At the hour of Yin, the inner river dock was bitterly cold, the kind of chill that could crack bones.
Mist crawled up from the river, swallowing the pier, the boats, even the distant mountain silhouettes in a white haze. Only a few fishing fires drifted in the fog, flickering like ghost flames.
Jiang Muchen crouched on a stone post at the east dock, watching for half an hour.
Watching Zheng Xiaoqi maneuver the boat.
The vessel was ancient, a black-stained wooden junk patched in every corner. Zheng Xiaoqi stood barefoot at the bow, the bamboo pole in his hands more an extension of himself than a tool—one push and the boat slid three or four yards smoothly, as if gliding over ice.
The fog was so thick it could swallow the world. Any other boatman would have retreated to shelter, fearing hidden rocks. Zheng Xiaoqi moved forward, and faster than on a clear day.
So the mess hall gave him the jobs no one else dared. The price: four shards of spirit stone per trip.
Jiang Muchen watched him unload thirty baskets of Jade Pearl Rice, each weighing a hundred pounds. The boy balanced on slippery planks, muscles straining, lifting basket after basket onto his shoulders, then stepping across wobbling boards to the dock. Sweat soaked his coarse shirt, clinging to his tense back.
When he finished, the foreman tossed him twelve shards of spirit stone.
Zheng Xiaoqi didn't count them. He stuffed them into his chest and turned to load the next trip.
"Wait."
Jiang Muchen stood and walked over.
Zheng Xiaoqi looked back, saw him, and froze. His expression unreadable in the fog, only his eyes dark and heavy, like stones dredged from the riverbed.
"Three trips all night, twelve shards." Jiang Muchen stepped to the side of the boat, fingers tracing the wet railing. "Do you know how much Wang Duobao profits reselling Jade Pearl Rice? One trip?"
Zheng Xiaoqi shook his head.
"Thirty shards at minimum," Jiang Muchen said. "No lifting, no steering. Just mouthwork, passing messages from the warehouse to the mess hall."
Zheng Xiaoqi stayed silent. The cuts on his feet still oozed blood, mixed with river silt, forming dark red scabs.
"I didn't come to pity you." Jiang Muchen jumped onto the boat; it swayed lightly. "I came to propose a partnership."
"A partnership?"
"You know these waters. Hidden currents, secret coves, which dockhands are tipsy and late—you know them all." Jiang Muchen's eyes locked on him. "I need a shadow route. Some cargo cannot move in plain sight."
Zheng Xiaoqi gripped the pole tighter. "What kind of cargo?"
"Not telling yet." Jiang Muchen tossed a cloth bag toward him. "Deposit."
The bag landed with a crisp clink. Zheng Xiaoqi didn't grab it immediately. He glanced at Jiang Muchen, then bent to pick it up. Inside: twenty shards, glowing softly in the foggy night.
He looked up, eyes cracking for the first time. "This much?"
"Help me transport cargo three times a month. Thirty shards per trip. Not much cargo, but punctual, safe, and leave no trace." Jiang Muchen's voice was calm. "Do you take it?"
Zheng Xiaoqi's Adam's apple bobbed.
Thirty shards equaled three days' pay. Three trips a month—ninety shards. Enough for decent shoes, a thick coat, maybe even the cheapest copy of Qi Drawing Technique from a market stall.
"Why me?" he croaked.
"Because in fog, you're the only one daring enough to navigate back to Huilong Bay." Jiang Muchen said.
Not flattery. Huilong Bay was treacherous even on sunny days, with hidden reefs everywhere. In fog, seven out of ten trips ended in disaster. Zheng Xiaoqi had returned safely seven times.
He looked down at his feet. The cuts were deep, showing tender red beneath. He asked quietly, "You don't fear I'd run off with the cargo?"
"Would you?" Jiang Muchen smiled. "If you were that type, you wouldn't still be eating at this dock."
Zheng Xiaoqi said nothing more.
The fog thickened. In the distance, a rooster crowed; the horizon lightened with dawn.
"I'll take it," he said.
"Good." Jiang Muchen nodded. "First task, three days from now at Zi hour, West Dock, Crow's Beak. Pick up three crates, deliver to East Dock, Ruanshi Beach. Password—if asked, 'Rain tonight?' respond, 'No rain, just fog.'"
Zheng Xiaoqi repeated it, committing it to memory.
Jiang Muchen jumped off the boat, took a few steps, then called back, "Boat needs repair. Bottom board cracked, left side, third plank. Won't hold through the month."
Zheng Xiaoqi froze. "How do you—"
"I heard it." Jiang Muchen waved him off. "A hollow sound when a cracked boat moves."
Not entirely true—his insight technique fed him information while Zheng Xiaoqi maneuvered: "Hull compromised. Left third plank, seven inches long, depth three-tenths."
Zheng Xiaoqi stared at the boat, motionless for a long time.
Jiang Muchen walked away, hearing only a low, "Thanks," behind him. He didn't look back, just waved.
Three days later, Zi hour, Crow's Beak.
Desolate. Not even stray dogs ventured here. Sheer cliffs on three sides, leaving a narrow waterway. The shore was strewn with jagged rocks, reeds taller than a man. Wind rustled through them like countless whispers in the dark.
