We were a strange and motley company: a dozen of Feng's Wolves, a handful of master smiths with their precious tools, a disgraced soldier of integrity, a convalescing dancer, a masked swordswoman, a minister's sheltered daughter, and a former servant boy.

  The journey south to SongJiaTun was a deliberate crawl that stretched across six weeks of late spring and early summer. We avoided the grand prefectural cities and their Censorate posts, sticking to the lesser-traveled roads that wound through dusty farmlands and dense, ancient forests. Lacking official travel writs, any encounter with a patrol would have been disastrous. On the few occasions we were stopped at a county checkpoint, I would ride forward. The heavy black lacquer of my Imperial Guard armor provided the pretext, but it was silver that truly paved the way. A plausible story about a “special inspection for the Ministry of War” for the sergeant's ears, and a heavy pouch of coins pressed discreetly into his hand as a “travel stipend,” ensured that any further questions died on his lips.

  The five hundred taels in the operations fund, managed with meticulous care by Lady Feng and Xiao Qi, proved to be our lifeblood. It allowed us to purchase supplies from traveling merchants and to grow our convoy as the need arose. They took to trading goods too, investing in wares and selling them again further down the road, paying lower prices for those who would have had to still travel to reach Chang'an. I'd see the two in heated discussion by their stock every evening.

  After the first week, I commissioned a sturdy, enclosed wagon. Ostensibly for our growing supplies, its true purpose was to give Xiao Kai a space to recover and maintain her masked identity away from the prying eyes of the road. She'd taken most of her time in meditation, healing the wound that the Steward had wrought.

  Xiao Kai told me that internal injuries were like leaking pipes, where qi would flow into places it shouldn't and become trapped, or a pathway would collapse and it needed to be held open by a stream of qi in order to heal.

  Most of the work was done by the body itself and through cultivation what was shocked into chaos becomes smooth again.

  Healing worked better with a partner, and in her case her injuries were generally of the ruptured meridians variety. Steward Feng's palm strike had burst several pathways and it fell on me, the only other cultivator in the group, to help coax the mishapen qi out a little at a time by nudging it carefully with some external qi of my own.

  With a hand on the small of her back I could feel what felt like taut ballons within her pathways, like hernias or like internal bleeding. Little by little she deflated them, and the process of guiding that qi away hastened my own cultivation.

  By the time we crossed the Huai River, our procession had swelled to include several mule-drawn carts, their canvas covers hiding the anvils, bellows, and charcoal that were the heart of our mobile foundry while Lady Feng tells me our funding remains relatively robust. I did notice she was missing the earrings she'd worn up until this point and I made sure to thank her sincerely.

  By then Layla looked in better shape too. The nature of her injuries meant that she'd spent most of her time laying flat on her stomach, her leg suspended from the walls of the wagon, a mechanism to reduce its jostling of my design, and propped up by expensive cushions, which we had plenty of as it was the only place I found cotton filling suitable for hearing protection.

  As the journey wore on, we modified her wagon with leaf springs made from four unfinished steel sword billets, quenched and tempered but shaped to be simple and flat instead. She told me it made for a far more comfortable ride.

  She'd spent a lot of time watching the world go by her wagon. I noticed that Wei Jin seemed to always be walking near her wagon, and when he was there I'd occasionally make out the sounds of Layla's laughter, a sound that would bring a smile to my own face.

  Despite the uncertainty of our mission, spirits were high. The true turning point came three weeks into our journey, as we encamped in a secluded forest clearing. The master smith, his face streaked with soot and sweat, presented me with the first successfully cast SanYanChong. It was a crude, heavy thing of dark iron three short barrels bound together, mounted on a simple wooden stock. It looked like a brute club, which to be fair is a second intended use case.

  I gathered the Wolves and Wei Jin. "This," I announced, holding the weapon aloft, "is the new thunder. A SanYanChong."

  I demonstrated the loading process, the simple act of pouring coarse black powder and small steel balls down each barrel, ramming it down with a rod. I placed it on a stump, vowing later to create a stand for it I aimed it away towards a bare rock face. Then, taking a lit slow burning rope, I touched it to the first touch-hole. Then the second and then the third.

