Ch. 016| Sun Heng

With the Xu family business settled, Lin Que thought he might get a few quiet days.

But he had forgotten: what he had stirred up on West Street was never just Xu Wenchang's cheese alone.

These past few days, the wind on West Street had shifted. Lai San sent word through someone, saying the herbal-tea stall at the mouth of West Street had a new, unfamiliar face manning it—he sold no tea all day, only watched the people coming and going. Lame Yu quietly passed along word too: someone was asking after "that pill-mending apothecary boy who cursed Hu Biao into qi deviation," asking in fine detail, having even mapped out the back alley behind the Hundred Herbs.

Lin Que understood plainly: the Black Wind Hall had come for him.

These past few days, walking through the market, he kept feeling a chill at the back of his neck. It wasn't that anyone was tailing him closely—it was that sense of "being marked," like a layer of cloud that wouldn't disperse, pressing down on the top of his head. He had reined in his pill-mending a great deal, not even daring to go to Well-Bottom Lane—the rift crystal was still on him, and at this juncture, every extra step might leak one more thread to the Black Wind Hall. He had meant to quietly save up enough spirit stones and slip out of the market before the Black Wind Hall had pieced things together. But the Black Wind Hall moved faster than he had thought.

Hu Biao, crippled by qi deviation, was a distant nephew of the Black Wind Hall's master; Lin Que had ruined the Black Wind Hall's rush-pill business; and now the whole market was passing around talk of "an apothecary boy at the Hundred Herbs who curses pills." Twist these few threads into one, and every strand pointed at him. Before, he could still hide inside the shell of "an apothecary boy no one cared about," but that shell was broken now.

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On the evening of the third day, Lin Que had just finished cleaning out the vats and stepped out the back door of the Hundred Herbs when, in the shadow at the mouth of the alley, a man stood.

The man was in his early thirties, not tall, yet built solid as a wall. A set of short-cut clothes stretched taut over him, the bared forearms knotted with green sinew, the flesh firm as oil-soaked hardwood—the way of one who drilled the body and fists, and drilled to mastery. The moment he planted himself there, not a trace of flourish about him, that heavy, sinking pressure was ten times more real than the bluster Hu Biao had puffed up on rush pills.

Sun Heng. The one who had taken Hu Biao's place.

About this man, Lin Que had heard early on, from Han Bosheng, from Lai San. Sun Heng was no son of the Black Wind Hall—he was an enforcer the master had brought in from outside, a body drilled hard to the bone; it was said he could crush a green brick bare-handed, and no one could count the lives he had taken in the market. Bullies like Hu Biao, throwing their weight around on rush pills, weren't worth a fart in front of him. For the Black Wind Hall to send such a man, the weight of it spoke for itself.

Lin Que kept his eyes lowered; that bit of heat beneath his left eye swept quietly across.

Sun Heng had a flaw too. His body-drilling art was honed to its utmost, yet beneath his right rib lay a deeply hidden, secret injury—from years of hard endurance, never knowing when to ease the force, until he had wrenched his own sinews and channels right out of true. But this flaw was buried very deep, not easily touched; and Sun Heng was an old hand, every opening of his drawn shut tight.

Lin Que's heart sank. This man was ten times harder to handle than Hu Biao. Hu Biao had propped up his front on rush pills—one poke and it burst; Sun Heng was the real thing, and that flaw could not easily be moved.

Being able to see a flaw, and being able to use a flaw, were two different things to begin with. That time against Hu Biao, the flaw lay on a dead pill—he could borrow its force and turn it. But this flaw of Sun Heng's grew deep in a living man's sinews and channels; even if he could see it down to the finest hair, for now he could only stare in helpless frustration. This was the first time he had tasted that truth so keenly—and the first time he understood that these eyes of his were not all-powerful.

"Lin Que?" Sun Heng spoke, his voice not loud, yet like a stone striking the ground. "The Hundred Herbs' apothecary boy. The one who mends pills."

Lin Que did not deny it. Denial was useless.

Sun Heng did not beat around the bush either: "Hu Biao was the master's man. He's been crippled. This debt, by rights, is yours to settle."

As he said this, there was no expression on his face, as though he were speaking of the most ordinary thing. And it was precisely that ordinariness that chilled the most—to him, what "settling this debt" meant, Lin Que knew full well.

Lin Que's heart tightened.

"However," Sun Heng's tone turned, sizing him up from head to toe, "the master says that this pill-mending skill of yours is worth more than Hu Biao's rush pills. An apothecary boy who can mend a waste pill back to life, who can even curse Hu Biao into qi deviation—killing him would be a waste."

"What the master means is," Sun Heng said, one word at a time, "your pill-mending trade, from now on, belongs to the Black Wind Hall. Your pills go out only the Black Wind Hall's door; you yourself fall under the Black Wind Hall's hand too. As for Hu Biao's debt—wiped clean."

He paused: "This is a favor to you. How many rogue cultivators want into the Black Wind Hall and never find the way in."

Lin Que kept his eyes lowered, but inside he had gone cold as ice.

Under the Black Wind Hall's hand.

Those words were more terrifying than "settling Hu Biao's debt." He had hoarded death-black pills, mended broken formulas, gone into the rift, gambled his life to break through a barrier—for what? For saving up enough capital to walk out of this market. But once he was "under the Black Wind Hall's hand," this pill-mending skill of his would become the Black Wind Hall's money tree; and he himself, for the rest of his life, could forget about taking another step out of the market.

His skill had become the rope that bound him.

