The Faith and Salt

A faint smell of stale incense drifted from the distant gardens of Yangzhou.

It had rained earlier in the week.

Moss and grass wedged between the paving stones were still soaked, giving off a sour smell of wet earth and mildew.

Xiao Yan walked down Conch Alley.

The scent of the place remained familiar, though the street itself was rapidly decaying.

Many cheap opium dens and pawnshops had already been boarded up by officials.

The few businesses left untouched—small tea stands and street noodle carts—had simply collapsed on their own.

The Scholar's Courtyard, once a popular gathering spot for students taking the imperial exams, lay completely abandoned and choked with tall weeds. Passing by, Xiao Yan heard none of the usual voices debating poetry.

There were no beggars on the streets.

Instead, Yamen guards patrolled the area with wooden clubs.

The remaining locals walked with hollow eyes and hunched shoulders, shuffling past one another without a single greeting.

The dead atmosphere left Xiao Yan feeling deeply isolated.

A physical weight settled in his chest.

Deciding it was better to stop thinking entirely, he fixed his eyes straight ahead and just kept walking.

"Who are you?" a guard demanded, blocking Xiao Yan as he stepped up to the Jieyuan gate.

Xiao Yan had never seen this man before.

What happened to the burly old guard?

"I am a friend of Master Wei," he said. "I have been here many times."

"I don't know you." The guard eyed his filthy, tattered clothes with heavy suspicion.

Of course you don't.

"Just pass the word," Xiao Yan said flatly.

"The master is watching an opera. You can wait outside."

Xiao Yan hesitated. He peered past the heavy doors, then looked back at the stubborn guard.

Dusting off his grimy tunic, he took a slow breath and walked over to the wall opposite the gate.

The guard watched him, frowned, and waved a hand dismissively, motioning for him to move even further away.

Xiao Yan felt no anger. He simply walked down to the far end of the alley, slumped against the stone corner, and sat down.

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A short while later, a young boy wearing heavy makeup and female opera robes marched up to the Jieyuan gate.

The guard stopped him too.

"You are making a mistake," the boy snapped. "I am an apprentice with the troupe."

"The play is almost over," the guard said.

"So what? My master is on stage. You have to let me in."

The guard said nothing, stubbornly blocking the entrance.

"Let me in!" the boy shrieked.

Seeing the guard unmoved, he began shouting at the top of his lungs, throwing a loud, deliberate tantrum.

His racket soon worked. A familiar face emerged from behind the heavy wooden doors.

Xiao Yan slowly stood up.

The man glared at the shouting boy, then cast a brief, dismissive glance down the alley toward Xiao Yan.

He started to look away, then rapidly snapped his head back, staring in sheer disbelief.

"Xiao Yan?!"

The sight of his old friend sparked such sudden joy that the man completely forgot his dignified status.

Lifting the front hem of his silk gown, he actually broke into a run, sprinting straight toward Xiao Yan.

They embraced, completely ignoring proper etiquette.

"How dare you not contact me?" Wei Yuan said, his eyes bright. "Where have you been?"

Before Xiao Yan could answer, Wei Yuan realized they were still standing in the street.

He quickly grabbed Xiao Yan's arm and pulled him toward the gate. "Let's talk inside. Come inside."

Halfway there, he glanced back at the apprentice. "Let him in, too," he told the guard.

Led into the garden courtyard, Xiao Yan immediately noticed two foreigners sitting among the guests.

A knot of worry tightened in his chest.

And the Iron Ward Talisman turned warm.

Wei Yuan waved a maid over to bring a small wooden stool.

He pushed Xiao Yan into a heavy, backed armchair, insisting on taking the simple stool for himself.

On the stage, the actors were performing The Peony Pavilion.

It was Scene Thirty-Five—the exact moment the scholar Liu Mengmei breaks open the grave, and Du Liniang miraculously returns from the dead.

As the opera played, Xiao Yan quietly but slowly observed the surroundings.

The courtyard offered only two routes out.

The main gate stood behind them, already blocked by guards.

To the left, a narrow stone archway led deeper into the estate. A natural bottleneck.

He moved his eyes to the blind spots.

Thick bamboo clusters lined the eastern wall.

Heavy shadows pooled beneath the raised wooden stage.

Both were perfect places to hide.

No obvious blades were in sight, but the environment provided enough.

Heavy porcelain teapots sat on the low serving tables.

The stiff hardwood chairs were brittle. A single kick could snap off a leg to use as a blunt club.

The courtyard is mapped. Now, the people.

The audience sat numb. Rows of faces stare at the bright stage.

Beneath the stands, apprentices leaned heavily against their patrons.

Pouring tea. Whispering. Soft hands resting on dark silk.

Nothing particular.

But the Iron Ward Talisman continues heating; it never mistakes.

Xiao Yan’s gaze swept past the crowd again.

The two foreigners—

One was old and filthy, constantly flashing a stupid, toothy grin.

He had a weapon tucked loosely into his rear waistband and completely hidden by the jacket's drape, most likely a pistol.

Smart. The firearm could easily slide along his waist to evade a quick pat-down.

Inside his right boot, worn leather showed distinct friction.

A metal sheath, a hidden dagger, no doubt.

That foolish, toothy grin served as the perfect cover to make people lower their guard.

The other, perhaps in his twenties, sat stiff and cautious, with a messy beard and thick, wavy hair.

Meanwhile, a heavy, unbearable stench drifted from their table.

Usually a sign of monsters.

But also, foreigners.

The younger man soon noticed the scrutiny. He repeatedly glanced back, frowning in clear annoyance at Xiao Yan's steady stare.

Aside from constant, irritated glaring, the younger one posed no real physical threat.

He wore an odd foreign tunic and frayed knee-breeches.

His exposed calf muscles were taut and tightly coiled, indicating a strong habit of sprinting.

Xiao Yan could hardly imagine what profession required someone to run so often.

A thief, perhaps, Xiao Yan thought, recalling Mujangga's words.

He had not expected such a surprise on this trip.

An opportunity to dispose of some of the intruders.