Dukar hurries along the narrow alleyway, sandwiched between rows of squat, faded buildings. Morning sunlight filters down in patches, illuminating lines of laundry swaying overhead. He slows upon spotting a familiar figure in a modest, rose-colored robe—the woman he remembers as Bazhin's wife. She's walking with precise, measured steps, gaze firmly on the path ahead, as if determined not to notice him.
Breathing unsteadily, Dukar steels himself. This has to happen. "Excuse me!" he calls, lifting a hand in a hesitant wave. No response. He picks up his pace. "M-Mrs. Genera—I mean—Mrs. Tun Zol?"
She quickens her steps as though she hasn't heard a word. Dukar nearly jogs to catch up, bobbing awkwardly between passing pedestrians.
"Hey! Sorry, ma'am—look, could we… just talk?"
Still nothing. A small knot of people gathers at a stall nearby, eyeing the scene with growing interest. Dukar sidles closer, realizing he's practically chasing her down the street. "I—I wanted to say I'm sorry!" he blurts, words tumbling out. "A-and also—I'm not actually your husband!" That last bit comes out in a strangled rush, promptly earning several bewildered stares from onlookers.
The wife maintains a stoic silence, her posture rigid, shoulders set as if bracing against a storm. Two curious passersby—a stocky fruit merchant and a lanky young laborer—swap glances, then step forward.
"Miss, is this man bothering you?" asks the fruit merchant, brow furrowed. He shoots Dukar an accusing glare.
She doesn't answer, eyes locked on a worn cobblestone. The laborer, taking that as confirmation, squares his shoulders at Dukar. "Leave the lady alone, you creep!"
"No, wait—!" Dukar tries to protest, palms raised in surrender. "I promise, I'm not creeping, I'm just—"
But the merchant lunges first, swinging a muscled arm. Dukar ducks in a panic, nearly tripping over his own boots.
"Gah! That's not necessary, you barbarian—" Another passerby—a gray-haired tailor—joins the fray, shouting that a pervert's harassing a respectable woman. Suddenly, fists and elbows close in from all sides.
"Puripal!" Dukar yells, voice cracking. He half expects a saving hand from his partner who promised to ´trail behind him´ and ´keep a lookout in case things go south´, but glancing around, he can't spot Puripal anywhere. "Puripal, help me!" he sputters, pinned under an overeager miller who smells faintly of rancid wheat. A well-aimed punch knocks Dukar backward. He staggers, vision blurred.
The wife halts in her tracks and casts an exasperated glance over her shoulder.
A final blow sends Dukar stumbling. He lands on one knee, panting. "Look—I-I promise, I'm not—ow—" He winces as the tailor's cane raps his shoulder. "Puripal, you asshole, where are you…?"
At last, the woman exhales audibly, turning to face the group. "Stop," she says, voice resonating with quiet authority. Instantly, the scuffle halts. The fruit merchant, mid-swing, nearly topples from the sudden withdrawal of momentum. Confused onlookers blink at her.
She levels a cool stare at them. "He's… with me."
Hesitation ripples through the crowd. "Oh," mumbles the laborer, stepping back sheepishly. The fruit merchant lowers his fists, disoriented. The short tailor fiddles with his cane, scowling as though disappointed in the anticlimax.
Dukar, face bruised, stands with wobbly dignity, wiping a smear of dust from his cheek. He offers a lopsided grin, half apology, half thanks to the woman. She only sighs, lifts her chin, and motions for him to follow.
"Come," she says simply. Her tone is far from cordial, but it's not outright hostile. The group of passersby parts reluctantly, letting her lead the way. Dukar trails behind, catching his breath, nursing a throbbing shoulder and a bruised ego.
A few alley-turns later, they step out of the bustling thoroughfare and into a quieter lane lined with weathered wooden doors. Puripal is nowhere in sight—clearly he's made himself conveniently scarce. Dukar feels a surge of annoyance but forces his focus on the present.
The woman stops before an imposing, two-story mansion of carved wooden screens and meticulously polished stone. Though its shutters are drawn, Dukar notes the refined arches of the entrance and the intricacy of the tiled courtyard—signs of wealth carefully understated. She slides the iron latch open and gestures for Dukar to enter, offering no words of reassurance.
He hesitates on the threshold, still winded from the scuffle. "Thank you for… saving me back there," he manages, voice rough. Awkward sincerity laces his tone. The woman's gaze flicks over his disheveled hair and bruised cheek. For a split second, something like pity surfaces in her eyes, but she merely inclines her head, bidding him inside.
Stepping through, Dukar finds himself in a broad, high-ceilinged foyer. Unlike the cramped alleys outside, this hall breathes elegance: lanterns with filigreed frames cast warm, shifting patterns on the polished floor, and tall vases brimming with delicate blossoms line the walls. The air carries a whisper of incense mingled with faint perfume, suggesting a household steeped in refinement.
At once, several servants appear from adjoining corridors. They move quietly, bowing to their mistress with practiced grace. She addresses each by name—"Qiu, bring fresh towels," "Fang, prepare some tea"—her voice hushed but assured.
