The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

Now that Mingyu had returned, Shi Yaozu finally felt comfortable leaving Xinying's side for a few hours. He hated the idea of leaving her alone. He could see just how strenuous the war was playing on her, but at the same time… he was more than just her shadow.

Not matter how much he might have wished otherwise.

As the commander of the Shadow Guard, there were still things only he could do. Like finally paying attention to the loose threads that had frayed while he was tethered too tightly to the court… to the Crown Princess. Not that he resented it. Not truly. But his body needed movement. His network needed checking. And above all, his instincts needed to breathe.

He left before the sun had fully cleared the ridge. No guards. No announcement. Just a silent shift through the corridor shadows, then a leap across the rooftops like wind cutting through slate.

It felt good to move again.

Good to stretch.

He cleared the southern wall by the time the sun had made its place in the sky, and by mid-morning, he was already deep in the outer camp—far from court perfumes and polished boots. This was Red Demon territory now. The air tasted of sweat, smoke, and steel.

A tent waited near the ridge, marked only by a crimson slash across the front flap.

He entered without ceremony.

Inside, the light was dim. A brazier burned low in the corner. Two soldiers stood at attention, one of them—the taller—nodding toward the back partition.

"He ready?" Yaozu asked, his voice low.

The shorter man hesitated, then shrugged once. "You'll have to see him for yourself."

Yaozu moved past them, wondering where he could make the time to better train those under him. They shouldn't have had to wait for him for the information. They should have been able to extract it on their own.

Yet another thing to add to the list… like Xinying liked to say.

The prisoner was already kneeling, his arms bound behind his back as sweat clung to his collar. His clothes were merchant class—fine wool, fur trim—but his face was lined from travel, and his boots were caked in more than just mud.

Wen Shi. From the northern quarter. Licensed to import metals and dyes. Nothing about his file had raised concern—until now.

Yaozu crouched in front of him, resting one forearm on his knee. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, curious. After all, not everyone knew about the Devil's Left Hand.

Wen Shi nodded once, the motion stiff.

"Then you know you don't have long to waste."

"I have nothing to hide," the man said. "I pay my tariffs. My papers are clean."

"You were found with coin stamped in Chixian silver and a sealed manifest referencing Baiguang-approved routes."

The merchant hesitated.

"That's not just fraud," Yaozu continued. "That's treason. And I don't care if you think you're innocent. I want to know who bought you."

Wen Shi's jaw tensed. His eyes flicked toward the guards, then back to Yaozu.

"No one bought me," he said. "This isn't about gold. It's a debt that I owed."

Yaozu didn't blink. "Explain."

The man exhaled through his nose, low and bitter. "My family lived in the borderlands—east of the ridge, before the floods. Baiguang offered us aid. Sent grain when your court official stole what was meant to be ours. When the plague came, it was their doctors who treated us. When my father died… it was their priest who gave him his rites."

"And so you sell your trade routes in repayment?"

Wen Shi looked up, a flicker of something hard behind his eyes. "I owe them my life. They didn't ask for gold. They asked for silence. Safe passage. Information."

"That's still treason," Yaozu said quietly.

The merchant didn't flinch. "Then do what you came to do."

Yaozu stared at him for a long moment.

Something about the man's tone—too calm. Too rehearsed.

Yaozu rose without another word and stepped outside.

The guards waited for him to speak. "Search his tent again," Yaozu ordered. "I want every record, every string of correspondence, every contact name. Follow his ledger lines. If he owes a debt, someone must have contacted him to collect it."

The soldiers moved immediately.

Yaozu didn't return to the capital. Not yet. He veered north instead, toward the refugee quarter—what remained of the camps Daiyu had taken in over the past five years. At first glance, it was the same: temporary shelters, half-frozen cookfires, thin-bodied men mending tools with frostbitten fingers.

But something was off.

He saw silver coins being exchanged quietly in a corner stall. A foreign design etched into a blackened kettle. A prayer ribbon tied with southern-style knots, too neat to have been learned here.

The influence was subtle.

But it was there.

And growing.

By the time he returned to the camp, the execution had already been carried out—silent, clean, and efficient. Wen Shi's name would be scrubbed from the records. His debts, however, would remain.

Yaozu didn't rest.

He rode through dusk, returned to the outer wall, passed through the southern checkpoint, and entered the palace with only a nod to the guards who recognized him.

The war room was empty when he arrived.

Xinying sat in the smaller side chamber, her sleeves rolled to the elbow as she sorted scrolls into clean stacks. She didn't look up when he entered.

"You got done what you needed to do?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Anything useful?"

Yaozu paused. Then crossed the threshold and set the small bundle of findings beside her hand.

"The merchant claimed he owed a blood debt," he said. "Said Baiguang saved his family once. That it wasn't about money."

"Loyalty bought with kindness," she muttered. "That's more dangerous than coin."

"There's more," he said. "I went to the refugee quarter. They're not just pushing coin through the nobles anymore. They're working from the bottom up. Camps. Markets. Symbols. The influence is spreading."

Xinying finally looked up.

Her face didn't show surprise.

Only resolve.

"They're using our compassion against us," she said.

"Yes."

"They're weaponizing gratitude."

Yaozu nodded.

She exhaled and reached for one of the scrolls. Her fingers tapped a rhythm against the edge, slow and deliberate.

"Then we'll have to start treating kindness like a risk."

Yaozu didn't speak.

There was nothing left to say.