At dawn, the Heishuigou trading post was shrouded in an impenetrable gray mist.
A hundred miles north of Zhenbei Pass, this market town, built along the dry riverbed of the Heishui River, had long been a crossroads of blood and commerce between the Great Qian Empire and the Helan Khanate.
A century of hatred had also bred a century of uneasy stability—this odd, grudgingly accepted peace.
The trading post of Great Qian and the Helan.
On ordinary days, even before the sky was fully light, the clamor here could shake the last stars from the heavens.
Cattle and sheep bellowed, horses' hooves mingled with the jingle of camel bells.
Officers brandished wooden staves, shouting orders at the wagons and carts. Middlemen whistled shrilly, and peddlers hawked their wares—fine horses, ten of the best, top-grade silk—their cries rising and falling in a ceaseless, lively jumble.
But this morning, something was different.
A northerly wind curled down from the Yin Mountains, whipping up sand.
At the southern end of the market, Old Man Liu, the flatbread seller, tucked his hands into his sleeves and stared at the two trays of steaming flatbread just pulled from his clay oven. His brows twisted into a tight knot.
This trade was bound to go cold!
What a damned headache!
"Hah! This is downright eerie," Old Man Liu muttered to himself.
By this hour on any other day, those piping-hot flatbreads would have been snatched up by the rough-and-tumble porters and laborers who ran in gangs.
This morning, he had tentatively raised the price of each flatbread by two coppers, bracing himself to haggle with those stubborn, penniless strongmen. But the passing merchants and travelers rushed by in a hurry—not only did no one stop to buy, no one even bothered to bargain.
Their jaws were clenched tight, their eyes hollow and full of dread, their faces frozen in expressions of ghostly horror.
A mud-legged man who had crawled his way up from the streets often had a sharper nose for trouble than the official military dispatches.
Old Man Liu grabbed a hot flatbread and stuffed it into his shirt, his eyes already tinged with fear.
Zhou Xiniang showed up today in a smart, modest blue cloth jacket and skirt, her hair combed perfectly in place.
A widow since just past thirty, she had single-handedly kept the Zhou Family Tea Stall afloat in Heishuigou.
Years of tangled, complicated accounts with desert merchants from beyond the border had sharpened her instincts to a razor's edge.
The moment she set foot in the marketplace, her steps slowed of their own accord.
Batu, the horse trader she knew well, who usually set up his stall at the crossroads and always greeted her with a booming "Shopkeeper Zhou!" from afar, today looked straight past her as if she didn't exist, his gaze fixed intently on a broken horsewhip in his hand.
Zhou Xiniang’s heart skipped a beat. Before she could even reach her tea stall, Batu’s tall, bulky frame had blocked her path.
"Shopkeeper Batu, what brings this breeze—"
"Shopkeeper Zhou!"
He cut her off roughly, slamming a heavy hand onto the crude wooden shelf beside him, sending bits of scattered goods clattering to the ground. "Enough talk! Those jerky sheepskins I let you have on credit last autumn—the final payment of four hundred strings of cash, I want it settled today. Not a single coin short!"
Zhou Xiniang’s pupils shrank.
In this market, living meant keeping the chain of credit alive.
Great Qian’s tea and silk for the northerners’ horses and hides.
What you owed from last year covered this year’s debts, and come autumn, you’d scrape together enough to pay off the spring borrowings.
Stretch one season into the next—that was the way. The moment someone suddenly pulled the table, broke the chain, and demanded immediate payment, it meant they’d smelled blood and were ready to cut and run to save themselves.
"Alright."
Zhou Xiniang didn’t hesitate. No soft words, no pleading. She simply pulled four hundred-string banknotes worth a hundred strings each from a money order issued by Tongji Caohui Merchant Society from her sleeve pouch and slapped them into Batu’s calloused palm.
On the surface, she was calm as still water, but in her heart, she cursed her luck: Damned rotten luck.
As she watched Batu clutch the notes and disappear into the crowded flow without a backward glance, Zhou Xiniang turned away, her face now pale as death.
She strode to the center of the market, searching for Tu Weiba, the old middleman known for taking kickbacks and brokering the biggest deals.
That bald old man was drenched in sweat, clutching a worn wooden whistle, shoving several new clients out of his stall.
"Uncle Tu."
Zhou Xiniang drew close and lowered her voice.
Tu Weiba spun around, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
His voice trembled as he said, "Shopkeeper Zhou, listen to old Uncle Tu’s advice!