  Not in a single clap, but a rolling, deafening peal of thunder. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! In a rapid, shocking succession that was faster than any archer could draw, the three barrels discharged. A cloud of thick, acrid smoke boiled outward, and the weapon kicked against my shoulder with the force of a mule.

  The Wolves, hardened veterans who had faced down charging cavalry, stared with their mouths agape.

  The air in the JiangNan Circuit was a different beast from the dry, crisp winds of the capital. It was thick, humid, and alive with the drone of insects and the scent of damp earth. For weeks, this oppressive warmth was like a suffocating blanket that clung to our clothes and dampened our spirits.

  We were five li from SongJiaTun when a figure materialized from the dense, emerald-green foliage of a hillside overlooking the road. He wore the simple, dark tunic of a hunter and he raised a hand, and our column ground to a halt.

  "Master Zhang," the Wolf called out, his voice a professional murmur. "Commander Lu sent me. The camp is two li north of here, hidden in the hills."

  I urged my horse forward, the relief so profound it was a physical sensation. "Your commander has been busy."

  The Wolf nodded, falling into step beside my mount as he led us off the main road and onto a barely-there trail. "Indeed. The Black Wind men are rough, but they learn quickly. We've established a rotating patrol under the banner of their escort agency." He allowed himself a small, grim smile. "The local merchants are grateful for the security, and their silver has kept our larders full. We've also used the patrols to improve the maps Master Xiao Qi provided." I kicked myself internally for forgetting I didn't actually give Lu any funding, I was very fortunate indeed he was a competent commander, and that the Black Wind Cliff men probably had some reserves.

  Lu Chengfeng had chosen his base of operations with a sharp strategic eye. The camp was nestled in a series of natural, inter-connected depressions in the hills, invisible from the main road and easily defensible. It was a temporary settlement of hide tents and lean-tos, but it was organized with the clean, spartan lines of a military encampment. As our larger group filed in, the forty-eight men of the Black Wind Cliff Escorts emerged to meet us, no doubt curious about our convoy. I picked out Jin and Ju in their midst. Old Wei, I noted, was not amongst them. Considering his age, I feared the worst.

  Lu Chengfeng and Wei Jin met me in the center of the bustling clearing, a map already spread over a makeshift table.

  "Scholar Zhang," Lu began without preamble, "Our forces are joined. The men are ready for the next phase." And we set off to plan, but we were surprised by two smaller figures who burst onto our clearing.

  Lady Feng, her fine silks replaced by a practical gown of sturdy, dark cotton, her hair tied back simply. She strode right up to us, Xiao Qi trailing nervously behind her with a ledger and a freshly sharpened pencil.

  "From this moment," she announced, her voice carrying the clear, unshakeable authority of her birthright, "I will be assuming the duties of Camp Manager. All requisitions for supplies, distribution of rations, and management of the camp funds will go through me. Master Xiao Qi will serve as my direct assistant and quartermaster." Lu's expression indicated this was not a surprising turn of events, even as Wei Jin and I stood with our jaws down.

  A low murmur of dissent rippled through a cluster of the Black Wind Escorts members. I recognized Ju, the younger of the two brothers, his face set in a skeptical scowl. "A lady and a boy?" he grumbled, loud enough to be heard.

  Lu Chengfeng took a single, deliberate step forward. His gaze, cold and flat, fell on Ju. "The boy's maps saved us days on the road" he stated, his voice like gravel. "And the lady's silver has fed and equipped every man here. Do you have a problem with that, trooper?"

  Ju visibly flinched at the cold address and the implied threat. He looked to Wei Jin for support, but his old commander simply gave a deliberate shake of his head. Ju lowered his gaze and mumbled an apology. The matter was settled.

  I had no complaints, with the civilian matters firmly in Lady Feng's hands, I was free to focus on the military structure. "Commander Lu, Commander Wei," I said, gathering them around the map. "From now on, you will train the men as a single, integrated force. The Wolves will serve as our light cavalry, scouts, skirmishers, and a rapid-response force. The Escorts will be our light infantry, the core of our battle line. Wang Er," I said, the man jumping when hearing his name called"your task is to find out who owns this land. We are not squatters or bandits. Find the owner and secure a proper lease, or purchase it outright. Use the camp funds."

