In the courtyard of the Dali Temple, a few crabapple trees hid in the encroaching twilight. The wind whistled through the passage, causing the iron wind chimes at the eaves to clatter rhythmically.
Inside the study, the lamps had not yet been lit; the fading daylight spilled through the half-open lattice windows, illuminating the stacks of case files. Bai Qi sat behind the long rosewood desk, his dark-blue casual gown devoid of a single crease. He held a Lake-style brush, his eyes lowered as he used cinnabar ink to circle names on a confession.
“You’re back?” Bai Qi did not look up, his voice as calm and flat as stagnant water.
“You certainly know how to keep your cool,” Xiao Jingxing said, pulling the door shut behind him to block out the biting wind. He walked to the desk, dragged over a yellow-wood armchair, and sat down with a heavy thud. “That Manager Qin of yours—her skill is truly unparalleled. That ‘off-menu’ Peach Blossom Pastry… even the master chefs at Fan Tower would have to bow their heads in defeat.”
Bai Qi’s brush didn’t falter; the crimson ink bled into the yellowing rice paper.
Xiao Jingxing wasn’t in a hurry. He set his jade-boned folding fan on the desk, leaned back, and continued with a playful lilt in his voice: “However, I saw something interesting in Taiping Ward today.”
Bai Qi dipped his brush into the cinnabar inkstone.
“There was someone watching the Four Seasons Eatery from the mouth of the alley,” Xiao Jingxing said, his expression sobering. “Calloused hands, thick knuckles—he wasn’t your average street-level errand boy. I had someone follow him for a bit; he went into the back courtyard of the Chen Family Restaurant on East Street.”
The brush tip hovered over the paper, a drop of cinnabar failing to hold its shape; it fell with a plop, staining the dossier and reddening half a name. Bai Qi set the brush down beside the plum-blossom porcelain washer.
This was the reaction Xiao Jingxing had been waiting for. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests. “Before I came here, I specifically had someone check Qin Family Alley. The owner of the Chen Family Restaurant is Chen Defu; he’s been entrenched in Taiping Ward for twenty years. Every eatery on that street—who opens, who closes—depends entirely on his word. Last month, a noodle shop tried to open at the end of the alley; within three days, the owner had his legs broken. Your little cook buys her own supplies and refuses to use his channels. She’s cutting off the local tyrant’s revenue.”
“So you’ve uncovered that much,” Bai Qi said, picking up a snow-white cotton cloth to slowly wipe the cinnabar from his fingertips.
Xiao Jingxing narrowed his eyes. “And how much have you uncovered?”
Bai Qi didn’t answer. He pulled open a drawer, withdrew a file bound in green silk, and slid it across the desk with a flick of his wrist.
Xiao Jingxing cast a skeptical look at him, opened the file, and read only two pages before sitting up straight, his brow furrowing into a tight knot.
“The monthly procurement volume of the Chen Family Restaurant is more than triple its recorded revenue,” Bai Qi said, picking up a cup of cold tea to moisten his throat. “The surplus vegetables, oils, grains, chickens, ducks, and fish are moved out through the back door after dark and sent directly into the ice cellar of the Zui Xian Lou (Drunken Immortal Pavilion).”
“Zui Xian Lou?” Xiao Jingxing rubbed the edge of the paper with his thumb. “The property of Qian Mao?”
“It is Qian Mao,” Bai Qi replied. “The legitimate nephew of the wife of Lin Chongyuan, the Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue.”
Xiao Jingxing looked up sharply. They had known each other for nearly twenty years, and he understood all too well the weight of the murderous intent buried beneath Bai Qi’s chilling calm.
“The canal shipping funds handled by Lin Chongyuan last year have a shortfall of 170,000 taels of silver that don’t match the accounts,” Bai Qi said, his gaze fixed on the file, his voice cold. “Qian Mao’s three large restaurants, two inns, and two manors outside the city are all shells used to launder money for Lin Chongyuan. The Chen Family Restaurant is the smallest, yet most secretive, point in this chain. It exists specifically to absorb the price difference from the vegetable markets in the south, breaking down large sums into untraceable pieces.”
Xiao Jingxing closed the file and slammed it onto the desk. The picture was now crystal clear. In the eyes of Chen Defu, Qin Yaoyao’s tiny eatery with only six tables was no threat to his business. How much trouble could a thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl stir up? Her mistake was simply circumventing Chen Defu’s rules. In Taiping Ward, every head of cabbage or chicken had to be taxed by Chen Defu before it reached the table. Refusing to buy from him was akin to carving a hole in his airtight money-laundering chain.
“You’ve known about this for a long time,” Xiao Jingxing stared into Bai Qi’s eyes.
Bai Qi remained silent, a tacit admission.
“Since you knew it was a snake pit that devours people alive, why did you let that girl set up shop there?” Xiao Jingxing’s voice rose in pitch.
The study fell silent. The sky outside had turned pitch black, and Chang An lit the lanterns along the veranda. The dim yellow glow filtered through the window paper, illuminating half of Bai Qi’s face; his eyes were deep and inscrutable.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Bai Qi said with absolute certainty. “Chen Defu is merely a dog raised by Qian Mao. Before he bites, he must wait for his master’s signal. I’ve investigated Qian Mao—he is greedy and suspicious. He isn’t certain what kind of powerful backing stands behind that new eatery, so he wouldn’t dare strike a lethal blow rashly. The earlier trouble from the thugs was merely a ‘stone thrown to test the depth of the water.'”
