The dawn that crept through the study's high, latticed window was the color of weak tea. It found Li Wei curled on the divan, a thin line of drool connecting his lip to the dusty silk cushion. The empty wine jar lay on its side like a fallen soldier.
His eyes snapped open.
A groan tore from his throat, raw and guttural. His head was a bell that had been struck by a cannonball—a throbbing, nauseating universe of pain centered behind his eyes. The taste in his mouth was a crime against nature.
"Ugh… what…"
He pushed himself up, the world tilting dangerously. He squinted at his surroundings. The study. Right. Father had locked him in. The betrothal. The Zhang harpy. A fresh wave of misery, separate from the physical agony, washed over him. He was to be sold. Like a pig at market.
He stumbled to the door, pounding a weak fist against the solid oak. "Hello? Someone? Water… please, just some water…"
To his shock, the lock turned almost immediately.
The door opened not to a stern guard, but to Xiao Lan, the young maid from the kitchens. Her eyes, usually downcast, were wide and… was that awe? She held a tray not with the usual bored detachment, but with a reverence befitting a temple offering.
On it was not the slop he expected, but a bowl of fine white congee topped with slivers of ginger and spring onion, a cup of steaming, high-mountain tea that smelled of citrus and herbs, and—most bizarrely—a small, exquisite porcelain inkstone, a brush, and a stack of pristine paper.
"Young Master," she breathed, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the tray. "Your… your tea and writing materials, as you requested."
Li Wei blinked, his hungover brain struggling to parse the scene. "I… requested? Xiao Lan, I was dead drunk. I don't even remember you coming last night."
A strange, knowing flicker passed over her face, gone so quickly he thought he imagined it. "Of course, Young Master. You were… very insistent." She placed the tray on the desk, her movements careful, almost ritualistic. "Old Kuo is on duty outside. He said to tell you… 'the cricket was sour.' He said you would understand."
Li Wei stared at her. The cricket was sour? Had the whole household gone mad? Or was he still dreaming? The pounding in his skull assured him he was not.
"I understand nothing," he muttered, shuffling to the desk and seizing the cup of tea. He gulped it down, not caring that it scalded his tongue. The heat and bitterness cut through the fog slightly. "Leave me. And tell my father I am still refusing. I'll rot in here first."
Xiao Lan bowed again, that strange light still in her eyes. "As you wish, Young Master." She paused at the door. "The household is… abuzz. The Zhang family envoy has postponed their visit. Indefinitely."
She slipped out before he could respond, the lock clicking softly behind her.
Li Wei stood, holding the empty teacup, utterly bewildered. Postponed? Father's rage had been biblical. The Zhangs had been salivating. What could possibly have caused a delay?
He looked at the writing materials. Had he, in his stupor, written something? He didn't write. Writing was for scholars and heirs, not for fifth sons who could barely hold a chopstick straight after the third cup.
Setting the cup down, his fingers brushed the top sheet of paper. There was a faint impression on it, as if from a page that had been on top. He held it to the gray light.
It was a list. A single column of names, written in a hand so precise and sharp it looked carved, not inked:
1. Second Brother (Embezzlement: Pearl Venture/Lin Account)
2. Steward Feng (Gambling Debts to Iron Hook Gang)
3. Zhang Patriarch (Illegal Salt Trade via West Canal)
4. Duke Gao's Secretary, Hu (Bribe-Funnel for Silk Guild)
Beneath the names, in smaller, even more ruthless script, was a note:
Primary Leverage Points. Stage 1: Create internal pressure, force delay. Stage 2: Apply external distraction. Await report from 'Rook.' Tea is medicinal. Drink it all.
Li Wei's blood ran cold. This was not his writing. He could produce clumsy, childlike characters on a good day. This was the work of a master scribe—or a mastermind.
The door shook under a heavy, impatient knock. "Wei! Open this door! It's your brother!"
Li Shan. Second Brother. The name at the top of the phantom list.
Panic, sharp and sobering, cut through the hangover. Without thinking, Li Wei crumpled the paper and shoved it into the brazier, stirring the cold ashes with a poker until it blackened and vanished. He then grabbed the brush, dipped it clumsily in the ink, and scrawled a large, wobbly character for "WINE" on the clean paper just as the lock turned.
