When they slipped out of the abandoned woodshed, night had fully settled.
Xu Jinghong did not return to the salt warehouse. The warehouse was a gate—the noisier a gate got, the easier it was to watch. Instead she moved them to a new foothold: an empty grain shop in the north city, last year's tax tag still pasted on the door planks.
Chaosheng opened with his usual verdict. "We've got the roster. Now we make them stamp again."
The thin old man set the oilcloth bundle on the table and tapped the impression of the full official seal. "Every use of an office seal must be logged. A log means a name."
Qin Zhao stood by the door as lookout. At the word name, his throat tightened. Once a name hits paper, you're not catching one person—you can raid a whole web of routes.
Xu Jinghong cleared the tabletop and fixed three steps, as calmly as ordering dishes:
"First: forge a notice slip they can't ignore.""Second: make it land in the hands of the people who execute.""Third: wait for them to issue a real slip to 'correct' it—then we intercept the real one."
Chaosheng asked the price. "Who delivers the forgery?"
Xu Jinghong glanced at Qin Zhao, then looked away. "I do."
Qin Zhao wanted to say I can, but his mouth opened and closed again.
Xu Jinghong added—lightly, but like a nail driven in: "Don't snatch tasks. Watch the road."
I. The Forged Slip: It Must Look Like Audacity—Not a Trap
The old man produced a sheet of office-grade paper from the medicine basket. Not too new, not too old. Fine grain. Firm to the touch.
"This paper is real," he said. "If you want a convincing fake, you start with real stock. Fake paper gives itself away first."
Xu Jinghong wrote with charcoal. No grand slogans—just the single line most likely to cause trouble:
"Pier Twenty-Six medicine boat: exempt from inspection at dawn tomorrow. Let it pass.Disobedience will be punished."
She left the bottom blank—letting the other side decide who would do the punishing.
Chaosheng frowned. "An inspection exemption will alarm the Salt Tax Office."
"That's the point," Xu Jinghong said. "This isn't about profit. It's about authority. The moment someone dares write 'exempt,' the Salt Tax Office has to lift the lid on that pot."
The old man pressed a notched red stamp onto the corner, then dusted the edge with gritty red clay.
This wasn't meant to fool the Salt Tax Office. It was meant to fool the inspection booth—to make the booth clerks think: Someone above has sent word.
Xu Jinghong folded the slip twice and slid it into her sleeve. "It needs to land in the right hands."
II. Planting It: Not to the Office—To the People Who Enforce
East Wharf's second booth was still lit with torches at night. The booths didn't rest—not when "search-and-check slips" were in play. No one dared pause.
Xu Jinghong didn't approach from the front. She looped past the hot-soup stall. The vendor recognized the brim of her hat, kept his head down, and set a bowl into her hand without a word.
She pressed the forged slip beneath the bowl.
Two small copper coins—just enough for one bowl—were stuck to the outer rim: payment for a "handoff."
The vendor carried it straight to the booth, calling loudly, "Hot soup for the gents!"
A junior clerk took the bowl—sniffed the broth, checked the coins—then drew the paper from the bottom. His face changed at once.
He didn't dare pocket it. He turned and hurried to the Han-clothed officer in charge.
From the shadow, Xu Jinghong watched the paper slip into the machine like a grain of sand between gears.
Chaosheng murmured, "It's in."
Xu Jinghong said, "Now we wait for them to issue the real one."
III. How a Real Slip Moves: Whoever Panics First Will Stamp First
They didn't wait long.
In under half an hour, a different person arrived at the booth—not booth staff. A minor functionary from the Salt Tax Office, an authority placard hanging at his waist with two characters carved in bold: SALT TAX.
His hand shook as he took the forged slip.
Not because of Xu Jinghong—because of the words exempt from inspection.
"He'll report it," Chaosheng said.
The old man's answer was blunter. "Once it goes up, the office must either own it or correct it. If they own it, someone is letting a boat through. If they correct it, they have to issue a genuine slip to smother the rumor."
Xu Jinghong nodded. "So they will issue a real slip."
Qin Zhao couldn't help himself; one question slipped out. "Will they arrest the soup vendor?"
Xu Jinghong didn't look at him. "Yes. But they won't kill him. They'll hold him for a night—because what they fear more is the story spreading."
Chaosheng added the cost. "We have to be fast. The real slip will go to East Wharf and North Gate first. If it arrives late, the booths will spiral."
Xu Jinghong's order came instantly. "Track the runner. Only track—don't touch. Intercept him after he clears the north-city alley mouth."