Watching Bai Qi’s calculated demeanor, Xiao Jingxing suddenly laughed softly. “Bai Qi, you have your opponent’s cards calculated so clearly—even knowing exactly when they’ll probe and when they’ll bite. But have you ever calculated what would happen if you misjudged the human heart?”
Bai Qi’s fingers, which had been flipping through the file, paused.
Xiao Jingxing walked to the door, looked back, and shed his usual hedonistic facade, his expression serious. “She is a top-tier cook—the kind one rarely encounters. With your ruined stomach, it’s not easy to find someone who can make you finish a meal. Don’t just focus on your grand political game; pay a little attention to her. If she’s gone, you’ll be stuck drinking the Dali Temple’s stale porridge for the rest of your life.”
The door hinges let out a strained creak as the cold wind rushed in and was shut out again.
Xiao Jingxing was gone. Bai Qi sat motionless behind the desk for a long time. The red-wood box sat quietly on the corner of the desk. He reached out, flicked the brass latch, and opened the lid to reveal five or six slips of plain paper, all faintly scented with ink.
“Added fresh yam to the porridge today; it’s good for the spleen and stomach. Please, don’t leave any leftovers.” “Cold-dressed lotus root is naturally chilly; I paired it with ginger juice to neutralize it. It is safe to eat.” “The broth for the wontons was simmered on a low flame for two hours. It’s windy and cold out—please drink more of the hot soup.”
The handwriting was graceful yet possessed a hidden toughness.
Bai Qi watched them for a while, then closed the box. He pulled out a drawer, took out a sheet of blank Huizhou stationery, and picked up his brush. He held his wrist in the air for a moment, then wrote a few words. After the ink dried, he folded the paper into a square and placed it at the bottom of the empty food box he intended for Chang An to deliver to the eatery tomorrow.
Having finished, he reopened the dossier on the canal shipping case, his gaze sharp and cold, fixed firmly on the name: “Lin Chongyuan.”
At the same time, in the Qin Family Alley of Taiping Ward, east of the city.
The noise of the night market drifted from two streets away, but the alley itself was exceptionally quiet. The Four Seasons Eatery was closed, and the door panels were securely bolted.
A single oil lamp glowed in the kitchen. Yaoyao, dressed in a blue cloth dress and apron, was scrubbing the large iron wok with a loofah until it was spotless, her jars and bottles arranged with precision.
Qin Xiaoman crouched on the threshold of the back courtyard, clutching the final sesame crisp cookie that hadn’t sold, eating it until his mouth was covered in crumbs.
“Sister,” Xiaoman swallowed a large bite and suddenly lowered his voice, glancing around. “Today, after that noble guest in the silk robes left, someone came to the foot of the wall opposite us.”
Yaoyao didn’t stop scrubbing; her voice was eerily calm. “What kind of person?”
“It was almost dark, so I couldn’t see his face clearly,” Xiaoman wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He wore a tattered straw hat and was very tall. He stood diagonally across from our shop for at least half an hour. His eyes… they were gloomy and sinister, like a butcher who kills pigs. It must be someone sent by Chen Family Restaurant to spy on us.”
Yaoyao wrung out her rag, hung it neatly by the basin, untied her apron, and walked to the kitchen door. The alley was pitch black, save for the sound of the watchman’s gong drifting on the cold wind. In the dim moonlight, her gaze locked onto a patch of blue brick at the foot of the wall opposite.
There were small, fresh mud prints there.
Yaoyao picked up a windproof lantern, pushed open half of the door, and walked across the bluestone. The lantern’s glow illuminated the mud. It hadn’t rained in Bianjing for two days, so the mud had been brought in from the red clay outside the city. More importantly, the tread marks were deep, wide, and severely worn at the edges.
These weren’t the cloth shoes worn by street-level loafers, but the thick-soled leather boots worn by wanderers, laborers, or perhaps men who carried human lives on their hands. The thugs Chen Defu employed to bully the weak couldn’t leave prints like these.
The Chen Family Restaurant had hired professionals.
Yaoyao’s expression didn’t change. She held the lantern up to check the area one more time, then returned to the shop and bolted the door tight.
“Xiaoman,” she walked to the water vat to wash her hands. “Tomorrow, when you go to the East Market, change your route. Don’t take Yanqing Street; circle around through Yulin Alley. If anything happens, don’t look back—run straight to the city guard station.”
Xiaoman heard the gravity in his sister’s voice and nodded repeatedly, his face tense.
Yaoyao dried her hands and sat at the table. Under the oil lamp lay the handwritten recipe book she had bound herself. She turned to the latest page, which contained her notes on Bai Qi’s dietary preferences and pulse diagnosis.
“Spleen and stomach weak and cold; qi and blood deficient. Avoid raw, cold, and spicy foods; favor warm and light nourishment.”
Yaoyao picked up her brush and added a steady line beneath the text: “After the Spring Equinox, the lingering cold is particularly severe. Tomorrow, try adding a small amount of dried tangerine peel to the soup to regulate qi, paired with Poria for the spleen. Do not use too much; observe the effects.”
She blew out the lamp. In the darkness, Yaoyao’s eyes held no trace of fear. From the very first day she decided to open this eatery, she knew that the smoke and fire of the marketplace were never without the glimmer of cold steel.
The night wind grew tighter, but in the courtyard of the Dali Temple, the lanterns burned all night long.