Li Shan strode in, his face a storm cloud. He was two years Wei's senior, dressed in robes of expensive but slightly garish brocade, his eyes sharp with cunning and now, unmistakable suspicion. He didn't bother to close the door, where Old Kuo the guard stood, watching intently.
"What game are you playing, you little drunkard?" Li Shan hissed, advancing.
Li Wei affected his best bleary-eyed, confused expression. He held up the paper with the drunken scrawl. "Game? Brother, I need a game of wine. This tea is foul. Can you get me some? Just a jar? The cheap stuff is fine…"
Li Shan snatched the paper, looked at the idiot character, and sneered. But his eyes were darting around the room, taking in the neat writing materials, the empty but clean teacup, the absence of any mess save for the sleeping divan. "You had Xiao Lan fetching ink and paper in the middle of the night. Why?"
"Did I?" Wei rubbed his temple, groaning. "I don't… I think I wanted to write a poem. To the Zhang girl. 'Your face is sharp, like a knife…' something, something… I passed out."
"A poem," Li Shan repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. But the suspicion didn't leave. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a venomous whisper only Wei could hear. "Listen to me, you useless sack of bones. Something is happening. The Zhangs are suddenly 'reconsidering financial disclosures.' Father is receiving strange, favorable whispers from the minor guilds. And it started last night. After you were locked in here."
Wei's heart hammered against his ribs. He forced a shaky, drunken laugh. "Coincidence, brother! The gods finally pity me!"
"The gods have better things to do than pity you," Li Shan spat. Then, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Old Kuo says you spoke to him last night. Clearly. You gave him… advice."
Wei's act of confusion was now only half an act. "I spoke to Old Kuo? About what? Cricket fighting? I hate crickets. They're noisy."
Li Shan studied him, the conflict clear on his face. He was looking at the brother he knew—the red-eyed, trembling, pathetic drunk. The evidence before him was of that same drunk. And yet…
He grabbed the front of Wei's robe. "If I find out you're pretending, that you're scheming somehow… I will personally make sure your marriage to the Zhang girl is the least of your worries. You are a stone around this family's neck. Your only value is your compliance. Remember that."
He shoved Wei back onto the divan and turned to leave. At the door, he stopped, glancing at Old Kuo. "Guard. From now on, no one enters or leaves without my direct permission. No maids, no tea, nothing. Is that clear?"
Old Kuo bowed stiffly. "As you command, Second Young Master."
The door slammed shut. The lock turned, heavier this time.
Li Wei lay on the divan, breathing heavily. The act had worked. But the terror remained. Someone, some thing, had used his body last night. It had spoken to servants, known secrets, written that chilling list. It had… changed things.
He looked at the teacup. 'Tea is medicinal. Drink it all.'
With a trembling hand, he poured another cup from the small pot. It was still warm. He drank it, not tasting it this time, feeling only a desperate, superstitious hope that whatever intelligence had brewed it knew how to fix the chaos it had seemingly started.
---
Outside the Li Estate, in a bustling tea house overlooking the West Canal…
A man who was not quite a man sat in a corner booth, his presence somehow fading into the woodwork. He wore the simple, gray robes of a low-level clerk. This was the Rook.
Before him, the second of three letters written in the locked study was being read by its recipient: a portly, anxious-looking man with the calloused hands of a boatman but the fine silk trim of a rising merchant—Boss Kang, who controlled several key docks on the West Canal.
The letter was short, precise, and devastating.
"Boss Kang,
Your ambition is noted. The salt that flows 'missing' from the Zhang shipments every third moon could float a fleet. The Imperial Inspectorate is bored. A name, a location, and your rival's monopoly becomes your inheritance. A friend will contact you with details.
— A Well-Wisher"
Boss Kang's face had gone from pale to ashen. He wiped sweat from his brow. "Who… who is this 'friend'?" he whispered to the Rook.
The Rook, whose face was unremarkable to the point of being instantly forgettable, took a sip of his own tea. "You will know him," he said, his voice a soft monotone. "Your task is simple. When the Zhang family's salt barge, the 'Jade Profit,' docks tomorrow, you will have your men… delay its unloading. Cause a minor disturbance. A spilled crate. A small dock fire. Nothing traceable to you."
