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58. Behind Closed Doors
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 22:00:03 +0000 UTCHan didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and plunging back into the churning river of the city. Jiang hurried to keep up, finding the experience of navigating the crowd on foot infinitely more difficult than watching it from a wagon. He was no longer an observer but a part of the oppressive flow, jostled and bumped by shoulders and elbows from all sides. The noise was a constant, grating assault, a wall of sound made of a thousand sharp, clipped conversations, shouted arguments over prices, and the ever-present rumble of feet on cobblestones.
Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, their faces pinched with effort or sullen with resentment. There was an edge to the way people moved, a frantic energy that felt less like bustling commerce and more like a desperate scramble. Even Han seemed to notice it, his gaze sweeping the street with a frown.
“Busier than I expected,” the caravan master muttered, a trace of confusion in his voice.
The constant press of bodies and the sheer sensory overload were a perfect distraction. Jiang was looking up, trying to gauge how the setting sun was catching the rooftops, when he felt it—a specific, targeted pressure near his pack. It wasn’t a bump; it was an intention. His hand lashed out without a conscious thought, his cultivator’s reflexes far quicker than a normal man’s. He slapped away a small, grimy hand, the crack of the impact sharp and clear.
For a split second, he locked eyes with a boy no older than ten, his face a mask of startled shock that quickly morphed into defiance. Then the boy was gone, swallowed by the crowd as if he’d never been there at all.
Han let out a dry chuckle beside him. “You’ve got quick hands, kid. Good. Keep an eye on your things. This lot’ll strip the silver from your teeth if you give them half a second.”
The warning reminded Jiang of their purpose. He glanced at Han, who appeared to be carrying nothing but the clothes on his back.
“Aren’t we delivering something? Did you leave the package behind or something?”
Han winced at the question, shaking his head as if dealing with a particularly slow-witted child. He pulled Jiang closer and spoke in a low tone.
“Rule one of working in a city, kid: you never, ever talk about the business out in the open. Assume every wall, every person, every stray dog has ears. Even if no one’s looking for you specifically, cities like this are full of opportunists. Like that pickpocket – you think he planned that? Nah, the kid just saw a chance and went for it. The trick is to avoid drawing any sort of attention. As far as anyone should be concerned, you and I have never so much as seen anything valuable, much less own it. Now come on, and keep your mouth shut until we’re behind a closed door.”
Jiang bristled at the slight thread of condescension in Han’s tone but forced down the spike of irritation he felt. He was self-aware enough to realise that the unfamiliar environment was keeping him off-rhythm, and the best thing to do was watch and wait until he had a better sense of what was going on instead of getting offended at every little thing.
Although he did note that Han hadn’t actually answered his question about the package. Maybe it was small, like some valuable gems or something? He tilted his head in thought, distracting himself from the constant noise and motion around him by turning the possibilities over in his head. It was largely pointless, as he didn’t have a solid enough grasp on the relative value of items to correctly guess. What sort of item could possibly be worth creating a fake group of bandits purely to hunt it down?
They walked for another ten minutes, turning off the main, crowded thoroughfare into a series of narrower side streets where the buildings leaned even closer together. The last of the watery sunlight was failing, and the air grew colder. Lanterns were beginning to appear in windows, casting flickering pools of yellow light onto the grimy cobblestones.
Han finally came to a stop before a two-story building that looked like it might collapse if a strong wind came through. A crudely painted sign depicting a foaming tankard hung above the door, from which spilled the sounds of loud conversation and even louder laughter.
Had… had Han just been wanting a drink, and that was why he wasn’t carrying the package?
Jiang opened his mouth to protest, a sharp retort on his lips about Han’s priorities, but something in the caravan master’s expression stopped him. The easygoing humour was gone, replaced by a focused, sober watchfulness that had nothing to do with finding the next drink. Jiang closed his mouth, reserving judgment – for now – and followed him through the door.
The air hit him first, a thick, sour wave of stale ale, sweat, and cheap, greasy food that clung to the back of his throat. The warmth was oppressive, heavy with the press of too many bodies crammed into a low-ceilinged room. A haze of smoke hung in the air, catching the flickering light from a dozen cheap oil lamps and turning it a dirty yellow. The floor was sticky under his boots.
This was not a high-class establishment.
While he admittedly didn’t have much to compare it to, Jiang couldn’t help but notice it was nothing like the bright, welcoming warmth of the Red Pine Inn back at the town near the Azure Sky Sect; by comparison, this place felt like it had been steeping in misery for a hundred winters.
The patrons matched the atmosphere. Hard-faced men with the stony eyes of people well accustomed to violence, wiry sailors with faded tattoos coiling up their necks, and a few slumped figures who looked like they’d been forgotten by the world all occupied the rickety tables. Heads turned as they entered, a brief, measuring silence falling over the nearest tables before the dull roar of conversation resumed, a few shades quieter than before.
Despite that, Jiang noticed how eyes lingered, cold and speculative. He abruptly realised these were the sorts of people Han had been worried about when he told Jiang to avoid looking like he carried anything valuable. Almost automatically, his hand dropped to rest near the hilt of his sword. He may be more comfortable with a bow, but in this sort of environment the blade would be far more useful.
