Chapter 28

Chapter 28: The Bet

A thug like that had seen every kind of person. In the grind of streets and scams, he’d learned to read faces the way a butcher read meat. One glance told him who was dangerous, and who could be squeezed.

A pure, innocent little lady like this? Softest of all.

And softness could be strangled with guilt.

The more he played the generous man—claiming delays didn’t matter, insisting he’d “wait with her” for her “safety”—the more guilt would rise in her chest. Guilt would turn into trust. Trust would drop her guard.

Then she’d walk into the snare on her own feet.

Just as he expected, the little lady lowered her eyes and asked timidly, “It really won’t delay you?”

The man sat down beside Shen Tang, making sure she could see his worn straw shoes and dirty toes, swollen from old frostbite. His voice stayed hearty. “Won’t matter. At worst, the shopkeeper docks me a few copper coins.

If the young lord comes back and doesn’t see you, he’ll come find you here anyway.”

Shen Tang’s face shifted. Her eyes darted like she was wrestling with herself.

The man’s heart lifted. He counted silently.

He wasn’t afraid of being exposed—because he knew Qi Shan wouldn’t come back quickly.

He counted to fifteen.

Then the little lady rose from her stool and said softly, “Since Yuan Liang told you to come get me, we should hurry and meet him.

If we’re late, it won’t just delay your work—he’ll scold me too… Please lead the way.”

Got her.

The man’s grin almost split his face. Out loud, he hurriedly said, “Of course, of course. It’s what I should do. Little lady, you flatter me.”

“Little lady, this way.”

He pointed in the direction Qi Shan had gone earlier. While pretending to lead, he kindly took the rope from Shen Tang’s hand. “The Fragrant Splendor Inn is a bit of a walk. Little lady, do you want to ride?”

He behaved with just the right amount of restraint, as if he’d never dare cross a line. It made his “hired hand” lie feel more believable.

Shen Tang climbed onto Moto’s back, awkward and clumsy.

The man glanced at Moto from the corner of his eye and chatted as he led. “This doesn’t look like a horse.”

“Moto is a mule,” Shen Tang answered.

“A mule?” The man’s mind raced, weighing the mule in silver. Moto was tall, strong, and snow-white—beautiful enough to fetch a price even as a mule.

He kept walking, his back to Shen Tang, not worried she might see the greed spilling across his face.

Nearby merchants watched, sighing or muttering under their breath.

Some people really couldn’t be stopped from seeking death.

Once that little lady fell into a thug’s hands, she was finished.

Two shops away from the tavern, the butcher saw Shen Tang go and his face changed three times. He grit his teeth, slammed his boning knife down, and grabbed a slaughter knife.

Before he could step out, an older parent working the shop grabbed him hard and shot him a warning look.

The butcher didn’t struggle. He only watched Shen Tang’s small back disappear down the lane.

Then he let out a long, bitter sigh.

“What a sin.”

He wiped his face with a hand greasy with meat fat, forcing down the urge to meddle. “What a rotten world.”

He didn’t know if he was cursing the thug or himself.

He turned back to work.

A guest at his stall spoke suddenly. “That little young lord will be fine.”

The butcher blinked. “What?”

The guest smiled. “That little young lord will come back safely. The one doing the tricking is the one whose life will hang by a thread.”

The butcher’s eyes widened. He was still holding a knife, anger flashing. “What nonsense are you spouting, you old thing?”

The guest didn’t flinch. “Why not make a bet?”

The butcher eased a fraction at the thought of Shen Tang being safe, but then his suspicion flared again. In his eyes, the person taken away was clearly a pretty little lady.

He snorted. “Young lord? That was a girl. You can’t even tell male from female.

Fine. A bet, then. How do you want to bet?”

“In an hour,” the guest said calmly. “That little young lord will return safely.

If I win, you give me today’s offal.”

The butcher agreed without hesitation.

It was a few jin of offal no one wanted—hardly a bet at all.

He knew this guest. A kitchen menial bought by the Moonlight Tower. Every time he came, he bought offal. And unlike the others from that place, he didn’t fawn or grovel. He carried himself with a strange, quiet refinement that made talking to him feel easy.

The butcher liked him. He always weighed a little extra for him.

Today, though, the old thing was saying strange things.

“And if I win?” the butcher asked.

“I’ll buy one more jin of offal,” the guest replied.

The butcher clicked his tongue. “Offal’s cheap. One more jin doesn’t earn me much. Fine. Bet it is.”

After a while, he chopped up half a jin of bone scraps, wrapped them in lotus leaves, and set them beside the offal. He tapped the counter. “If that kid really comes back, you can have this too.”

Bone scraps didn’t have much meat, but they could still be stewed into something.

The guest was so thin he looked close to starving. The butcher couldn’t help feeling soft-hearted. He truly hoped the guest would win—and that the kid would be safe. It would feel like earning a little virtue in a world that didn’t have much left.

The guest clasped his hands in thanks. “Much appreciated.”

The butcher muttered, “Even that gesture looks proper.”

What kind of place was the Moonlight Tower?

A place where men and women bought pleasure.

The guest claimed to be a hired hand doing rough work in the back kitchen. But anyone bought by the Moonlight Tower was, bluntly, a slave—the lowest of the low.

And yet this man spoke and moved like a scholar. People mocked him for it often. The butcher thought it was a little silly too.

But he never laughed in the man’s face.

Because the guest’s presence was… good. Calm. Clean.

And conversation with him was comfortable.

Halfway through their wait, the butcher’s anxiety started to bite. He kept glancing toward the alley where Shen Tang had vanished, then finally asked, “Old thing. Why’d you call that kid a little young lord? That was clearly a girl.”

The guest only smiled and pointed lightly at his own waist.

The butcher frowned. “What? Your waist hurts?”

The guest said, “A literary heart signature seal.”

The butcher froze. “What?”

“That one has a literary heart signature seal,” the guest said. “Not as strong as a typical warrior, but enough to handle an ordinary person.”

The butcher went silent. He’d never seen a literary heart signature seal up close, but he’d heard of it. He knew what it meant.

“Then why didn’t I see it?”

All he could remember was that pretty face.

“The seal is colorless and transparent, like crystal,” the guest explained. “If you aren’t looking for it, it’s easy to miss.”

In these times, because of literary heart and martial gall, people often wore signature seals or ornaments resembling a tiger tally. To ordinary eyes, it was hard to tell the difference between a normal trinket and a true literary heart signature seal at a glance.