"And in return?"
"The information in that letter vanishes. And the Zhang family will be too busy putting out other fires to investigate a dockyard accident." The Rook placed a single, polished black stone on the table—a Go piece. "Keep this. It is a reminder that you are now on the board. Play wisely."
Boss Kang stared at the stone as if it were a viper, but his fear was already curdling into a ruthless glee. The Zhangs had bullied the smaller merchants for years. This was a chance. A dangerous, terrifying chance.
The Rook slid out of the booth and melted into the crowded street. His mind, a perfectly tuned instrument, was already elsewhere. The third and final letter was the most delicate. It was not a threat, but a gift—a piece of financial arbitrage so clever and low-risk it was irresistible. Its target was Duke Gao's Secretary, Hu, a man whose greed was only matched by his caution.
The scheme would take a week to bear fruit, but it would neatly divert the Duke's attention—and his appetite for collecting the Li family's debt—toward a much juicier, if fictional, opportunity.
Three letters. Three threads pulled. One to create internal fear (Zhang's illegal trade), one to create a distraction (the dock incident), one to divert the greatest threat (Duke Gao's office).
The Strategist's plan was in motion.
---
Back in the Western Study, evening approached.
Li Wei had spent the day in a haze of fear and confusion. The medicinal tea had, ironically, cleared his headache but not his dread. He'd tried to sleep, to read the dusty scrolls, but the words swam before his eyes.
As the light began to fail, he heard a new sound at the door. Not a knock, but a faint, rhythmic scritch-scratch. Then, a sliver of parchment was slipped silently under the door.
He scrambled for it. It was a cheap piece of message paper, the kind used in markets. On it were three lines:
1. Zhang salt leak confirmed. Kang mobilized.
2. Shan investigates "friendly whispers." Trail leads to false merchant front.
3. Secretary Hu took the bait. Duke's audit delayed by 10 days.
There was no signature. Only a small, drawn symbol at the bottom: a simplified chess piece—a rook.
Li Wei stared at the paper. He understood the words individually, but their collective meaning was a locked door. It was a status report. For him.
This was proof. Concrete, terrifying proof. He was not insane. Something was using him. And it was waging a shadow war on behalf of the family he was supposedly shaming.
A profound helplessness settled over him. He was a passenger in his own life. A puppet who couldn't see the strings.
Then, a new thought occurred, cold and unwelcome: What if this… thing… is the only thing standing between our house and ruin?
The memory of Second Brother's threatening face flashed before him. The disgust in Father's eyes. The sharp, cruel face of the Zhang daughter from the one portrait he'd seen.
A strange, defiant spark ignited in his chest, cutting through the helplessness. This entity, whatever it was, had postponed the marriage. It had seemingly stalled the debt collectors. It had, for the first time in Wei's life, made his powerful brother afraid of him.
He looked at the empty space on the desk where the writing materials had been. Xiao Lan had taken the tray at noon.
An idea, desperate and bold, formed in his simple, uncluttered mind. It was not a plot. It was a plea. A message in a bottle, thrown to the other side of his own soul.
He needed ink. He had none.
His eyes fell on the brazier, on the faint gray smear of the ash from the burned list. He scooped a small handful of the finest ash into the empty teacup. He spat into it, mixing it into a crude, black paste with his finger.
Using his fingernail as a stylus, he carefully wrote on the back of the smuggled report, his characters clumsy and large:
"WHO ARE YOU?
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
…CAN YOU SAVE US?"
He stared at the questions for a long moment. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added one more line, the plea of the powerless to the powerful:
"I AM TIRED OF BEING AFRAID."
He placed the paper prominently in the center of the desk, weighed it down with the empty cup, and sat back on the divan. He had no wine. He couldn't summon the other willfully.
But maybe, just maybe, it was watching. And maybe, for reasons he could not fathom, it would answer.
As full dark fell, locking the study in profound silence, Li Wei did the only thing he could do. He waited. And for the first time, his fear was edged with a sliver of something else—a desperate, fragile hope.
In the darkness, the paper on the desk seemed to glow with a faint, unseen potential. The game was afoot, and the player who didn't know he was a piece had just asked to see the board.