"Don’t extend credit to anyone in this market today, no matter how big the profit.
"Take ready silver—one hand the goods, the other the coin—settle and secure. Better safe than sorry!"
With that, not even bothering to collect his commission, Tu Weiba turned and hurried away, slipping out through a side gate of the market.
When even the middlemen pull out earlier than the merchants, it is no good omen.
The deeper Zhou Xiniang went, the heavier the chill in her heart grew.
Deep within this mist-veiled market, she saw a strangely distorted scene, torn in two.
At the largest Han-owned grain depot by the crossroads, a long, writhing queue stretched like a dragon.
The prices of barley, jerky, and coarse salt had doubled within a single hour.
The grain depot’s manager clutched his sacks of grain, veins bulging on his forehead. Despite the patrons waving solid silver ingots in the air, he bit his tongue and refused to sell a single peck more.
Me, I’m sticking it out right here, even if it kills me!
But right next to the grain depot, the leather goods shop and the silk store stood empty, not a single customer in sight.
The finest Suzhou silk brocades, once fought over by barbarian nobles willing to pay any price, and flawless purple fox furs worth hundreds of strings of coins, now lay discarded like rags in the muddy street. Merchants hoarsely screamed half-price, ninety percent off, but no one spared them a second glance.
The things that could fill a belly and save a life had become more precious than gold.
Those exquisite, luxurious treasures had turned into detested rubbish.
Before war had even shown its face, it had already turned the logic of prices completely upside down.
Zhou Xiniang rushed into the Zhou Family Tea Depot.
“Shopkeeper, you’re finally here!”
The clerk Aman hurried over, his face full of panic. “What kind of evil luck is this out there? The goods…”
“To the warehouse!” Zhou Xiniang cut him off sharply, her eyes bloodshot. “Bring out all three hundred catties of West Lake Longjing we’ve been hoarding—every last bit!”
“All of it?”
Aman was stunned. This was supposed to be their hard currency for a big winter profit.
“Sell it at half price to the wandering customers, turn it into cash, and then use every bit of that to buy barley and coarse salt!” Zhou Xiniang spoke decisively, her tone carrying a ruthless certainty.
“Shopkeeper! This is a losing deal…”
“Shut up!” Zhou Xiniang grabbed Aman by the collar, her voice icy. “When a blade’s at your throat, is it these tea leaves that’ll save you, or real grain?
Get it done!
Stop your useless dithering!”
Just as she’d sent the clerk off, Zhou Xiniang’s gaze crossed the noisy crowd and landed on a woman at the other end of the street.
It was Qimuge, the horse trader from the grasslands.
A tall, fiery-tempered barbarian woman, who could usually drink three bowls of strong liquor straight down with Great Qian men and still flip them in a wrestling match.
She and Zhou Xiniang had been long-time regular customers and sworn rivals, locked in years of open and covert competition.
Right now, Qimuge was swinging her horsewhip, driving away her once-prized, glossy Ferghana horses at rock-bottom prices, swapping them for nothing but coarse barley and fodder.
Through the messy shelves and the jostling crowd, the two sharp-witted female merchants locked eyes.
There were no pleasantries, no fake smiles from bargaining.
In that silent stare, one Chinese and one barbarian woman both read a single word clearly in each other’s violently contracting pupils: Run.
At the northernmost end of the trading post stood the tax checkpoint jointly guarded by Great Qian and the Helian Kingdom.
In the old days, this was the most rampant spot for smuggling and the juiciest source of bribes.
The Great Qian inspector and the Helian tax clerks used to prod goods with wooden sticks, turning a blind eye to merchants sneaking contraband, just waiting for silver to slip into their sleeves.
But today, an oppressive silence hung over the checkpoint.
Old Huang, a Han private trader who’d long dealt in forbidden books and southern ironware, was frantic, his face bright red.
He’d hoarded a cartload of black-market goods, hoping to make a killing in the chaos, only to find all his usual barbarian contacts had vanished.
Gritting his teeth, he crept up to the checkpoint and, hiding it under his sleeve, slid a solid ten-tael ingot of loose silver toward the Great Qian tax official’s palm.
“Honored sir, do me a favor, this cart of mine…”
A sharp smack rang out!
The tax official, who usually couldn’t resist money, turned pale as death. He yanked his hand back, shoving the silver ingot away untouched.
“Get lost!”
The official’s voice trembled with fear. “Leave the goods. You go back!”
