Sensing Something Wrong, Secretly Investigating the New King

Chen Wuya crouched before the gap between the stone bricks, the dark red on his fingertips already dried into flakes. He did not rise at once. Instead, he rolled the residue between his fingers and brought it close to his nose. The smell was faint, mixed with dust and rust, but beneath it lurked a familiar bitterness—what Old Wu Tou had called "opium mixed with blood," a method of identification only veteran escorts understood.

He slowly withdrew his hand and wiped his fingertips against his trouser leg.

Bai Zhi stood three steps away. She did not ask what he was doing, only stared at the strip of cloth freshly wrapped around his wrist. It was coarse hemp, torn from her sleeve, its edges still bristling with loose threads from the stitching. She should have changed his bandage yesterday, but neither of them had mentioned it.

"You don't trust the new king," she said.

Chen Wuya straightened, and his shoulder sank as blood began seeping from the wound again. He did not look at her, only said softly, "I don't trust the shadow behind him."

He turned and headed toward the other side of the palace path. His pace was unhurried, yet every step landed where the cracks between the bricks met. Bai Zhi followed. One before the other, they passed through a corridor and turned into a narrow side passage. Few people came here. Uncleared dead leaves lay piled in the corners, and several fresh drag marks stretched across the ground toward a half-closed side door.

A sliver of light leaked through the crack.

Chen Wuya stopped, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered another trick Old Wu Tou had taught him: when traveling at night, if one could not make out distant sounds,