The patrol's lantern light washed over Shen Jin's face and didn't pause.
That was the best kind of mercy—indifference.
Shen Jin held the seal-plate at chest height as the guard approached. The man's eyes flicked to the imprint, then to Luo Xian standing stiff beside him, then to Gu Xingzhou's shoulders, which screamed violence even when he stood still.
"What's this?" the guard asked, voice bored and suspicious in equal parts.
"Seal inspection," Shen Jin said. He kept his tone clipped, official, annoyed—as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Authority always sounded like impatience.
The guard snorted. "We already had inspections."
"Then you know the procedure," Shen Jin replied. "Paperwork isn't my job. Metal is."
The guard hesitated, then jerked his chin toward the cage rows. "Make it quick. Captain's in a mood."
Luo Xian's eyes didn't leave her brother's cage. Shen Jin saw her fingers flex, as if she wanted to rip the courtyard apart.
He leaned in slightly. "Let me do the talking," he whispered. "You do the watching."
She swallowed hard and nodded.
They walked between the hanging cages. Prisoners shifted in the lantern glare—some with dull resignation, some with anger that had nowhere to go. Shen Jin forced himself not to look too long. Compassion was a weight. He needed his hands free.
They stopped beneath Luo Jian's cage. Up close, the boy looked even smaller. His bruises were old enough to darken. His lips were cracked. His eyes, however, sharpened when he saw Luo Xian.
"X—" Luo Jian mouthed, but no sound came out.
The guard's expression twisted. "He's noisy," he said. "Saw something he shouldn't. Now he gets to think about it."
Shen Jin tilted his head as if evaluating a piece of hardware. "Bring him down," he said. "I need to check the collar seal."
The guard blinked. "What collar seal?"
Shen Jin didn't flinch. "The one you don't want failing," he said. "If the lock slips and he falls, the Court has a corpse instead of an example. Examples don't talk, but they also don't scare as well."
The guard's mouth tightened. He glanced around, then spat to the side. "Fine," he muttered. "Rope."
Another guard came over, grumbling, and they began lowering the cage with a pulley. The chain squealed. Luo Xian's breath held tight in her throat.
When Luo Jian's cage hit the ground, Shen Jin stepped forward and knelt by the lock. He didn't try to pick it—too obvious. Instead, he pulled out his copper pin and lightly scraped the seam, as if checking for stress fractures. His hands moved fast, but his posture screamed routine.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Luo Xian inch closer, her body ready to spring.
Gu Xingzhou stood half a step behind Shen Jin, broad and calm, like a wall that could suddenly become a weapon.
Shen Jin clicked his tongue. "Cheap work," he muttered, loud enough for the guards to hear. "Who installed this?"
The first guard bristled. "It's fine."
"It's fine until it fails," Shen Jin replied. "You want the Court to ask why your example fell apart in your yard?"
The guard swore under his breath. "What do you need?"
Shen Jin held up a tiny sliver of metal he'd scraped off—nothing significant, just enough to look like evidence. "Two minutes," he said. "And no one touching my hands."
The guard rolled his eyes and stepped back. "Make it fast."
Shen Jin leaned closer to the lock, then whispered to Luo Jian through the bars.
"When I say now, you breathe," he said. "Nothing else."
Luo Jian's eyes flicked between Shen Jin and his sister. He nodded once, tiny.
Shen Jin shifted his body to block the guards' line of sight, then slid his pin into the lock's inner groove—not to open it, but to jam it. A lock that wouldn't open could be argued as "dangerous."
He straightened, adopting a frustrated professional face.
"This needs replacement," he announced. "It's seized. If you keep it hanging, you'll snap the chain."
The guard groaned. "We don't have replacements."
"Then you don't have a hanging cage," Shen Jin said. "Bring him to the holding shed. Strap him there until morning. If he falls tonight, it's on you."
The guard's eyes narrowed. He didn't like being threatened by paperwork. But he liked the Court's wrath even less.
"Fine," he snapped. "Move him."
Two guards unlocked the cage door. Luo Jian stumbled out, wrists bound. Luo Xian's hands twitched, but she held still.
They began escorting Luo Jian toward a side shed.
Shen Jin walked with them, seal-plate still visible, as if he belonged.
Inside the shed, the light was dimmer. Wood walls. A single hook on the ceiling. Straw on the floor. The smell of old blood.
One guard shoved Luo Jian down. "Sit."
Shen Jin stepped in the doorway, blocking the outside light.
"Wait," he said. "I need the collar off."
The guard frowned. "Why?"
"Because if the collar seal snaps while he's strapped," Shen Jin said, "the Court asks why you used faulty restraints."
The guard swore again. "Fine. Do it."
He turned his back for half a second.
That was all Gu Xingzhou needed.
Gu moved like a thrown stone—fast, silent, unavoidable. His hand chopped into the guard's throat, cutting off breath. The man crumpled without a shout. Before the second guard could draw a knife, Gu grabbed his wrist, twisted, and used the man's own momentum to slam him into the wall.
The guard's skull hit wood with a dull crack. He went limp.
Luo Xian was already at her brother's side, pulling his wrists free with shaking hands. "Jian," she whispered, voice breaking for the first time. "Talk to me."
Luo Jian coughed, then swallowed hard. "I—" he rasped. "I saw… a ring."
Shen Jin's pulse jumped. "What kind of ring?"
Luo Jian's eyes darted, unfocused again. "Not… jewelry," he whispered. "A ring… in the sky. Like a door. And men… counting."
Luo Xian gripped his face gently. "Who? Court?"
Luo Jian shook his head weakly. "Not Court. Not Guild. Feathers."
Shen Jin felt his sleeve burn.
Feathers.
They escaped through the sewage hatch and surfaced in an abandoned cellar beneath a shuttered bakery.
Then a soft knock sounded on the cellar door above them. Three taps, then two, then one.
A code.
Shen Jin's eyes narrowed. He knew that rhythm.
It was the same tapping pattern he'd seen in the auction hall—on the chair frame beside the Guild bidder.
A voice drifted down, muffled by wood. "Master Fixer," it said, smooth as oiled coin. "You're difficult to catch. I admire that."
Shen Jin's stomach tightened. "Golden Contract," he whispered.
The voice continued, gentle as a threat wrapped in silk. "The Court is loud. The Feather-Oath is… inconvenient. But we can make the noise stop. We can make your name clean again."
"All we ask," the voice said, "is a small piece of metal you happened to pick up tonight."
Shen Jin's sleeve burned.
Shen Jin spoke through the door, voice calm. "Interesting. You found me. That means your signal network works. Or your counterfeit does."
After a pause, the voice chuckled. "A craftsman's eyes," it said. "Yes. We print many things. Information. Fear. Money."
Shen Jin met the threat with a question. "What do you want?"
"A pass-token," Shen Jin replied. "Two days of clean exit. A hundred true Ring Marks. And one name—the person who paid you to make me the scapegoat."
The Guild couldn't give the name—not yet—but they gave the pass and the money. Then they asked again for the Key.
"You didn't buy that," Shen Jin said.
Silence. Then the voice cooled. "Enjoy your two days."
Shen Jin bolted the door and turned to his crew.
"We have time," he said. "Enough to recruit wards. Enough to move."
Outside, the city's horns sounded again—closer.
And somewhere in the fog, a feather-shaped charm clicked softly against a silver chain.
The price of safety had never been money.
It had always been motion.
(End of Chapter 5)