The old prayer pine stood behind the outer yard like a forgotten witness.
Its trunk was thick, bark cracked into dark plates, and strips of faded cloth hung from its lower branches—vows tied by outer disciples who wanted better pills, better masters, better lives. Wind worried at the cloth until it looked like dead leaves.
Lin Wuchen arrived before dawn, not because he respected He Fang's threat, but because arriving early let him choose where to stand.
He stayed ten paces away from the pine at first, half hidden by a boulder and brush. From there he could see the footpath, the dorm corner, and the short trail that led toward the latrines.
He also kept one ear on the mountain.
Morning was quiet. Quiet made ambushes louder.
He Fang showed up late.
He walked with a swagger that didn't match the dark circles under his eyes. He had slept badly. Either fear or excitement. Probably both.
"You came," He Fang said, voice smug.
Wuchen stepped out from behind the boulder, shoulders slumped, face tired. "You called," he replied.
He Fang glanced around, checking if anyone was watching. "Where is it?" he asked.
Wuchen raised his empty hands. "Not on me," he said.
He Fang's smile tightened. "Don't waste my patience."
Wuchen let his gaze drift toward the pine, toward the strips of cloth. "You're not patient," he said. "You're greedy."
He Fang's eyes flashed. "And you're pretending you have choices."
Wuchen nodded slightly, as if accepting the insult. "Maybe I don't," he said. "So say what you want."
He Fang leaned forward. "Bring me the sealed packet," he whispered. "Now. I'll take it and keep quiet. That's your only path."
Wuchen didn't move.
He Fang's voice sharpened. "Do you think Deacon Han won't believe me? He already hates you. He already suspects you. All I have to do is whisper 'Gu Yan's seal' and you'll be dragged out by the hair."
Wuchen looked at He Fang for a long moment.
Then he sighed, softly, like a man accepting loss. He reached into his sleeve slowly.
He Fang's eyes brightened.
Wuchen's hand came out holding a cloth packet.
Not the wax-sealed one.
Just bitter grass, tied with string.
He Fang's face twisted. "Are you mocking me?"
Wuchen's voice stayed quiet. "This is what I have," he said. "Something that heals bruises. Something that keeps a man working when he should be limping. You want it?"
He Fang slapped it out of his hand. The packet hit the dirt and burst, bitter leaves scattering. "I don't want trash," he hissed. "I want what you stole."
Wuchen looked down at the scattered leaves, then back up. His expression was empty.
"You think I stole it," Wuchen said.
He Fang laughed. "I know you did."
Wuchen's shoulders lifted and fell in a small shrug. "Then tell Deacon Han," he said.
He Fang froze.
He had expected pleading. He had expected bargaining. He had expected fear. That was the point of threats. They fed on panic.
Wuchen gave him none.
He Fang's voice tightened. "You think I won't?"
Wuchen looked at him, eyes dull. "If you tell him," he said, "he'll ask why you know. Then he'll ask how you got into the storehouse. Then he'll ask what you took."
He Fang's face shifted.
Wuchen continued, voice soft and flat. "Deacon Han doesn't need truth. He needs someone to break. If you hand him my name, you think he'll stop with me?"
He Fang swallowed. "I didn't take anything," he whispered.
Wuchen's mouth twitched faintly. "You're a liar," he said. "You took something. I saw your sack."
He Fang's eyes widened in shock. "You—"
Wuchen lifted a hand slightly, not threatening, just stopping him. "Don't shout," he said. "If you shout, someone comes. If someone comes, they see your face. If they see your face, Deacon Han hears later."
He Fang's jaw clenched. His pride fought his fear.
"What do you want?" He Fang asked through his teeth.
Wuchen's gaze moved over He Fang's robe, then his hands, then his belt knot. He Fang's fingers were stained faintly yellow near the nails.
Herb residue.
Not from bitter grass. Something stronger.
Wuchen said, "I want you to do one thing for me."
He Fang laughed bitterly. "Now you want favors."
Wuchen nodded once. "Yes."
He Fang's eyes narrowed. "Say it."
Wuchen stepped closer until he could speak without raising his voice. "Tonight," he said, "you will be in the outer yard storehouse area. Near the guards. You will make sure someone sees you. Loudly. Clearly."
He Fang stared. "Why would I do that?"
"Because," Wuchen said, "Deacon Han will search for the missing packet soon. When he searches, he will start with the storehouse. If you're there, you become the first suspect."
He Fang's face went pale. "So you want me to die."
Wuchen's expression didn't change. "No," he said. "I want you to live."
He Fang's eyes flickered with disbelief.
Wuchen continued, "If you're seen near the storehouse tonight, and later the packet is found somewhere stupid, Deacon Han will think you tried to hide it."
He Fang's mouth opened. "Somewhere stupid?"
Wuchen didn't answer the question.
He Fang stared at him, then hissed, "You hid it somewhere filthy."
Wuchen's eyes stayed dull. "You're smarter than you look," he said.
He Fang's breathing quickened. Anger rose. "You're using me."
Wuchen nodded again. "Yes."
He Fang's hands shook slightly. "And what do I get?"
Wuchen looked at him for a long breath, then said, "You get to keep breathing."
He Fang's laugh was sharp and ugly. "That's not a reward."
"It is here," Wuchen said simply.
He Fang's eyes darted around, checking again for witnesses. Dawn light crept over the ridge. In another half hour, the yard would wake. This conversation would become impossible.
He Fang's voice dropped. "If I do what you say," he whispered, "what stops you from turning on me later?"
Wuchen looked at him, then tilted his head slightly. "Nothing," he said.
He Fang stared as if slapped.
Wuchen added, "So don't trust me. Just survive."
He Fang's face twisted with hatred and reluctant respect. "You're rotten," he whispered.
Wuchen's mouth twitched. "You threatened to sell me," he replied. "Rotten is common."
He Fang breathed hard, then spat on the ground. "Fine," he said. "I'll be near the storehouse tonight. Loud. Clear. But if I end up whipped—"
"You won't," Wuchen said.
He Fang sneered. "You're sure?"
Wuchen's gaze slid toward the pine's hanging cloth strips. "Vows don't matter," he said. "Patterns do."
He Fang's eyes narrowed. "What pattern?"
Wuchen didn't answer. He stepped back, shoulders slumping again, returning to the posture of a boy who belonged under boots.
He Fang watched him for a long moment, then turned to leave. He took two steps, paused, and looked back.
"You really don't have it?" He Fang asked, voice tight.
Wuchen met his eyes for the first time fully. "If I had it," he said quietly, "I wouldn't be talking to you."
He Fang's jaw clenched. He turned and walked away, cloth strips fluttering behind him like mockery.
Wuchen waited until He Fang disappeared around the boulder.
Then he walked toward the latrines.
He didn't go inside. He went behind them, to the cracked stone wall where he had hidden the packet. He crouched, scraped away the mud, and pulled out the oilcloth-wrapped bundle.
The wax seal was still clean.
The fang emblem stared up at him like a tiny mouth.
Wuchen stared at it, then slid it back into the crack and sealed it again.
He didn't trust He Fang to play his part. He didn't trust Deacon Han not to search early. He didn't trust Gu Yan not to smile while tightening the net.
He trusted only one thing.
When wolves fought, scraps fell.
And if he timed it right, he could leave the wolves chewing each other while he crawled away with his skin intact.
He stood, wiped his hands, and walked back toward the dorm as the morning bell began to ring.
The yard woke.
And Wuchen began counting hours until night.