IV. Qin Zhao's "Small" Mistake: One Look Back Buys a Tail
The runner was a low clerk in service—back hunched under a small wooden case. A red cord bound the lid, the knot cinched tight.
Inside were likely fresh slips and authority tokens.
They shadowed him through two alleys.
At one corner, a child crouched with a chipped begging bowl. A broken loop of rope lay at his feet.
Qin Zhao slowed—just half a beat.
The child looked up. Eyes red, as if from crying. Qin Zhao recognized the type at once: the same kind of child used as leverage—like the hostage tied to the pawnshop courier.
He didn't speak. But he looked back.
That single look.
At the far end of the alley, a man in gray paused as well, his gaze following Qin Zhao's glance. He didn't close in. He simply softened his steps, shadow attaching to shadow.
Chaosheng hissed one word through his teeth: "Idiot."
Qin Zhao went pale, trying to explain.
Xu Jinghong caught his sleeve—not comfort, command: keep moving.
She didn't let him talk, because explaining would be a second look back.
V. Intercepting the Real Slip: Take the Paper—Not the Person
At the north-city alley mouth stood a small stone bridge. The water below was shallow and caught the night light.
Xu Jinghong chose it for one reason: water-glare shows silhouettes.
As the clerk crossed, Xu Jinghong bumped him from the side, like someone jostling for space in the dark.
He startled and hugged the case tighter.
From the opposite side, Chaosheng caught the clerk's wrist—not twisting, not striking—just forcing him to loosen by one breath.
Xu Jinghong was faster.
A thin needle picked the red knot. The lid lifted. She slid out the topmost slip.
One beat.
The lid closed again. The knot was pressed back into place—clean enough to look untouched.
The clerk only felt a shove and then emptiness. He kept running, too scared to even glance behind him.
In the bridge's shadow, Xu Jinghong unfolded the real slip.
The paper was harder than ordinary office stock. The writing was neat—official.
And at the lower right: the full official seal of the Salt Tax Office.
Next to it, a narrow line of text recorded the stamping—time of use, and a brief initial/signature.
Chaosheng breathed, "It's signed."
The old man leaned in, sniffed the ink. "Fresh from the seal box. The ink's still warm."
Xu Jinghong didn't read the name aloud yet. She read the body first.
It was viciously strict:
"East Wharf and North Gate booths are to tighten inspection at once.Any holder of old tickets or unstamped tickets is to be detained without exception.The 'Pier Twenty-Six medicine boat exemption' is a forged slip.Anyone who sees it must report immediately."
She looked up. "They corrected it. That means our forgery hit a nerve."
Chaosheng asked, "Who stamped it?"
Xu Jinghong folded the slip and slid it into her sleeve. "Back to the grain shop to read it properly. We've got a tail under the bridge."
She meant the tail Qin Zhao had bought with that one glance.
VI. The Tail Closes: Change the Gate, Fold the Road
They retreated two steps—then the bridge's reflected light on the far bank thickened into another silhouette.
The man in gray didn't draw steel. He simply stood there.
Steady, as if waiting for more to arrive.
Chaosheng's voice didn't rise or fall. "The tail really is on us."
Qin Zhao's throat tightened. "I—"
Xu Jinghong cut him off with verbs only: "Shut up. Change the gate. Fold the road."
She didn't lead them back to the grain shop. She took a narrower lane, then narrower still, until they reached a paper-effigy shop. White funeral streamers hung by the door, stirring lightly in the night—no one wanted to enter.
The old man lifted a corner of the door plank.
Inside stood a row of empty coffins.
The lids weren't nailed shut. Beneath one was a hidden compartment.
Xu Jinghong slipped the real slip into the compartment, set the lid back, and weighed it down with an old brick.
"Mark the spot," she told the old man. "We retrieve it tomorrow."
Chaosheng frowned. "You're leaving evidence outside?"
Xu Jinghong answered evenly. "If it's on us, the tail can follow it to the salt warehouse. If it's outside, the tail can only follow us to empty coffins."
Qin Zhao understood—and went whiter.
He finally grasped what that single glance might have done: it could have dragged the gate into the grave.
Xu Jinghong didn't scold him. She left him with a harsher rule than any rebuke:
"If you want to look—steady your life first."
Chronicler's Note:The hardest blade isn't steel—it's the seal. Once a seal hits paper, procedure walks on its own. And once procedure moves, a route network must change its blood.
(End of Chapter.)