Chapter 23 — The City Wolf and the Garden of Filth
The Scent in Meng City
Fifty miles away from the frozen silence of Meng Village, Meng City woke before the sun dared to crest the horizon.
The massive eastern gates opened with a deep, vibrating groan of iron and wood, signaling the start of the struggle for coin. The city exhaled into the gray light—thick white steam rising from dumpling steamers, the sharp tang of horse dung trampled into the cobblestones, and the raucous cries of hawkers cutting through the biting morning air.
"Fresh buns! Hot buns!"
"Vital Soap! Ten coppers a bar!"
That last cry echoed louder than the rest, cutting through the noise of the market like a blade.
At the Yan Clan Trading House, a chaotic crowd had already formed, spilling out into the street. Housewives wrapped in thick, padded cotton coats pushed forward, their breath misting in the cold, copper coins clenched tightly in their red, chapped hands. Laborers with cracked palms and dust-stained faces queued patiently, grumbling about the wait but unwilling to leave. Even a few low-ranking servants from minor noble households lingered at the edges, pretending not to care while secretly sniffing the air.
The scent drifting from the open shop doors was unmistakable.
Peach. Clean. Warm.
It was a smell that promised relief from the biting winter.
Inside, a young clerk wiped sweat from his forehead, his hands moving in a blur as he passed bar after bar across the wooden counter.
"Next! Don't push!"
A woman grabbed her purchase and sniffed the pale green soap, her tired eyes lighting up. "It smells like spring!"
Another woman leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, "My hands stopped cracking after two washes…"
The demand was voracious. Within a single hour, five hundred bars were gone.
The silver box beneath the counter was heavy.
Very heavy.
The Order in the Teahouse
Across the street, overlooking the chaos from the second floor of the Zhou Clan's city branch, a pair of narrow, predatory eyes watched everything.
Zhou Ming, the Second Young Master of the Zhou Clan, sat by the open window of a private teahouse room. The room was opulent, smelling of expensive incense, a stark contrast to the mud and sweat below. Steam curled lazily from his porcelain cup, painting shapes in the air, but he didn't drink. He just watched.
Behind him stood Zhou Cang, the Guard Captain. His thick arms were crossed over his chest, his posture rigid and imposing. He was a man carved from granite, a man who had killed before and never lost a moment of sleep over it.
"I saw him, Young Master," Zhou Cang said, his voice a low rumble. "Yesterday. The peasant hunter. Long Tan."
Zhou Ming's fingers paused on the silk fan he held.
"He entered through the Yan shop's back door," Zhou Cang continued, his tone laced with a soldier's precision. "Carried a heavy box. Walked like he wasn't afraid of anyone."
Zhou Ming snapped the fan shut.
Tap.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
"If five hundred bars sold at ten coppers each…" he murmured, his eyes calculating the math that ruled the world. "That's fifty thousand coppers."
He smiled faintly, a cold expression that promised nothing good.
"Twenty-five silver taels."
Zhou Cang's jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck bulging. "I will go back to the village. Break his legs. Take the silver."
"No."
The word was soft—but absolute. It carried the weight of authority that froze Zhou Cang in place.
Zhou Ming stood, his silk robes rustling softly as he walked to the window. He looked down at the crowd scrambling for the last remnants of soap like starving dogs fighting over scraps.
"The silver is small," he said, dismissing a fortune with a wave of his hand. "A one-time gain."
He turned back slowly, his eyes cold and sharp, analyzing the situation like a game of Go.
"The recipe is the river."
Zhou Cang's breathing slowed. He understood. You don't steal a bucket of water; you steal the source.
Zhou Ming continued, his voice measured and cruelly calm.
"He sold five hundred bars this fast. That means demand is strong. He will need fat, oil, herbs. He will come again."
Zhou Ming raised one slender finger.
"At least one week."
Another finger joined it.
"You will be ready."
Zhou Cang nodded, a grim acknowledgement.
"When you see him," Zhou Ming said, closing the distance between them until he was staring directly into the Captain's eyes, "ask politely first. Say the Zhou Clan wishes to partner."
His smile widened, but it did not reach his eyes. It was a mask.
"If he refuses… do it outside the city."
Zhou Cang grinned, a savage expression.
Outside the city walls, the Emperor's law thinned like morning mist. Out there, strength was the only law.
"I understand," Zhou Cang said, his hand tightening around his sword hilt until the leather creaked. "If he doesn't hand it over, he won't return to his village."
Zhou Ming looked back out the window, watching the Yan shop empty bar by bar, the heavy chest of silver growing fuller.
