenshe Gang, the "Divine Serpents." They squatted over two shabby streets, shaking down shopkeepers for coin. Nothing more.
Wan had tried them once already, alone. He'd held his own but limped away with bruises after two of their brawniest fighters pressed him hard. Tonight he had Zhou. Tonight, things would be different.
The two stopped before a once-grand courtyard, flanked by stone lions now chipped and mossy. Once the home of nobles, now the Serpents' den.
Wan stepped forward and kicked the gate, wood groaning under the blow. Behind him, Zhou gripped his club, veins rising on his hands, chest heaving. The big man had never fought before. Fear and tension poured off him like sweat.
A shadow peeked from the crack in the door, then scurried back. Moments later, a panicked voice echoed from inside: "Bad news! He's back! He brought someone!"
Wan smirked, about to kick the door clean off its hinges, when the latch creaked and swung wide. Eight men spilled into the courtyard—fewer than expected. Clearly, the gang hadn't believed he'd dare return so soon.
At their head stood a pair of twins, lean and sharp-eyed, blades in hand. Unlike their ragtag followers, the twins carried themselves with the confidence of men who had fought and lived to tell of it.
The younger twin barked first, anger flashing. "You've got guts, coming back here!" He raised a short knife. True blades were forbidden in Chishui—only nobles and soldiers had the right. For a common thug to carry one was bold indeed.
But the elder twin was calmer, shrewder. He held his brother back with a hand. "Enough. This man fights well. Stranger, we've crossed blades once already. Why waste strength? Join us. The Divine Serpents will take you as third leader. What do you say?"
Wan chuckled, weighing the offer. Then he shook his head. "Generous of you. But your turf's only two shabby streets. Too little silver to feed so many mouths. Tonight, there are only two paths. First—if you beat me and my brother down, we'll leave, no hard feelings. Second—if we happen to best you, well…" His smile turned sly. "You know what that means."
The elder twin's face darkened. "Give us a moment to consider."