Chapter Text
The merchant is sweating.
"You must have miscounted," he insists, though his smile trembled at the edges. "Three rounds. I won the second."
Outside the teahouse window, the Floating City—or Fu Cheng—shimmers in the late afternoon light. From this height, its terraces are layered one beneath the other like lacquered steps descending through mist. Silk banners stretch between rooftops, shifting lazily in the breeze, and the distant clang of bronze bells drifts up from the lower districts.
Somewhere below, hawkers call out the price of candied fruit, their voices rising and falling with practised rhythm.
The teahouse Lu Hui Yan picked today is built along the outer ring of the Floating City's upper tier, where merchants prefer to conduct business above the noise and dust of the markets.
Through the carved lattice behind her shoulder, the city seemed almost weightless—all curved eaves and pale stone, suspended between heaven and earth as though it had never known decay. Inside, the air smells faintly of sweat and steeped chrysanthemum.
Lu Hui Yan tilts her head, eyes gentle as her gaze returns to the merchant. She sits poised and elegant, her hair a light chestnut brown, done in a half-up, half-down style with a simple hair stick to keep the bun in place.
Around the merchant, his aura flickers. Most people's emotions appeared to her as faint wisps — colour like diluted ink stirred into water. The mossy green he had in the beginning is now a muddied colour, leaning almost to a tarnished copper, where threads of anxiety weave through it in tight spirals.
She places her cup down with deliberate care.
"Mr Jiang," Lu Hui Yan says softly, "You wagered that the jade bead would land face-up twice in succession. It did not."
The bead rests innocently in the shallow porcelain bowl between them, its carved character catching the light from the window. From outside drifts a burst of laughter and the distant trill of a flute — preparations for the coming festival already creeping into the streets.
Mr Jiang opens his mouth, as his aura shifts, flashing a dark green as embarrassment blooms sharp and hot through the orange.
"Perhaps," she adds with a serene and unhurried smile, "You would like to try again?"
His gaze darts to the window on his right, as though seeking divine intervention from the sky beyond it.
The Floating City gleamed there, immaculate and unconcerned, its bridges suspended like threads of fate. In five days, the entire realm would gather to celebrate the Great Slumber, to honour the god whose sleeping body anchored heaven, earth, and the hells in fragile equilibrium.
And today, equilibrium belongs to her.
The merchant swallows, hesitating, before his greed pulses brightest, thick and oily, swelling each time his gaze drops toward the small pile of silver ingots between them.
The game they're playing is simple. A small carved bead with two distinct faces, shaken in a lacquered cup and flipped onto the table.
Growing up in a family that encouraged and favoured wit and strategy, Lu Hui Yan was exposed to various games with complicated rules and methods of winning.
But a simplistic game like this one can be just as fun. A game based on luck and knowing when best to risk.
Lu Hui Yan adjusts the light green sleeve of her hanfu, fingers brushing the underside of the cup as if in idle motion. When the bead falls, it lands exactly as she predicted. The merchant's purse is five silver ingots lighter.
Well, she thinks to herself with a small smirk as Mr Jiang wails in despair, It helps when you have control over the results every time.
"You—!" The chair scraped as Mr Jiang stood. Lu Hui Yan is already rising, sweeping the ingots into her bag and taking her cane. "You're cheating, aren't you?"
"Sir," she replies calmly, lifting her bamboo hat from the table and lowering it over her head. The thin silk veil falls around her face, obscuring her features. "If you accuse every woman who outplays you, your reputation will suffer."
"Return to me what you stole, you scamming woman," he demands and lunges for her. She steps lightly out of reach, dropping a few coins onto the table to cover her tea. Patrons turn at the raised voices as Mr Jiang rounds the table in pursuit.
"Don't you know?" he calls after her. "They say the esteemed cultivators of Liang Manor are in town, making a stop in this district."
At this, her eyes widen despite herself, and her limbs lock for the briefest moment. Mr Jiang notices. "You're scared now, eh? Better return my money or—"
She sweeps out of the teahouse before Mr Jiang can finish his threat, and he makes haste after her. By the time he pushes through the patrons and reaches the market street, she has blended into the afternoon crowd.
Lu Hui Yan moves swiftly across a narrow bridge that connects two rising terraces, her steps light despite the steady press of traffic. In the Floating City, mortals and spirits mingle easily; most wear human faces, though here and there a fox-bright gaze lingers too long, or the faint outline of scales glints briefly at a wrist before disappearing beneath a sleeve.
But in the end, it is all just people.
Vendors call over one another in competing rhythms while children weave between adults clutching skewers of sugared hawthorn, their bright laughter cutting cleanly through the hum of bargaining voices.
Lantern-makers hammer copper frames in ringing bursts that echo across the water below, and fragrant steam lifts in pale clouds from bamboo baskets brimming with pork-filled bao.
The scent of fried scallion cakes drifts upward from a lower tier, carried on warm currents that thread through the stacked walkways, while silk hems and spirit-light auras brush together in the narrowing paths.
