The transition from the sterile, lavender-scented silence of the Daming Palace to the chaotic roar of Chang'an's West Market was like stepping from a tomb into a riot. In this bustling era, where even the tiniest individual could make their voice heard through the sheer volume of their trade, the market served as the beating, unfiltered heart of the Tang Dynasty. To Li Mei, however, the market was not merely a center of commerce but a sensory battlefield, a place where "market research" became a matter of life and death. She moved through the crowd in the simple linen robes of a traveling merchant's wife, a "substitution" technique designed to make her and Prince Zhao appear as idealized, ordinary versions of themselves to avoid the eyes of the palace spies.
Beside her, Prince Zhao walked with a heavy, rhythmic gait, his towering frame disguised under a rough wool cloak. Despite the common clothes, his presence remained "distinctive," a quality successful web novel authors use to create deep impressions on their readers. He smelled of the cold winter mint she had used to stabilize him, but underneath, the musky ozone of the "beast" still simmered, a "looming crisis" that acted as a constant reminder of the "time-limited" nature of their mission. They were navigating the 108 walled wards of the city, moving from the smaller, safer alleys into the bigger, more dangerous districts where the "sequential approach" of the map design allowed a sense of novelty to persist.
"The arsenic the Empress uses is not the common grade found in local apothecaries," Mei whispered, her voice barely audible over the clatter of ox-carts and the cries of Persian jewelers. She relied on her "Golden Finger"—her heightened sense of smell—to act as a support tool for information acquisition, a technique often used in suspense categories to allow the protagonist to overcome strong enemies through wit and cognition. "It has a sharp, floral undertone. It's processed with mountain peonies, a technique used only by the 'Shadow Apothecaries' in the city's underbelly."
Zhao's hand tightened around the hilt of a hidden dagger beneath his cloak. "The Shadow Apothecaries deal in 'illegal' items that traditional publishers—or in this case, the Imperial Guard—might overlook. If the poison is coming from there, it means the conspiracy has roots deep in the merchant guilds."
They reached a narrow stall tucked between a silk warehouse and a slaughterhouse. The air here was thick with the scent of "apocalyptic" decay: stagnant water, rotting offal, and a pervasive distrust among the people that mirrored the harsh environments of post-apocalyptic fiction. Mei's nostrils flared. She caught the scent—the lavender of the palace, the metallic bite of arsenic, and a new, terrifying note: the musk of a "second beast," one that smelled of "inconsistency" and "chaotic identities".
"Wait," Mei said, her "rationality and responsibility" signaling a warning. She reached out and grabbed Zhao's arm to stop him. The physical contact created a spark of "sexual tension," a "magnetic pull" between her clinical focus and his volatile, Alpha energy that serves as the "essence" of high-engagement female-oriented stories. "There is someone else here. Someone who smells like the palace, but tastes like the wolf."
From the shadows of the apothecary stall, a figure emerged. It was not a monster, but a man whose "character setting" was draped in the robes of a Taoist priest. Yet, Mei's scent-tracking "Golden Finger" revealed the truth: his skin was coated in the same "silver-shadow" musk as the Prince's.
"Prince Zhao," the priest rasped, his eyes flashing with a "complex personality" that blurred the line between angel and demon. "You seek the forge of your own destruction. But you forget—the wolf is not a curse. It is an 'upgrade system' for an empire that has grown too soft."
The "disagreement and conflict" exploded in an instant. The priest didn't draw a sword; he unleashed a "supernatural power," a wave of concussive Qi that smelled of arsenic and ancient blood. As the market stalls splintered and the crowd screamed, Mei realized they had found more than a poisoner. They had found the "architect" of the werewolf army, a discovery that served as the "interest insurance" for the long, arduous marathon of their journey ahead.
Zhao stepped in front of her, his cloak falling away to reveal his "invincible" warrior stance. "Mei, stay behind me," he growled, the gold returning to his eyes. "The 'cliffhanger' of our lives starts now."