The knowledge that he was a cultivator, and therefore at least as strong as everyone else in the room did remarkably little to reassure him.
Han, on the other hand, was either much better at hiding his nerves or simply wasn’t nervous at all. The caravan master moved through the room without the slightest hint of hesitation, cutting a path towards the bar where a hulking man with a scarred face was wiping a mug with a rag that looked only marginally cleaner than the glass.
That is to say, not clean at all. Jiang made a mental note to avoid eating anything from this place.
Jiang stuck close behind Han, trying to ignore the unpleasant prickle of a dozen eyes on his back. To his surprise, the caravan master ignored the bar entirely, ducking through a low doorway at the back of the room, pushing aside a stained curtain. Jiang followed him into a cramped, chaotic kitchen.
The air here was even thicker, heavy with the smell of boiling cabbage and burnt fat. A single, harried-looking cook with a sweating brow glanced at them, then immediately looked away, turning his attention back to a large, bubbling pot as if determined to see nothing. Han didn’t spare the man a word, striding past a grime-streaked back door and into what looked like a small storage closet piled high with empty barrels and sacks of grain.
Jiang frowned, his hand tightening on his sword. He was quickly getting tired of not knowing what they were doing – and Han’s actions were starting to seem more than a little suspicious.
“Han, what—”
The caravan master put a finger to his lips, then pushed aside a stack of dusty grain sacks, revealing a section of the wall that looked no different from the rest. With a low grunt, he pushed. The entire panel swung inwards with a quiet groan, revealing a cramped, dark stairwell leading down into the earth.
A small, childish part of him pointed out that a secret entrance to a hidden stairway was actually really cool. Jiang ignored it in favour of the much more suspicious part of him pointing out that his mother had always warned him about following strange men into unfamiliar places. Granted, the advice didn’t hold quite as much weight now that he was a cultivator, but still, the principle was sound.
That, and the cold, hard fact that he had come all this way and turning back now over a sudden bout of caution would be a waste of effort. He took a deep breath, wincing as he got a nose full of whatever unidentifiable substance was ‘cooking’, and descended into the gloom, hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.
The wooden steps groaned under their combined weight, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Above them, the noise of the tavern faded with each step until it was nothing more than a faint murmur. Lanterns hung every so often, keeping the gloom from being too oppressive, but they were spaced far enough apart that the light remained dim.
They must have descended at least six or seven meters before Jiang felt it – a steady, quiescent pulse of Qi from somewhere deep below. Almost before he recognised the sensation, Jiang’s own Qi recoiled, pulling inward. He instinctively began to cycle it in the strange, diffused pattern the raven had taught him, trying to smudge the edges of his own presence.
The dark, heavy sand of his Qi swirled, blurring his signature until it felt less like a distinct point and more like a patch of cold air, a subtle distortion in the flow of energy. While the recent changes to the substance of his Qi helped quite a bit, he could still feel the imperfection of the technique, the way the Qi still leaked at the edges. Better than walking into a stranger’s territory with his own presence lit up like a beacon.
The Qi signature changed things significantly. Jiang was confident enough in fighting off mortals... but another cultivator? He paused, his hand on the hilt of his sword, suddenly questioning if he wanted to walk down there at all.
Han noticed his sudden halt, turning awkwardly in the cramped stairwell to look back at him with raised eyebrows. “Something wrong?” he asked curiously. “If you’re getting cold feet, this is probably your last chance to pull out.”
It was Han’s relaxed demeanour more than the offer itself that made Jiang comfortable enough to shake his head and continue following the man. It wasn’t that he trusted Han completely, but Jiang was reasonably confident he knew the man well enough to spot if he was feeling tense. At the very least, he doubted the man would betray him, if only because there was simply no logical reason to. Han, of all people, had seen what Jiang could do with a sword, and wasn’t likely to risk himself.
Moments later, the cramped, dusty passage opened into a space that felt like it belonged in a different world. Where the tavern above was all grime and squalor, this small underground waiting room was one of quiet, severe luxury. A thick, deep-blue carpet, its patterns woven with silver thread, muffled their footsteps completely. The walls were panelled in a dark, polished wood that seemed to drink the light, and the air was scented with a clean, sharp incense that reminded him vaguely of Elder Lu’s study. A single, glowing lantern hung from the ceiling, its light soft and steady, casting no flickering shadows. There was only one other door, made of the same dark wood as the walls, its surface bare of any handle or lock.
In all honesty, it was the opulence more than the location that made Jiang uncomfortable. He felt more out of his depth here than he had in the brawl-ready tavern above. At least there, the threats were honest. Here, he had the unsettling feeling that the real danger was in the things left unsaid.
He watched as Han took a slow, deep breath, the caravan master’s broad shoulders seeming to shrink slightly in the confines of the luxurious room. The man tugged nervously at the base of his tunic to straighten it a little before stepping forward and knocking twice on the door.
A moment of silence passed, thick and heavy. Then, a calm, cultured voice called from beyond the door, unhurried and clear.
“Enter.”
Comments
Raymond Mouton
Thanks for the chapter.