Old Huang stood frozen, staring at the quick money weighing down his hands—money that was about to become a death sentence.
Suddenly, his knees gave way, and he collapsed into the muddy water, pounding his thighs with his fists as he wailed in despair:
“Heaven above!”
“You’re cutting off my last road!”
“All my life’s blood is in this cart!”
The people around trudged on numbly, paying no attention to Old Huang’s howls.
At some point, Qimuge had drifted to Zhou Xiniang’s side. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the spine-chilling order at the checkpoint.
“Even the greediest men don’t want money anymore,” Qimuge muttered in her broken Great Qian dialect, despair thick in her voice.
Zhou Xiniang fixed her eyes on the tax official who’d shoved back the silver, watching his withdrawn hand tremble uncontrollably beneath his wide official sleeve.
She inhaled deeply the cold air, heavy with dust and sand, and felt her heart turn to ice:
“They don’t want money. They only want lives.”
…
“What’s all this shouting? What’s going on?!”
A coarse yet slightly youthful roar cut off Zhou Xiniang and Qimuge’s murmurs.
The newly assigned Great Qian patrol squad leader in charge of this area, Officer Zhao, strode with his regulation sword at his hip into this muddy chaos.
A twenty-something rookie, he’d been stationed at this garrison town for less than three months and knew nothing of the tangled, unspoken rules of the border market.
Seeing the silk strewn everywhere, Old Huang weeping bitterly, and merchants hoarding food like madmen, he thought some gang was settling scores or the barbarians were picking a fight.
Bad luck—first day on the job and this mess lands on his lap. Headache.
“Broad daylight! Under clear skies! Who dares make trouble on my turf? Tired of living, are they?”
Zhao Xiaoqi drew half of his steel blade, the gleaming metal flashing a cold glint under the gray, overcast sky.
But to his surprise, the merchants who usually scattered in panic at the sight of his official uniform didn’t so much as glance his way.
People kept moving, numb and frantic, hauling grain and pushing carts south toward the barriers at Great Qian Pass.
Zhao Xiaoqi stood frozen, his sword hanging in midair—neither able to strike nor sheathe it.
A withered hand tugged quietly at the hem of his armored skirt.
It was Old Man Liu, the steamed bun vendor from the market entrance.
The old man pressed two wrapped, still-warm buns into Zhao Xiaoqi’s hands, his clouded eyes full of dread.
“Officer…”
Old Man Liu leaned in, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper that carried a secretive certainty and an air of decay. “Stop shouting… War’s coming!”
Zhao Xiaoqi’s thick brows shot up. He shot back at once:
“Nonsense!”
“Things are quiet over at the Zhenbei Pass camp—the general hasn’t even issued a preparation order!”
“There’s not a hint of news in the army! Don’t you dare spread rumors here, you old fool!”
Old Man Liu didn’t flinch at Zhao Xiaoqi’s anger. Instead, he gave a cold laugh and shook his head slowly. He raised his calloused finger and pointed, bit by bit, at the crowded yet deathly silent trading post.
“Officer, open your eyes and take a good look.” Old Man Liu gestured toward the fur shop in the distance. “Look at that fine fox pelt trampled into the mud. Look at the grain store, where prices have doubled and no one dares to bargain. Look at the tax checkpoint, where the officials are turning down bribes like their lives depend on it—even refusing a single coin.”
“Best eat that bun now, Officer. It won’t be as good cold.”
Old Man Liu’s voice trembled in the wind:
“The bigwigs in the army can seal up the documents. They can lock down the news…”
“But the prices in the market, the merchants hustling to survive… those things don’t lie!”
“Chances are, the general will give the order any moment now!”
Zhao Xiaoqi followed Old Man Liu’s gnarled finger, looking at each scene one by one.
Batu, forcing debts to the bitter end. Tu Weiba, shrinking back and slipping into the shadows. The crowd fighting fiercely for coarse salt. The tax officials pushing back silver coins.
Every detail, every moment, silently yet thunderously confirmed the same blood-soaked word to him:
War was coming.
An icy chill shot straight up Zhao Xiaoqi’s spine and flashed through his skull, raising goosebumps all over his body.
Only then did he snap back to reality—and realize: He had been played for the biggest fool.
The bitter truth finally sank in: Here, in this muddy marketplace crowded with peasants and sharp traders, he—an officer in full armor, holding real power—was the very last person to know that death was at the gates.
