NOVEL WEB Chapter 223: Beneath The Fan
Southern Capital | Red District
The girl with the braid entered without knocking. She was thirteen, barefoot, and wearing a red qipao too short for her legs. In her palm, curled like a flower bud, rested a folded scroll sealed in wax the color of dried blood.
Sun Yizhen didn't look up from the ink slab.
"From Huai'an," she whispered, dropping it into the bronze dish beside him. "Hidden in a fish belly."
He nodded once. She vanished.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only the sound of dripping wax and the subtle shift of heat as another log cracked in the brazier. The room was underground—six paces beneath a brothel that served wine, opium, and soft-mouthed lies to every traveling official south of the Daiyu River. But down here, there was no silk, no laughter, no painted courtesans.
Only war.
Yizhen cracked the seal with the edge of his fan and unfolded the scroll. His eyes moved once over the characters.
"Merchant from Baiguang requesting trade through Night Gate. Claims to carry only grain. Smells of soap and perfume. Came in a cart with no rear axel. Possible courier."
He rolled the scroll closed and tossed it into the brazier. It caught fire fast.
His fan clicked open. Black lacquer, painted with gold clouds. A symbol in the corner—unreadable to anyone but him.
He didn't wave it. Just held it in front of his mouth, eyes locked on the flames.
Another message. Another mask.
He gestured, and the man in the shadows stepped forward.
"Intercept him," Yizhen said. "Do not kill. Give him the black map."
The man bowed and disappeared into the dark.
The black map was false. A perfectly crafted lie showing southern troop shortages near the watermills—bait designed to trigger a false Baiguang push directly into Crown Prince Mingyu's southern flanks. He'd pay for the bodies lost with gold. As long as she wasn't among them.
He stood, walking past three rows of shelves stacked with scrolls, ledgers, and silk-wrapped knives. Each document represented a man or woman who thought they were free. Each knife represented someone who had once tried to be clever.
At the far end of the room, behind a jade screen carved with plum blossoms, sat a single lacquer box.
He opened it slowly.
Inside lay a folded handkerchief. Blue silk. Unassuming. Cheap.
But woven into one corner, barely visible in the candlelight, was a single metallic thread.
Steel.
She had used it to bind a trap—left it strung between two pine trees high in the northern cliffs. His spy had tripped the wire and it had snapped his neck instantly. Yizhen hadn't even been angry.
He had been impressed.
And then he'd sent another man. One who watched from a distance. One who reported only in riddles because direct language couldn't capture her.
He replaced the handkerchief, closed the lid, and turned away.
------
Upstairs, music drifted faintly from behind the curtains—strings and bells, clumsy hands trying to imitate elegance. A minor court noble sat slouched in a corner, laughing into the lap of a courtesan who pretended to care.
Yizhen didn't pause. He passed through the veil of incense and low voices like smoke himself, pausing only when a boy stepped in his path.
"From the docks," the boy whispered, holding out a bamboo slip.
Yizhen took it. No bow. No thanks. Just a soft flicker of his eyes across the message.
"Iron shipments halted. Daiyu traders intercepted by unknown buyers. Suspected Baiguang influence. Green silk spotted at southern checkpoint."
So. They were getting bolder.
He passed the slip back and said, "Tell Lin to flood the checkpoint market with northern grain. Drop prices by half. I want every Baiguang merchant hungry and confused."
"Yes, my lord."
"Also—"
He hesitated.
"Also?" the boy prompted.
Yizhen's voice dropped. "Any word of her?"
The boy blinked. Then nodded. "She returned to the southern command post yesterday. Shadow Guard confirmed sighting. Accompanied by a man in black."
A long breath escaped him. Not relief. Not quite.
"The man?" he asked.
"Shi Yaozu."
Of course.
Yizhen's fan flicked open again. Slowly this time.
"She's letting him too close."
"She's sleeping in his tent," the boy added. "At least one night. Maybe more."
Yizhen said nothing. He stared at the center of the fan—at the tiny gold flecks in the painted storm clouds.
Then: "That won't last."
He dismissed the boy with a motion. Returned to the underground stairs.
------
In the war room, a woman was waiting for him.
Not one of the courtesans. Not a dancer. This one wore pants. Her hair was cut short. A scar curved down her cheek like an artist's brushstroke.
"Baiguang's trying to buy the copper mines," she said before he could speak. "Through a middleman in Pingbei. He offered five crates of opium for control of the north slope."
Yizhen studied her for a long moment. "Opium is too easy. That mine supports the entire eastern arsenal."
She smiled without mirth. "Exactly. And they think they're being clever."
He sat. Not across from her, but beside her—reading over her shoulder.
"I want him marked," he said. "No death. Not yet. Just… pressure."
Her voice lowered. "Is this for the Crown Prince?"
He didn't answer.
"Or for her?" she pressed.
He looked at her then, and for the first time that night, his smile curved. A small thing. Not kind. Not warm.
Just truth.
"If you have to ask," he said, "you've not been paying attention."
She didn't ask again.
-----
Later, alone in the ink-stained dark, Yizhen opened a drawer and removed a scroll he hadn't yet read.
One of his spies had followed her for three days after the banquet. Not a threat. Just observation. He didn't want to interfere—he wanted to understand.
"She doesn't sleep much. Walks the ridge at night. Talks to the dog like it's a man. Never checks her back. Never hesitates. Once spent half an hour watching the stars. Didn't flinch when a wolf got too close—just stared it down until it left."
He read the words twice. Then burned the scroll without comment.
He would never say her name aloud. Would never write it in any document. But in every ledger, every intercepted letter, every dead courier and sealed bribe—she was there. In code. In implication.
Zhao Xinying didn't belong to this empire.
But one day, it might belong to her.
And he would make sure of it—not as her ally, not as her shield—but as the man who saw her first and never stopped watching.
-------
He picked up the blue-threaded cloth one last time.
Ran his fingers along the edge.
Then folded it carefully and blew out the last candle.
The night still had work to do.