Chương 110: 109. Zhuang Zhou

Several nearby civilians look from the boy to me, then from me to the boy, and begin forming conclusions with horrifying speed. My grip loosens by instinct. The boy tears free at once. He vanishes under a hanging cloth, slips between two stunned dockworkers, ducks around the ruined vegetable cart, and disappears into the crowd. For half a breath, I do nothing. The Silent Moon disciple nearest the ruined vegetables lowers his sword. One of the Whispering Wind disciples lets the gust around his ankles fade.

The rest of their scuffle loses momentum as more people turn toward me.

"Kidnapping?"

"Did he say alley?"

"An old pervert?" The whispers spread faster than the boy did.

"Senior," he says, hand still resting on his sword.

"Remain where you are." A Whispering Wind disciple moves at the same time, purple-trimmed robe fluttering as qi gathers around his feet.

"This happened in the east market," he says.

"Whispering Wind will handle it." The Silent Moon disciple turns toward him.

"Handle it? Your fool knocked over the cart that gave the criminal cover to attempt his crimes!" Both disciples butt heads once more. The crowd's attention divides between me, the supposed child abductor, and the much more familiar possibility of another sect brawl. I consider explaining.

'The boy attempted to rob me. I caught his wrist. He lied. These are simple facts.' I take another step. Then another. By the time one of the locals points toward me and says, "He's leaving!" I am already halfway down the street. I turn the corner and run. I do not look back. By the time I reach the next district, no one is following. I continue walking for several streets before slowing. The harbor smell fades somewhat here, replaced by wet stone. Buildings press closer together.

Laundry hangs above alleys where sunlight rarely reaches the ground. I sigh and wonder where it all went wrong. He does not stop until the market noise has become distant. He slips through a broken fence, crosses a narrow yard behind a closed dye shop, climbs a stack of rotting crates, and pulls himself onto a low wall. From there, the boy drops into an alley where the buildings lean close enough to turn the afternoon into gray dusk. He runs another hundred paces before finally slowing.

The alley ends near the outer edge of the city, where warehouses give way to abandoned sheds and old walls. A dead rat lies near a drain. The boy braces both hands against his knees. He breathes hard through his nose, refusing to make more noise than necessary. After several moments, he straightens and presses his back against the wall.

"Too close," he mutters.

"You should not accuse strangers of that." His head snaps upward to where I'm standing. For a moment, neither of us moves." You. How did you find me?"

"I walked."

"You were on the other side of the city."

"I walk efficiently." He looks toward the mouth of the alley, then toward the wall behind him, measuring distance. His eyes settle on me again. I fold my arms.

"I was the person being robbed." There is no shame in his face. Only calculation, irritation, and the growing suspicion that I am not leaving.

"You accused me of trying to drag you into an alley," I say.

"Do you understand what kind of accusation that was?" He bends, picks up a small stone, and throws it at my head. I tilt aside as the stone passes my ear and clicks against the wall behind me.

"Go bother someone else, old fart." Then he runs. He plants one foot against the wall, pushes sideways, catches the edge of a shutter, and uses it to swing around the corner before dropping into the next alley. I follow at a walk for three steps, then I disappear from his sight. He reaches the next wall, jumps, and finds me standing on top of it. I catch the back of his hood.

He twists instantly, hands clawing for the cloth, knees rising as though he intends to kick me in the chest despite hanging several feet above the alley.

"Let go!" His hood shifts during the struggle. The cloth pulls away from the side of his neck. Dark markings spread beneath the skin. At first, I think they are scars. Then the light changes and I see the pattern more clearly: thin branching lines descending from behind his ear, splitting across the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. They resemble the limbs of a winter tree, or lightning frozen in the instant before it fades. The Gaze activates.

Street Thief - Mortal Name: Zhuang Zhou Age: 12 Spirit Root: Thunder (B-grade) Constitution: Thunder Marrow (C-grade) - Lightning-aspected mutation stimulating the nerves and marrow. Improves reflexes, explosive movement, sensory response, and tolerance for thunder qi. Cultivation: None Verdict: Struck by lightning while still in the womb. Mother died during childbirth. Surviving spiritual mutation altered root and marrow. Possesses rare thunder affinity and natural agility.

Core Formation potential if properly guided. Requires strict supervision. Very strict supervision. I stare at the readout as the boy continues struggling.

"Get off me, you old fart!" I release the hood. He drops several feet and lands in a crouch without using his hands, absorbs the impact through his legs, and immediately jumps backward. I had spent hours searching an entire clan town and found nothing worth one of the sect's limited places. Then the first child to attempt robbing me in Crescent Bay turns out to possess a rare elemental affinity and a constitution that complements it perfectly.