"A peasant who touches gold," he said softly, "is a wolf that doesn't know it's already marked."
The Garden of Filth
Far from the stone walls and noise of Meng City, Meng Village lay quiet under a pale, indifferent winter sun.
In the Long family courtyard, the ground was hard with frost, locking the earth in iron.
Long Tan knelt beside the withered Spirit Peach Tree, his breath steady, his movements deliberate. He had already measured the spacing—three small holes, equidistant, placed exactly where the tree's roots radiated a faint, subterranean warmth.
Each hole was shallow, unremarkable to the naked eye.
He lifted a burlap sack and poured out old animal bones, sun-bleached and brittle. He crushed them beneath a heavy stone, the sound of fracturing calcium echoing in the silence. He reduced them to fine white powder.
Calcium. Essence residue. Bone marrow memory.
Then came the cow dung.
Thick. Dark. Frozen in places.
The stench hit the cold air like a physical slap.
Su Lan stepped out of the house, immediately pulling her sleeve over her nose. "This smells disgusting."
"It has to," Long Tan replied calmly, shoveling the vile mixture into the first hole.
He didn't rush. He worked with the patience of a man building a fortress.
"I have twenty-five silver hidden beneath the floorboards," he continued, his voice low. "If glowing plants appear in winter, people talk. If they see dung and rot…"
He dumped another heavy shovel of filth into the earth.
"…they think I'm insane."
Su Lan grimaced, eyeing the steaming pile. "Or desperate."
"Good," Long Tan said, packing the dirt down. "Desperate men aren't envied."
The smell spread, heavy and foul, wrapping around the courtyard. Any passerby looking over the wall would wrinkle their nose and hurry past.
The treasure was hidden behind filth.
The Hidden Talent
"I'll help," Su Lan said, setting her jaw. She wouldn't let him work in the filth alone.
She grabbed the spare wooden shovel. The dung was half-frozen, mixed with heavy clumps of dirt and straw. It was a dense, unwieldy weight.
Whoosh.
She tossed it cleanly into the hole.
Long Tan froze.
He stared at the shovel, then at her arms. The movement had been too fast. Too light.
"Again," he said quietly.
She lifted another heavy load, the wood creaking under the weight.
Whoosh.
Effortless.
Long Tan stepped closer, wiping his hands. "Hold the handle."
She did, looking confused.
He pressed down on the shovel blade—hard. He applied the pressure of a grown man.
The shovel didn't budge. Her arms didn't even tremble.
His eyes sharpened.
"You're strong," he said, genuinely surprised. "Stronger than before."
Su Lan hesitated, looking at her own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. "I've been drinking tea from the peach leaves… and eating the meat you bring. I feel warm inside. Like a furnace."
Long Tan nodded slowly.
The Spirit Peach Tree was not just a miracle fruit. Even its leaves possessed the power to refine blood and cleanse marrow.
"You have talent," he said, analyzing her structure. "Two hundred and twenty jin. Almost a Warrior."
Su Lan's eyes widened. She had been a weaver, a mother—never a warrior.
"From tomorrow," Long Tan said gently, but with the firmness of a teacher, "you train."
She didn't hesitate. She looked him in the eye. "I will."
The Scholar's Path
On the wooden porch, Little San sat cross-legged, a straight stick clutched tightly in his small hands.
Inhale. Exhale.
He mimicked his father's breathing rhythm, his brow furrowed in deep, serious concentration. He wasn't playing. He was trying to become strong.
Long Tan watched his son for a long moment, pride swelling in his chest.
Then he spoke.
"Su Lan. Tomorrow, I go to the Village Scholar."
She turned, surprised. "That costs money."
"We have it," Long Tan said firmly. "San must learn to read."
He looked at his son, seeing the determination in the boy's small frame.
"I will not pass down ignorance."
Su Lan swallowed, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "A Scholar-Warrior…"
"Yes."
The Warmth Beneath the Filth
Night fell, draping the village in shadows.
The courtyard stank of manure, a protective barrier against the world.
Long Tan knelt before the three dung piles, his palms hovering just inches above the frozen soil.
Sun–Moon Breath.
He reversed the flow. Sun Qi flowed downward from his dantian, through his arms, and out of his palms.
The frozen earth softened.
Faint steam rose into the night air as the energy penetrated the dung and bone meal, creating a hidden incubator.
The filth became warmth.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to the sleeping seeds, "we plant."
He stood up and went inside, bolting the door against the cold.
But fifty miles away, in Meng City, a clock had started ticking.
And the wolf was already moving.
[ Author Notes]
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