They left the Pavilion in silence.
Shuye walked a step behind, glancing back only once—but Lianhua remained kneeling, still as the incense burning beside her. When they returned to the warehouse, Ziyan held the sealed contract in her hands as if it weighed more than any blade she had ever carried.
They had bought her freedom.
But freedom, Ziyan realized, wasn't a conclusion—it was an open door. And Lianhua hadn't yet stepped through it.
Lianhua said little the next morning. She arrived at the corner table and immediately began sorting her own scrolls and papers, making no mention of gratitude or intention. It was as if she had always belonged to the shadows, slipping in and out of places without need for announcement.
She spent hours drafting ledgers and budget estimates, drawing lines and numbers across rice paper with elegant precision. Her handwriting was clean, her ink strokes steady. She wrote with the focus of someone used to watching others waste everything they had.
"You're not just doing math, are you?" Shuye asked, peering over her shoulder.
"No," she replied. "I'm sketching stability."
He blinked. "That's just a fancy way of saying you're doing math."
Lianhua looked up. "Math is survival. I survived."
In the back of the warehouse, Feiyan stirred again. Her body still bore the deep bruises and cruel marks from Li Jun's men, but her eyes were clear now. Sharp.
Ziyan sat beside her on a crate, slowly changing her bandages. The silence between them stretched as Feiyan stared up at the rafters.
"Where is she?" Feiyan asked.
"Working," Ziyan replied. "On ledgers and plans."
Feiyan scoffed softly. "Of course she is."
"She's good," Ziyan said. "You'll see."
"I've seen people like her," Feiyan muttered. "Elegant, calm, and always calculating."
"She helped us when she didn't have to," Ziyan said. "That means something."
Feiyan's silence said she didn't agree.
Later that day, Ziyan sat beside Lianhua at the ledger table, hands folded, eyes intent.
"You've got this down to a science," she said lightly, almost teasing. "You're not just a numbers woman—you're a quiet strategist."
"I don't enjoy flattery," Lianhua replied without looking up.
"That's good," Ziyan said, smiling. "Because I don't flatter. I speak what I see."
Lianhua paused. "And what do you see?"
Ziyan leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "I see someone who knows how to read a battlefield without a sword. Who sees not just what people spend, but what they fear losing. That's a rare kind of strength."
Lianhua slowly turned to face her. "You're trying to charm me."
"I don't need to," Ziyan said simply. "But I'd rather win your trust than buy your silence."
Lianhua studied her carefully, and Ziyan let the silence sit. She didn't press. Just waited—with patience and presence.
Then, quietly, Lianhua said, "Trust is a coin I've never seen returned."
"Then maybe it's time someone did."
Feiyan joined them by the fifth day, limping but lucid. She sat just outside the circle of maps and scrolls, arms folded, watching everything.
When Lianhua began calculating estimated bribes needed to divert one of Li Jun's spice shipments into their control, Feiyan finally said, "Why are you really helping us?"
Lianhua didn't look up. "Because I no longer belong where I was."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have," she replied. "For now."
Ziyan said nothing, but she noticed the way Lianhua didn't deflect with sarcasm this time. Just truth—bare, sharp, and simple.
By the seventh day, a plan had begun to take shape. No tea shop yet—just groundwork. Lianhua had mapped every courier route and vendor they could plausibly reach. She had drafted a list of debtors, lapsed permits, and minor officials open to bribes. Her insight was unnerving. Calculations, yes—but laced with a human awareness of greed, shame, and desperation.
Ziyan brought her tea in the late evening and set it down gently.
"You don't have to stay here, you know," she said.
"I know."
"But you haven't left."
"I'm still weighing the risks."
Ziyan gave her a small smile. "You strike me as someone who only calculates when she's afraid of being wrong."
That earned her a sidelong glance.
"I'm not afraid," Lianhua said.
"Then trust me," Ziyan said, tone softer now. "Not with everything. Just with enough."
Lianhua didn't speak again—but she took the tea.
And she didn't move from the table.
Far across the city, in a marble hall veined with jade and smoke, Lord Li Jun stood over a shallow map of the Eastern Capital. He moved a single jade figurine—an unmarked merchant cart—toward the west district.
A steward cleared his throat behind him. "They've started buying supplies. Low volume, irregular channels. They're laundering through tea and courier licenses. The girl… she's with them."
Li Jun said nothing for a long time.
Then: "The ledger?"
"Still missing."
Li Jun smiled.
"They've begun to move. Good. Let them believe they're growing roots."
His fingers tightened slightly around the jade figure.
"When it's deep enough," he murmured, "we'll rip them out—roots, leaves, and all."