The heavens are generous in the same way gamblers are generous when they allow someone to win once before taking the rest of their money. Zhuang Zhou pulls his hood back into place. I study him more carefully without the Gaze. Thin. Not starving, but probably accustomed to missing meals. His robe has been patched at the elbows and near one knee with cloth taken from at least three different garments. The soles of his shoes are tied together with twine.

There is no weapon visible, unless he considers rocks a formal discipline.

'Twelve years old. Mother dead. Living by theft.' The irritation vanishes, replaced by sympathy. This world produces too many children who become sharp because softness is punished. I reach into my sleeve and take out a small silver piece. His attention moves to it immediately.

"You tried to steal from me," I say.

"That suggests you need money. I am new to Crescent Bay. I need someone who knows the city." He glares at me with open suspicion. The restaurant is narrow, smoky, and cheap enough that the tables lean. A faded strip of cloth hangs above the entrance with the characters for Fragrant Harbor Noodles, though neither fragrance nor harbor appears to have contributed much to the current bowl. The broth is mostly salt. The noodles are soft in several places and stubborn in others.

Zhuang Zhou eats as though someone may revoke the bowl if he slows. He uses chopsticks quickly but not gracefully, lifting too much at once, swallowing before fully chewing, eyes moving between me, the door, the owner, and every customer who enters. I let him finish several mouthfuls before asking, "How long have you lived in Crescent Bay?"

"All my life."

"With family?" His chopsticks pause. Only for a heartbeat.

"No." The answer confirms what I already assumed. I do not press yet.

"What parts of the city belong to Whispering Wind?" Zhuang Zhou points vaguely east with his chopsticks.

"East market, eastern gate, sailcloth warehouses. Purple robes everywhere."

"How many disciples?" He shrugs.

"A few dozen in the city. Maybe about twice that in their mountain. Most here are outer disciples and guards. Their elders only come down a few times a year."

"And Silent Moon?"

"Docks, fish markets, shipwright road. About the same number, maybe a little fewer. They're always puffing themselves up."

"You seem familiar with both."

"They chase me when I steal from their shops." He slurps another mouthful.

"Silent Moon disciples are faster on flat streets. Whispering Wind cheats with gusts. Neither catches me in the alleys." I adjust my approach.

"Where are old books sold? Manuals, sect records, anything like that."

"Bookshops."

"Which ones?" He shrugs.

"I know the city. I can't read, and books cost too much to steal unless you know what they are."

"Old Ink Pavilion?"

"The owner throws inkstones."

"Any others?"

"There's a shop near the north wall. Books piled outside when it doesn't rain. Old woman runs it. She can't hear, so she notices late if you take things." I close my eyes briefly.

"I am not asking which shops are easiest to rob." This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. I begin to understand that extracting useful information from Zhuang Zhou will require sorting it from a much larger body of thief-centered geography. Still, useful pieces emerge. I place another silver piece on the table. His hand moves. I cover the coin with two fingers. He looks at me.

"I have another proposal. I am part of a sect." His attention sharpens despite the answer.

"Which one?"

"Coiling Dragon."

"Never heard of it."

"We can offer food, shelter, training, and a path to cultivation." He leans back. The movement is small, but every part of him becomes more guarded.

"No."

"You possess aptitude."

"You don't know that. Don't you have to stick a paper on my head and see if it glows? For the tree root?"" Spirit root. And besides, I have an eye for such things. We can confirm it later."

"That sounds fake. Every old man with a broom says he can see talent." I take a breath.

"You have unusual reflexes. Your balance is exceptional for someone without training. The markings on your neck suggest lightning exposure before birth." His expression empties. The chopsticks stop moving. I continue more carefully despite his narrowed eyes.

"This is a genuine opportunity. We can provide you with a life with greater structure." His chair shifts backward with a scrape. Several people glance over. I lower my voice.

"I have no intention of harming you."

"That's what men say before they ask children to wash floors for no pay. You're trying to trick me and make me into a slave, aren't you?" He glances toward the door. I do not block him.

"Our sect has food every day," I say.

"Not always excellent food, but enough. You would have a bed. Clothing. Instruction. You would learn to read. You would be tested properly. If your talent is what I believe it is, you could become a cultivator."

"And what do you get?"

"A disciple."

"What else?"

"Trouble, apparently." His mouth twitches despite himself, then flattens. He reaches for the silver. I let him take it. His suspicion increases.

"You're letting me leave?"

"You are not my prisoner." He pockets the coin. I study him for another moment. There is no point forcing the question. Even if I dragged him back to Coiling Dragon Mountain, fed him, tested him, and placed a manual in his hands, resentment would poison everything that followed. A disciple is not recruited merely when a sect decides to take them. He must choose some part of it himself.

"Guide me to the northern bookshop," I say. He blinks.

"That's it?"

"For now."

"You're not going to give another speech?"

