The atmosphere in the Hall of Frozen Jade was suffocating.
Outside, the winter wind howled through the palace battlements, but inside, the only sound was the hiss of charcoal burning in silver braziers.
Three men sat in a semi-circle, their heavy, fox-fur lined robes sprawling across the floor like spilled ink.
These were the pillars of the Old Guard—men who had seen dynasties rise and fall, and who intended to survive this one, too.
Grand Secretary Song flicked a speck of ash from his sleeve. His face was a mask of deep-set wrinkles and cold intent.
"The 'wolf' has returned with the scent of a sheep," Song said, his voice a low, rhythmic grate.
"I watched the Prince leave the Emperor's study. His gait was uneven. He smelled of sweat and panic. The boy who used to kick court scholars for sport now trembles at the sight of a scroll."
Across from him, Minister Fu—a man whose eyes were as sharp and narrow as a dagger's edge—straightened his spine, his fingers twisting a heavy ring of dark agate.
"It is a ruse," Fu hissed, his voice thin with suspicion. "The son of a lowly concubine does not grow a conscience overnight. He is hiding something. Perhaps he has made a pact with the Northern tribes? Or perhaps the 'accident' was not an accident at all, but a failed attempt to flee the weight of the crown."
"Whether it is a ruse or a rot, it does not matter," whispered Eunuch Pang, his voice a high, reed-like whistle. He leaned forward, the shadows of the flickering candles making his pale, hairless face look like a skull.
"The Emperor grows weary. He sees the Prince's hesitation as a reflection of his own mortality. He has already ordered the Prince to execute the Northern General. If the boy falters... the blade meant for the prisoner will find the Prince's neck next."
Grand Secretary Song narrowed his eyes, his long, manicured fingernails tapping a rhythmic 'click-click-click' on the table.
"The blood of a concubine is thin," Song whispered, the words dripping with ancient prejudice. "He was never meant for the Dragon Throne. He is a puppet whose strings have tangled. We need a new heir. One whose lineage is pure, and whose mind is... more 'compliant' to the needs of the court."
"And the Emperor?" Minister Fu asked, his voice dropping. "He is a monster, but he is 'his' monster. He will not cast aside his only surviving son for a nephew without a fight."
Eunuch Pang smiled, a slow, hideous parting of thin lips.
"The Emperor loves only one thing: The Great Jing. If we can prove the Prince is a 'vessel of ill-omen'—if he fails to kill the General, or if the Shadow Merchant reveals a secret the Prince has been hiding—then the Emperor himself will sign the decree of exile. Or execution."
Song leaned back into the shadows, his face half-hidden by the dark wood of his chair.
"The Shadow Merchant is a snake. He eats gold and vomits secrets. Send a messenger. Tell the Merchant that the Old Guard is willing to pay double what the Prince offers for the General's head. We do not want a trial. We want a funeral."
The three men shared a silent, lethal understanding. To them, Li Feng was not a person; he was a variable in a mathematical equation of power. A variable that needed to be erased.
"To the New Sun," Eunuch Pang whispered, raising an empty cup.
"And a cold moon for the Concubine's son," Song added.
---
Outside, the snow began to fall, burying the palace in a white, silent shroud. The political gears had begun to turn, and in the center of the mechanism, a high school student in a gold dress was about to be crushed.
The trade is open. The players are set. And the "God of Death" is starting to wake up.
The wheels of the heavy carriage groaned as they hit a deep rut in the forest track. Inside, the air was a suffocating mix of burnt iron, pungent medicinal herbs, and the copper tang of fresh blood.
Han Jue sat on the floor of the swaying carriage, his expensive indigo silks ignored as they dragged through the dirt.
He was bracing his weight against the bench, holding Zhou Yan (Big Cat) steady as the doctor worked in the flickering light of a handheld lantern.
"Keep the needle steady!" Han Jue hissed, his voice cracking with a stress that no Shadow Merchant should show.