Near the central plaza, a group of cultivators in dark robes strides along the northern bridge. Sword hilts glint beneath their sleeves as they pass, their expressions sharp and distant, as though they have only just returned from a long and thankless mission.
A few of them pause before a public news board. One scans the notices pinned there, then tears a sheet free and folds it neatly into the layered front of his hanfu before continuing on.
Lu Hui Yan does not slow until she reaches the main square, walking up to the news board once the cultivators have long since left, and searches for what the cultivator had been looking at.
A missing person's portrait— Of her.
The portrait was old, a sixteen-year-old girl with cheeks soft with baby fat, eyes hopeful and naive in a way she no longer recognises, and hair centre parted and arranged in a double-maiden bun style, a common style of young, unmarried girls.
The red seal stamped at the bottom is unmistakable: the Liang family crest—a stylised tiger with a stone sphere between its jaws, carved within a circle.
The details are written as such:
Missing. Lu Hui Yan.
Betrothed daughter of the Lu family.
Reward upon safe return.
All the missing portraits of her have yellowed now, after all, how can one paint a woman who hasn't been found in over ten years?
And how can someone still be so determined after ten years of nothing? Lu Hui Yan stares at the tiger seal for a long while, until a muddled face of a young man and a name appear in her mind.
She exhales slowly.
"I am not lost, Xiu Yuan-ge," she murmurs under her breath. She rips down one of the portraits and keeps it. "I am deeply sorry for troubling you all these years."
The information on the cultivators from Liang Manor stopping in the area is a small matter, nothing more. So long as she remains calm and departs soon with enough provisions for a short journey to the next town or port, it will not become a greater problem.
With that resolve settled, she turns toward the eastern district and begins her ascent, taking the bridges that climb toward the higher levels.
By the time she reaches the narrower bridges again (due to her own dilly-dallying where she stopped at a vendor selling wine and purchased a small white jar), evening has begun to settle over the terraces, where the crowds thicken as people rush to get back home. Shoulders brush more frequently now, and the earlier openness of the sky feels gradually replaced by warmth, noise, and proximity.
It is in this tightening press of bodies that she notices the disturbance ahead.
A small group has formed near the railing, their laughter edged with something coarse. The auras around them churn in intermingling shades of maroon and rust, ill intent seeping from them like smoke from damp wood.
At the centre of their attention stands a young woman with cat-like eyes and long dark hair that falls down her back, the top half styled into two slightly cone-shaped buns secured with pink ribbons.
Carmine flowers nestle in her hair, and her lips are painted a soft rose. She wears a flower-brocade ruqun of fine silk, and a tiny red blossom is painted between her brows. Her aura is pale blue and trembles faintly at the edges.
From the flighty pattern of her aura, it is obvious she is a spirit.
Though she looks young, appearance is no measure of spirits. She could very well be centuries older than Lu Hui Yan.
"Hua-mei," one of the men drawls, though it is doubtful it is the spirit's real name. He reaches toward her sleeve despite her clear attempt to step back. "Why so shy? We're only being friendly."
"I told you I'm not that type of flower spirit," the spirit girl insists, though her voice wavers.
"That may be," The man says in a lewd tone, "But I'm confident there are other specialities you are good at?"
Lu Hui Yan frowns and slows her walk. She dislikes unnecessary involvement; staying low is how she's hidden out of sight all these years, save for the occasional indulgence of relieving gullible people of their excess coin. But she dislikes injustice more.
She glides toward them, voice cool. "Gentlemen, it is improper to crowd a young maiden in this manner."
One of the men turns, irritation flashing across his face. "What's it to you? Is this flower spirit a friend of yours?"
The spirit girl looks at Lu Hui Yan, her eyes wide and hopeful. Lu Hui Yan will not let her hope go to waste.
"She is," Lu Hui Yan replies evenly, her hand settling around the sheath of her cane as though it were a weapon. "And if I am not mistaken, I believe I saw the duke's patrol heading toward this district."
The men exchange doubtful glances. They clearly do not believe her, yet the crowd has thinned enough that their earlier boldness falters under the possibility of witnesses.
"Troublesome woman," one mutters at last, and they all retreat into the moving crowd.
When they are gone, the rescued girl bows deeply. "Thank you, miss—"
"Hui," Lu Hui Yan answers smoothly. Not quite a lie, and not quite the truth. "I should be on my way. Please travel in smaller crowds when you can, or better yet, with a companion."
"My name is Qiu Yue," the flower spirit says as she straightens. At her full height, she stands only a few centimetres shorter than Lu Hui Yan. "I owe you—"
"There is no need," Lu Hui Yan interrupts gently. "I only did what anyone with decency would do. Besides, they were stinking up the walkway."
A faint smile touches her lips as she gestures lightly in farewell.
"Goodbye now, Qiu Yue."
And with that, she disappears back into the lantern-lit current of the Floating City.