Lin Que suddenly thought of Xu Qinghe. The Xu family had been pinned for six generations under a flawed set of talismans; she had wanted to break free, struggled for half a year, and nearly forfeited the whole Xu family. And he himself, just as he was about to crawl out of the fate of an apothecary boy, the Black Wind Hall had held out a new rope—a gilded one, called "a favor." From one well, leaping into another well—this was the "way out" the Black Wind Hall offered him.

He could not turn on them on the spot. Sun Heng was all body-drilled hardness; at the fourth layer of Qi Condensation, Lin Que couldn't withstand even 3 moves head-on. And Sun Heng's flaw was buried too deep—he couldn't move on it now either.

If the hard way wouldn't work, then come at it soft. Lin Que settled on his course almost in an instant: agree first, stall first, let Sun Heng, let the Black Wind Hall, all think him a piece of meat lying obediently for the slaughter.

"Steward Sun does me honor," Lin Que pitched his bearing as low as it would go, "only this pill-mending takes spirit materials, takes labor, and I'm just an apothecary boy—my hands are tight too. Allow me a few days to put my materials in order, and then give the master a firm answer?"

Sun Heng stared at him for a long while, as if weighing whether this apothecary boy was truly cowed, or only feigning it.

Lin Que buried his head lower, but his hand, inside his sleeve, quietly pinched his palm—he had to make Sun Heng believe he was afraid, that he was tempted, that he would submit obediently. An apothecary boy who calculated, who would resist, the Black Wind Hall would guard against; an apothecary boy scared out of his wits, begging only to live, the Black Wind Hall would let its guard down with.

"3 days." He spoke at last. "In 3 days, I'll come to the Hundred Herbs. Either you take me to see the master, or—"

He did not go on. But that unspoken latter half was clearer than if it had been said.

Sun Heng turned and melted into the dusk. He walked unhurried, yet step by step, like nails driven into the ground.

Lin Que knew that what Sun Heng had left behind was not only a three-day deadline. The Black Wind Hall had already traced his pill-mending, traced Lai San and the rogue cultivators who bought his pills; within these three days, the moment he dared run, dared turn on them, the one to suffer would not be him alone—Lai San, Lame Yu, all those who had brushed against him, the Black Wind Hall could too easily take and use to squeeze him. He had taken the Black Wind Hall to be coming after him alone; only now did he realize with a start: every single thread he had tied on West Street these past months had become a handle by which the Black Wind Hall could grip him.

This too was the confidence behind Sun Heng's being in no hurry to make his move—he reckoned that a man like Lin Que could not get away, and dared not run.

Lin Que stood in the back alley and gripped tight that bundle of rift crystal in his sleeve.

3 days.

Fight it out, and at the fourth layer of Qi Condensation he couldn't withstand 3 of Sun Heng's moves; go with the Black Wind Hall, and it meant selling this pill-mending skill, body and life and all, never to take another step out of the market for the rest of his days. Sun Heng had laid these two roads before him, certain he could only pick one.

The old lamp at the mouth of the alley had just come on. Beyond its dim, yellow halo, that unfamiliar face at the mouth of West Street—the one who sold tea yet sold no tea—was watching this way from afar, expressionless and unmoving. Lin Que lowered his eyes, retreated half a step into the alley's shadow, and slipped clear of that gaze. The eyes fixed on him were already more than one pair.

But as he stared at that lamp, what turned in his mind was the third road Sun Heng had not laid on the table.

These eyes of his had seen too many flaws. Hu Biao, propped on the false fire of rush pills—one word and it was punctured; Xu Wenchang's grand, hollow talisman had crumbled of itself before everyone. The tighter the man, the harder the setup, there is always a crack.

Sun Heng had one—that secret injury buried deep beneath his right rib. And the Black Wind Hall?

A gang that could lord it over the market, looking like one solid slab of iron—the cracks within that couldn't bear the light, the quarrels over profit, the grudges, the deceiving of those above and the bullying of those below—were often deeper than anyone's. What he was looking for was just such a one: a crack that could make the Black Wind Hall bite down on its own.

Where that crack was, he could not see for now. But under the waters of this market, there was one man who understood the Black Wind Hall better than he did.

Lin Que raised his eyes and looked toward Well-Bottom Lane.

Han Bosheng. "Nine Lives" at his side, steeped a whole lifetime in the market, and owing him a favor for the mended scroll besides. The Black Wind Hall's bottom, Sun Heng's origins, the master's taboos—this old man might well know them all. This bundle of rift crystal in his sleeve burned to keep; traded for a single sentence from Han Bosheng about a crack in the Black Wind Hall, it would be worth it.

He drew his sleeves together, pressed the rift crystal firmer against him, and under cover of the dusk, skirting that lamp and that gaze, set off for Well-Bottom Lane.

The market in the dusk was at the hour of packing up the stalls. The herb sellers, the talisman layers-out, the ones collecting the pill vats—each was busy putting things away. Lin Que mingled into this din of voices, walking neither fast nor slow, like an ordinary errand-running apothecary boy. But each time he passed a lane mouth, he swept the corner of his eye behind him without a trace—the unfamiliar tea seller had not followed, only there was no telling whether there were other eyes. That bundle of rift crystal in his sleeve lay against his ribs, heavy, like carrying a lump of red-hot coal.

He deliberately did not take the main road of West Street, choosing instead a narrow alley that wound around the granary. The alley was piled with rotting vegetable leaves, sticky underfoot, foul-smelling; but this narrow alley had only one way in and out—whoever followed, he would see the moment he turned his head. Better to walk these few extra steps, to breathe in this stench, than to leave his back bared for nothing to those unknown eyes in the dark.

3 days to the deadline. This time, he did not intend to crouch where he was, waiting for the Black Wind Hall to come haul in its net.

【Ch. 016 End · the back alley of the Hundred Herbs】