  Lady Feng, as it turned out, was quite capable, and despite making minor errors, did not let that diminish her confidence. She consulted liberally with our military commanders and even the men themselves, who I think found her rather charming after some time.

  The smiths, overjoyed to finally have solid ground beneath their feet, worked with the Escorts to construct a proper forge and charcoal kiln. Troops directed by Wei Jin, began felling timber to build more permanent, defensible structures. Having been commanded by both Wei Jin and Lu ChengFeng before helped immensely and the two disparate groups, the disciplined soldiers and the rough-hewn former bandits, began to merge, their initial wariness giving way to a stronger sense of shared purpose.

  To my delight, I discovered that Old Wei was not in fact dead, but had opted to retire instead of making the journey south. He'd returned to his village with a tidy sum to enjoy time with his grandchildren.

  Amidst this flurry of activity, Layla was silent. I had ordered her private tent to be placed in a quiet corner of the camp and it threatened to become her entire world. The long journey had taken a toll, and the physician's prognosis proved accurate. Her recovery was slow, her leg still bound in its splint, her back a tapestry of healing wounds that made movement difficult. I found her one afternoon propped up on a pile of cushions, a Go board balanced on her lap, playing a game against herself.

  "A mind accustomed to a whirl cannot easily learn the patience of a stone," she said without looking up as I entered. "This cage of flesh is more confining than any pleasure house." She groaned.

  "Then let's give your mind a new stage to dance on," I replied, setting a small, freshly carved wooden box beside her. Inside were a dozen of Xiao Qi's finest pencils and a stack of clean paper. I leaned a pair of crutches, a modern design with cushioned handles our craftsmen put together. "You are one of the most educated people in this camp. Many of these men can swing an axe or a sword, but they can't read the orders I write."

  She looked up, those brilliant green eyes flicked from the crutches to my face.

  "Teach them," I said. "Teach them to read their own names. Teach them to write letters to the families they left behind.” I paused, then added, "Lady Feng has already volunteered to assist you. And a certain masked swordswoman has expressed an interest in the curriculum."

  a genuine smile, the first I had seen in weeks, touched her lips. "A school," she let the word sit on her tongue for a moment. "For ex-bandits and soldiers, taught by a courtesan, a noble lady, and a ghost. The storytellers in Chang'an would pay a fortune for such a tale."

  The Black Wind Free School, as the men began to call it, took shape. Under a wide canvas awning, Layla, stood assisted occasionally by her assistant Rana, would patiently guide the gnarled, calloused fingers of hardened men as they formed their first clumsy characters.

  Lady Feng and Xiao Kai, still wearing her mask but comfortable with talking amongst people who wouldn't recognise her voice, helped when they could. We welcomed a few curious children from the nearby tenant farms into the lessons, their parents watching from a distance with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

  "We need to scout the village," I explained to Rana one morning as we sat by a quiet fire. Layla's musical assistant looked perplexed as she found me talking with her, as if she'd forgotten I knew she existed. “Er… why me Scholar Zhang?” She asked.

  "Lu and Wei Jin are too recognizable as soldiers. Xiao Qi is needed by the Camp Manager. And I can't take a masked swordswomen through the streets." I glanced towards the school tent, "Every other person here is a soldier, bandit, or a smith and that's certain to raise suspicion. Plus Layla volunteered you."

  Rana sighed. "When do we leave?"

  The next morning, two new figures departed from the camp. One was a wandering Daoist monk in patched grey robes, his face partially obscured by a beard I had spent the last year cultivating, leaning on a simple wooden staff. The other was his young, slender student of mixed heritage, his face smudged with a bit of dirt for effect and carrying a bundle of assorted stuff. We walked the two li to the main road, two anonymous travelers melting into the countryside.

  My Fiancée would never have approved of my facial hair, and I allowed myself a small smile.