"Master Han, the road is uneven!" the doctor cried, sweat dripping from his nose onto his blood-stained tunic. "I am trying to close the chest wound, but if the carriage jolts again, I will pierce his lung!"
Zhou Yan let out a low, animalistic groan. His eyes were rolled back, his teeth gritted so hard they sounded like they might shatter.
Every few seconds, his hand would twitch, his fingers curling as if searching for a sword—or a game controller.
"Hang in there, Yan," Han Jue whispered, shifting his position to cradle his friend's head.
He didn't care about the "Identification" right now. He didn't care about the dialect.
"We're almost at the cabin. It's deep in the woods. No guards, no emperor, no bullshit. Just rest. You just gotta rest."
Big Cat's eyes flickered open for a second. They were unfocused, swimming in a sea of pain.
"Jue... the bus... why is it so bumpy? Tell the driver... tell him to slow down... I'm gonna throw up."
"I know, bro. I know. The driver's a moron," Han Jue said, a jagged, watery laugh escaping his throat. He looked at the doctor. "How much longer?"
Han Jue slammed his shoulder against the wooden wall as the carriage took a sharp turn, his hand bracing Zhou Yan's chest to keep him from sliding off the blood-slicked bench.
"Master Han, I cannot—the needle will snap!" the doctor shrieked, his face drenched in sweat. "We must stop! I need a steady surface to bind the artery!"
"We don't stop!" Han Jue roared, his voice cracking with a raw, modern panic that bypassed all his Merchant training.
"The moment the wheels stop turning, the scouts will know exactly where we are. The Palace has eyes in every shadow of these woods. You keep sewing, or I'll throw you out the door myself!"
"I have stemmed the primary flow," the doctor panted, tying off a silk thread with trembling fingers.
"But he is burning up. The fever is the real enemy now. If we do not get him to a bed and cold water, the infection will take him before the Prince does."
The carriage slowed, the sound of branches scraping against the wooden roof filling the silence. The Vulture pulled back the heavy curtain, his face a pale ghost in the moonlight.
"Master, we are here. The cabin is just ahead. It belonged to a charcoal burner—it's hidden by the ravine."
"Get him inside," Han Jue commanded, his voice hardening as he regained his Merchant mask.
"Carefully! If a single stitch pops, I'll have your head."
The Vulture and the driver hauled Big Cat out. The God of Death was a massive man, and even in his weakened state, it took three of them to carry him into the small, derelict cabin.
The floorboards creaked under his weight as they laid him on a bed of dry moss and old blankets.
Han Jue stood in the doorway, watching the doctor frantically apply cold compresses to Big Cat's forehead. He looked out into the dark, silent forest. The tall pines looked like spears against the night sky.
He knew the Crown Prince was expecting a meeting at the salt-vaults. He knew he had left a trail of "breadmobs"—false leads—to buy himself a few hours. But the Prince wasn't a fool.
I'm playing a dangerous game, Han Jue thought, his hand subconsciously reaching for the heavy silver rings on his fingers.
I'm hiding the Empire's most wanted man in a shack, and I'm supposed to meet a tyrant who has the power to erase me with a whisper.
He turned back to the room. The "Hustler" in him was already calculating. If the Prince wanted the General's head, Han Jue would have to sell him a lie so expensive, it would bankrupt the throne.
"Vulture," Han Jue called out softly.
"Yes, Master?"
"Go back to the city. Send word to the Palace. Tell the Prince the 'item' has been moved for security reasons. Tell him I will meet him at the Weeping Willow Bridge instead. But tell him... the price has tripled."
"Tripled? Master, the Prince will be furious!"
Han Jue looked at Big Cat, who was finally falling into a heavy, drugged sleep.
"Let him be furious," Han Jue hissed, his eyes flashing with a cold, modern defiance. "He's a Prince. I'm the man with the merchandise. In this world, the one with the gold makes the rules."
He sat down on a wooden stool, pulling a small dagger from his sleeve and beginning to sharpen it. He had a meeting to prepare for.
And for the first time in his life, the "Hustler" wasn't playing for money. He was playing for a life.