"I was not giving a speech. I was making an offer." He heads for the door. I rise and follow. Outside, the coastal fog has thinned. The late afternoon light reaches between the roofs in narrow bands, catching dust, steam, and the edges of hanging laundry. Zhuang Zhou walks several paces ahead, hands inside his sleeves, moving with the confidence of someone who believes every alley belongs to him. He does not trust me. That is reasonable. I do not trust him either. He turns at the end of the street.

"You coming, old fart?" The shop near the north wall is exactly where Zhuang Zhou said it would be. Books are stacked beneath a patched awning, arranged in leaning piles. Several have been wrapped in oilcloth and others have swollen visibly at the edges and may never close properly again. A wooden board hangs above the entrance. Most of the painted characters have faded, but I can still make out the words North Wall Book House. Zhuang Zhou stops outside.

"I showed you."

"You are coming inside."

"No."

"You are my guide."

"I guided you. See you later." He turns around and leaves. I sigh. The shop is deeper than it appears from the street. Narrow shelves divide the interior into uneven aisles. The air smells of old paper, dust, damp wood, and the sharp medicinal oil used to discourage insects. Light enters through one front window and fails to reach much beyond the counter. An old woman sits behind it, wrapped in three layers of dark clothing despite the mild afternoon. Her gray hair is tied into a loose knot.

She appears to be sorting copper coins by size rather than value. I approach.

"Shopkeeper, I would like to see any old cultivation records, local herb texts, or damaged manuals you have available." She cups one hand behind her ear.

"Huh?" I repeat myself more loudly.

"Cultivation records. Herb texts. Old manuals." Her face brightens with recognition.

"Ghost stories?"

"No." She points toward the rear left corner.

"Ghost stories are there." The old woman has already returned to her coins. I sigh and begin looking on my own. The section she indicated does contain ghost stories. Most have lurid covers depicting pale women, abandoned temples, fox spirits, and cultivators foolish enough to enter places marked by several obvious warnings. The neighboring shelves are less organized. Household records sit beside travel journals. A book on coastal birds has been placed between two collections of funeral prayers.

Several manuals are missing their first pages, which makes determining their intended use more difficult than it should be. I examine each title that appears even slightly relevant. Unfortunately, most are worthless. Near the bottom of a shelf, beneath a book on pickling vegetables, I find a thin volume with a plain brown cover. Common Herbs of Crescent Bay and the Lower Coast. I almost put it back before inspecting it further. The book describes only twelve ingredients.

Between them, the author has recorded nearly five hundred combinations. Most produce minor effects: warming tonics, qi-restoring teas, wound washes, fever reducers, salves for strained meridians, and simple medicinal baths suitable for Qi Condensation cultivators. There are also warnings; Some combinations are marked as ineffective. Others create unstable reactions. Several vary according to season, location, and storage. It is not an alchemy inheritance.

The techniques remain crude, and none of the combinations approach a true pill recipe. But this would be helpful for our budding alchemy hall. I carry it to the counter.

"How much?" The old woman squints at the book.

"Good ghost stories?"

"Herbs."

"Huh?"

"An herbal book." She takes it, turns it upside down, then corrects it.

"Fifty silver." I stare at her.

"Two silver," I say.

"Yes. Fifty." I raise two fingers.

"Two silver pieces." She studies my hand.

"Forty-five." I begin to suspect her hearing is an act to make people relent. Before I can decide whether the information inside justifies surrendering to the negotiation, shouting erupts outside. A group of indigo-robed disciples passes the window.

"Found you!" I look outside. Zhuang Zhou is halfway across the street, moving quickly but not yet running. Three Silent Moon disciples separate from the group and cut off the nearest alleys. He turns, sees the route closing, and darts toward a narrow gap between two stalls. One disciple reaches him first and catches the back of his collar. Zhuang Zhou twists hard enough to pull the cloth against his throat.

"Let go!"

"You have been warned before." The disciple holding him is young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and only at the Third Stage of Qi Condensation. The others are not much older. A shopkeeper nearby steps out from beneath his awning.

"That's him!" the man says.

"He took from my counter last week." Another merchant speaks from farther down the street.

"And from the medicine shop." Zhuang Zhou stops struggling long enough to glare at them.

"You overcharge." The disciple gives his collar a shake.

"The shops pay Silent Moon to protect this street. You steal from them, then hide before anyone can catch you." Their grievance is reasonable. Judging from Zhuang Zhou's expression, this is not the first time they have had the same conversation. The disciple looks around at the gathering crowd. His posture straightens.

"Perhaps a broken foot will stop you from running next time." He reaches down. I set the herbal book beneath one arm and release a measured amount of pressure. The three disciples stiffen. Their knees bend before they understand what is happening. The one holding Zhuang Zhou drops fully to one knee. A pebble leaves my fingers and strikes his wrist. His hand opens. Zhuang Zhou falls, catches himself, and runs. His eyes move across the crowd before he turns the corner. They pause on me for only a moment.