  SongJiaTun was not the humble village Layla's description had led me to expect. The dirt tracks had been replaced with neatly paved stone roads. The houses were freshly plastered, their roofs made of sturdy tiles. A new, elegant stone bridge, a miniature version of the grand arches in the capital, spanned a small, meandering river. Peasants walked the streets in rough plain clothing, looking as if they lost their way and found themselves in Chang'an. This was a monument to the transformative power of a Vice-Director's stolen silver.

  In the center of the bustling market square, a crowd had gathered around a traveling storyteller. He struck a dramatic pose, his voice rising and falling with the tragedy of his tale.

  “…and so the faithful daughter, dressed in rags, her feet bare and bleeding on the cold stones of the capital, faced down the corrupt director Song herself! For the sake of her father's honor, she walked into the lion's den, her only weapon, the truth…”

  Rana and I paused at the edge of the crowd, two anonymous figures in grey. The villagers were captivated, their faces a mixture of pity and admiration for the story's heroine. The storyteller was good; Layla's silver had been well spent considering just how far the story had spread. But as he began to weave in the name of the villain, the architect of the good Inspector's downfall, Vice-Director Song, the mood of the crowd shifted. A low murmur rippled through the onlookers.

  It was not outrage on Song's behalf. I saw a farmer look from the storyteller to the new stone bridge, his expression troubled. They were beneficiaries of the villain's largesse, and the story made them feel uncomfortable. It also confirmed some pre-existing suspicions. Mingled with their discomfort was a palpable current of envy. The tale, meant to paint Song as a monster, also seemed to remind them that someone really didn't deserve their station.

  For a brief, strange moment, I felt a pang of pity for Song. All this effort, all this wealth, was spent to buy the loyalty of his own people, and he hadn't even bought their respect, at least not while he was in distant Chang'an. At first perhaps these people had been grateful, but the greatest kindness became a burden.

  We left the crowd and made our way to the village's newest and most prominent structure: the ancestral temple Song had built. It was a gaudy, confusing affair. Under elegant, swooping eaves were statues of Buddhas, statues of Daoist deities, and Confucian maxims carved into pillars. It was a temple built to purchase the favor of every god at once.

  The main hall was cavernous and largely empty, our footsteps echoing on the polished stone. A few old women knelt before an altar, leaving offerings of fruit. Rana, her musician's instincts drawn to the hall's grand scale, let out a soft, experimental note, a single, pure tone that made the women turn and look at us. Rana blushed and turned away. The note hung in the air and seemed to ring.

  She stopped, her head tilted. “That's odd,” she whispered, her eyes scanning the rows of statues. She sang another note, then turned to the small, unassuming statue of a seated Buddha, tucked away in a side alcove right next to us. An old woman scoffed and turned to leave, muttering about foreigners disturbing a place of peace. “It sounds like this statue is vibrating with the sound.”

  It was no larger than a real man, painted in garish gold leaf, identical to a dozen others in the temple. But when Rana hummed a low note next to it, the sound hung and reverberated.

  I stepped closer and gave it a tap with my fist. It made a curious hollow metallic ring. I walked around the pedestal. It felt wrong in a way I couldn't quite describe. While behind the statue I pulled the small, sharp utility knife from my sleeve. With a quick, subtle movement, I scraped a tiny sliver of the gold foil from the statue's base.

  Beneath the foil and a thin layer of paint was not wood, not clay, not bronze. It was more gold.

  Rana and I exchanged a look of stunned, absolute certainty. I tapped it with the hilt of my knife. It was a fortune, hidden in the most audacious way possible, not buried in a vault, but displayed in plain sight, disguised as an act of piety. This temple was a vault.

  A hand tapped me on the shoulder. As a moderate QiGong practitioner I could feel the resonance of qi much deeper than my own. I felt like a bucket of water beside a lake.

  "Daoist brother! What brings you to my humble place of work?"

  I turned to see a middle aged Daoshi, as tall as me and with a long wispy beard beaming at me and pointing to the Buddha statue. "Shocking to see this here right?"

  Rana and I both stare at him blankly as I try to work out what his intentions were. Seeing my evident confusion, the Daoshi clearly misunderstood “Ahh right I forgot to introduce myself, I am Guo Xuan of the Zheng Yi Sect.” He sighed “and Vice Director Song paid me to administer this temple”

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