Zheng Xiaoqi's boat hid deep in the reeds.
He crouched at the bow, bare feet on cold planks, bamboo pole across his knees. The twenty-shard deposit nestled in his chest, along with a minor water-repelling talisman from Jiang Muchen—yellow paper and cinnabar, low-grade, yet warm in his palm.
At Zi hour, figures approached.
Three black silhouettes, carrying wooden crates. The leader, short and stout, glanced around, lowering his voice: "Rain tonight?"
Zheng Xiaoqi leaned out of the reeds: "No rain, just fog."
Password matched. The short man signaled; the two behind lifted the crates onto the boat. Heavy, with metallic clinks.
"Ruanshi Beach, someone to receive." The short man tossed a small cloth bag—balance payment.
Zheng Xiaoqi weighed it: at least thirty shards. He nodded, pushed with his pole, and the boat silently glided out of the reeds.
The night was eerily quiet, only the river murmuring.
As they approached Huilong Bay, danger struck!
Suddenly, flames lit the waterway. Three speedboats burst from behind the cliffs, forming a "品" formation, surrounding them. Figures stood at the bow, torches raised, waist blades glinting. Leading them, a young man in brocade, arms behind his back—Lin Tianying.
"Zheng Xiaoqi!" Lin Tianying sneered. "What shady business in the dead of night? Open the crates, now!"
Zheng Xiaoqi's heart sank.
Lin Tianying, inner disciple, grandson of Elder Lin in the Law Enforcement Hall, specialized in intercepting contraband at night. Ordinary disciples feared him like death.
But tonight, this cargo was Jiang Muchen's.
Zheng Xiaoqi gripped his pole, unmoving.
"Deaf?!" Lin Tianying waved. "Board the boat, search it!"
Two lackeys jumped onto the junk, reaching for the crates—
Zheng Xiaoqi struck.
He kicked hard; the boat jolted, crashing into the left speedboat. The other crew off-balance, one fell into the river. He swung his pole, striking another in the knee; the man collapsed, screaming.
"Still resist?!" Lin Tianying leapt onto the junk, palm striking!
The force cut the air—his mid-sixth stage Qi refinement displayed fully. Zheng Xiaoqi, only third-stage, could not meet it head-on. He fell back, planting his pole in the water to leverage, narrowly avoiding disaster. Boxes clanged together.
Before Lin Tianying could follow, a sharp shout came from the shore:
"Stop!"
A white figure swooped over the water, landing at the bow.
A woman, white as snow, face cold as moonlight, a red mark on her brow. The air around her froze; mist turned to frost.
Lin Tianying paled. "M-Murong Senior Sister?"
Murong Xueli, Ice Palace Saintess, honored guest of Red Dust Pavilion. In rank and skill, she towered over him.
"Midnight brawling?" Murong Xueli's voice was icy. "Quite the initiative, Lin Junior."
Lin Tianying's forehead beaded with sweat. "Senior Sister, misunderstanding! I was patrolling—catching smugglers—"
"Smuggling?" Murong Xueli glanced at the crates. "What's inside?"
"Not… checked yet—"
"Check now." She waved. "Open them."
Lin Tianying gritted his teeth, signaling his lackeys.
The crates revealed neatly stacked Cold Iron Ore, each stamped with the Artificer Hall mark. The other two held Red Copper Ingots, likewise marked.
"Artificer Hall's materials," Murong Xueli looked at Zheng Xiaoqi. "Destination?"
"Ruanshi Beach, Hall Warehouse C."
"Paperwork?"
He handed a slip—prepared in advance by Jiang Muchen, stamped for Hall C guest use.
Murong Xueli glanced, returned it, then stared at Lin Tianying: "Junior, shipping your own hall materials counts as smuggling?"
Lin Tianying turned pale. "I… I didn't know—"
"Didn't know, yet dared to block?" Her gaze froze him. "Go."
One word, like shards of ice.
Lin Tianying scowled at Zheng Xiaoqi, then retreated with his men.
Once the speedboats vanished into the night, Murong Xueli turned to Zheng Xiaoqi: "Jiang Muchen's man?"
He nodded.
She was silent for a moment, then tossed him a small jade vial: "Frostbite ointment. For your feet."
Zheng Xiaoqi froze, catching the warm vial. Before he could speak, she vanished into the fog.
The junk returned to quiet.
Holding the vial, glancing at the crates, then down at his cracked feet, Zheng Xiaoqi understood everything.
This wasn't ordinary transport—those Cold Iron Ore and Copper Ingots had been "borrowed" from the hall by Jiang Muchen, meant for Wang Duobao to resell.
And Jiang Muchen had predicted Lin Tianying would intercept tonight.
He had also predicted Murong Xueli would be training on the river at Zi hour, just as Zhou Xiaohuan's intel described.
This was all a game.
Lin Tianying—a pawn. Murong Xueli—a pawn. Zheng Xiaoqi—a pawn. The one orchestrating it all was likely sitting in the servant quarters, listening to the jade flute, waiting for news.
Zheng Xiaoqi planted his pole, and the junk slowly glided toward Ruanshi Beach.
The fog swirled, yet his mind was clear as glass.
Tian Dao Truth: True protection isn't hiding—it's making stronger opponents realize: keeping you alive is more valuable than crushing you.