The pressure disappears. The disciples rise, looking around for its source.

"Who interfered with the Silent Moon's duties?"

"He went that way!" They chase after Zhuang Zhou before examining the crowd closely. I place five silver pieces on the counter. The old woman looks at them.

"Forty-five."

"Five."

"Huh?" I take the book and leave. Zhuang Zhou waits near the end of the next street. He does not hide when he sees me.

"You made them kneel, didn't you?"

"They lost their footing."

"No, they didn't." He steps closer.

"I felt it too. The air pushed down on me."

"... It's spiritual pressure. You form your intent to press down against your opponent."

"Can I do that?"

"Eventually." His earlier suspicion has not vanished, but curiosity now sits beside it.

"You really belong to a sect?"

"Yes."

"And you can teach me that?"

"If you have the aptitude and are willing to train." He looks back toward the street, where the Silent Moon disciples are still searching.

"How long would it take?"

"Years." His excitement dims, though not completely.

"That's a long time."

"Cultivation usually is." He considers this before asking, "Would I be stronger than them? Can I kick their butts?"

"That would depend on how hard you work and how far they progress." He frowns at the lack of certainty. I repeat the offer more plainly.

"Coiling Dragon Sect can test your root and teach you to cultivate. You would receive food, lodging, clothing, and instruction. In exchange, you would follow the sect's rules and stop stealing." He is quiet for several breaths.

"I won't go without my brother."

"Then I will speak with him." Zhuang Zhou looks surprised by the immediate answer.

"You'll take him too?"

"If he depends on you, we will make arrangements. If he has a spiritual root, he can be assessed for discipleship. If not, there may still be work available." I imagine another child somewhere in the city. Perhaps younger, ill, or unable to support himself. That would explain some of Zhuang Zhou's behavior. Theft would still be wrong, but desperation often produces ugly decisions.

"Where is he?" Zhuang Zhou leads me back toward the market. We stop at a vegetable stand on a quieter street. A young man stands behind the counter weighing radishes for a customer. He appears nineteen or so, with rolled sleeves and a tired expression. Zhuang Zhou approaches from the side. The young man notices him immediately.

"Where have you been?"

"Showing someone around."

"You were supposed to be home."

"I was working."

"You don't have a job!" Zhuang Zhou points toward me.

"He paid me." The young man looks me over. The Gaze settles over him. Market Assistant - Mortal Name: Zhuang Yan Age: 19 Spirit Root: None Cultivation: None Verdict: Elder brother and guardian of Zhuang Zhou. Works several part-time jobs and maintains a modest but stable household. Frequently pays compensation for Zhuang Zhou's thefts and has repeatedly attempted to stop his criminal behavior. Suitable for clerical, inventory, purchasing, or warehouse work. I read the verdict again.

'Frequently pays compensation?' Zhuang Yan bows cautiously.

"Senior, did my brother steal from you?"

"He tried."

"I didn't take anything," Zhuang Zhou says. His brother closes his eyes briefly and puts his face in his hands.

"He also accused me of attempting to abduct him." He looks at Zhuang Zhou in dismay.

"You did what?!"

"My name is Lu Chen," I say.

"I represent Coiling Dragon Sect. I believe your brother has cultivation talent, and I would like to discuss recruiting him." Zhuang Yan's expression becomes more guarded.

"A sect wants… him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That is better discussed somewhere private." He glances toward the owner of the vegetable stall.

"Boss, may I leave early?" The older man looks at Zhuang Zhou's collar and sighs.

"Go. I'll close." Zhuang Yan thanks him, hands over the day's coins, and leads us away. Their home is on the upper floor of a narrow building several streets inland. The room is small but orderly. Two sleeping mats are rolled against one wall. Rice and dried vegetables are stored beside a clay stove. Their clothing has been repaired carefully rather than left to fall apart. I look around again. The brothers are poor, but not destitute. Zhuang Yan works enough to keep them fed and housed.

The Gaze shows no hidden debt, no illness, and no dependent child beyond Zhuang Zhou himself. Zhuang Yan begins heating water.

"I work mornings at the vegetable stall," he says.

"Some evenings at a warehouse. A grain merchant pays me to help with his accounts when he needs it."

"And your brother?" Zhuang Yan looks toward him.

"He is supposed to help at home and stay away from the shops." Zhuang Zhou sits against the wall. I think back over the day. The patched clothing. The quick eating. The hostility toward sect disciples. The ease with which he moved through the city. I had assumed necessity.

'The truth is less tragic.' Zhuang Zhou steals because he enjoys proving that people cannot stop him. He likes the chase, resents being ordered around, and has turned half the city into a series of challenges for his own amusement. His brother has been paying for the results. I look at the twelve-year-old sitting against the wall, still visibly pleased that three cultivators had been required to catch him.

'This little gremlin…'