Dukar swallows, more intimidated by the gentle hush of wealth than any musty cellar he's seen before. He steals a glance at the woman, her posture poised, her features impassive.
He steels himself—this is his chance. Perhaps she'll talk, or at least let slip something about Bazhin or that elusive San Lian. The faint echo of footsteps on the marble underscores the hush that settles over them.
Behind him, the door closes with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. Lantern-light casts long shadows of the two of them across the glossy floor. Dukar takes a breath, heart thudding. He can't help feeling like an intruder in this polished realm, yet it's here—or nowhere—that he might glean the truth he so desperately needs.
She walks in stately silence across the polished floor, leading Dukar through a wide corridor lined with understated paintings and a few statues of ancient Moukopl warriors. At last, she pauses in a small receiving room, where a low table and cushioned seats rest under the muted glow of lanterns. She lowers herself elegantly onto a cushion, gesturing for Dukar to do the same opposite her.
He clears his throat. The tension in the air is as heavy as the hush of the servants retreating into side doors. Finally, the woman speaks, voice quiet yet firm. "I am Kai Lian," she says, resting her hands in her lap. "Wife to General Tun Zol Bazhin. And you, I presume, are the man who calls himself his brother."
Her eyes lift to meet Dukar's, calm but laden with an unspoken weight. Dukar swallows. "My name is Dukar. Dukar of Jabliu, from Tepr." His voice trembles slightly, compelled by the gravity of the moment. "I… I wouldn't have believed any of this if I hadn't heard it. The man named San Lian told me. He's convinced that the general and I share a father—your husband and I are siblings, although neither of us knew it."
Kai Lian's expression remains impassive, but her knuckles tighten around one another. "San Lian," she murmurs. "He helped our family while Bazhin was gone. I suppose there must be truth in what you claim."
Dukar nods, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from his brow. He draws a breath, searching for the right words. "I never intended to pretend to be him. In fact, I hated him—" His voice falters, and he forces himself on. "Hated him, for how he treated me and my fellow Tepr men. I—I served under his command, drafted into the Moukopl campaign against the Yohazatz. We clashed more than once. I was just a conscript; he was the general I resented. Neither of us knew we were blood."
Kai Lian's gaze sharpens with each detail. She sits very still, as if fearful that any movement might break the fragile thread of conversation.
Dukar goes on, voice unsteady. "Later, the campaign failed. Both of us were captured by the Yohazatz. We ended up… imprisoned. I saw him again at… at the end." His fingers clench and unclench on his knee. "He was fighting, unstoppable, though he was wounded so many times no normal man would stand. He never gave up his loyalty to Moukopl, but his last thoughts went to his home. He mentioned you and… your daughter."
A flicker of pain crosses Kai Lian's face. Her composure cracks for an instant, revealing a raw well of grief. Dukar inhales softly, heart hammering. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know it can't bring him back. But I was there, and I—he wanted me to tell you…" He struggles for the exact words. "That he never forgot you. Even in his fury, you were on his mind."
She closes her eyes, a small tremor in her exhale. Slowly, her shoulders sag, and it's as if every ounce of tension in her spine disperses into the air. "That doesn't sound like him," she says, voice quivering beneath its calm exterior. Then she clears her throat. "So—Dukar. You come here, telling me you're my husband's brother who was separated as child?"
Dukar's gaze flicks to the side. He wants to reach out, offer comfort, but the memory of the woman's stern eyes warns him not to overstep. "I don't fully understand it myself. I discovered the truth, and… I wanted to give you closure, I suppose. And also…" He steels himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I can't replace him, of course not. But if—if I can do anything, in his stead, I want to. For your daughter, or for you. A brother-in-law's duty," he says, voice catching slightly on the awkward phrase.
Kai Lian lets out a wavering sigh. She seems lost somewhere between relief and guarded skepticism.
He meets her stare, the honesty in his own gaze an offering of sorts. "If you can't trust me yet, I understand. But you deserve to know, my lady: I'm not here to extort or disrupt your life. I just… feel there's a debt. And I owe it to him—to you—to at least offer help."
Her lips tighten, and the flicker of a humorless smile curves them. "Debt. He always spoke of debts, honor." She rubs her temples, then forces a calm breath. "I'm not sure how to receive your promise, Dukar of Jabliu." The name tastes tentative in her mouth. "But it's good to hear he died holding onto us, even if that thought aches."
Dukar glances around the lavishly furnished sitting room, noting the carved rosewood chairs and the understated elegance in each scroll painting on the walls. He tries not to fidget under Kai Lian's measured gaze. Outside the window, a pair of servants in muted silk shuffle past, careful not to disturb.
Kai Lian inhales quietly, then addresses Dukar with the same steady calm that's cloaked her grief all evening. "You said you'd help in any way I ask?" she begins, her voice soft yet carrying an unmistakable resolve.
Dukar nods, fighting back a flicker of unease. "Yes. Name it, and I'll do what I can."
She allows herself a small, sorrowful smile. "My daughter, Jinhuang… she's clever, smarter than her father ever gave her credit for." A ghost of pride flits across her face before it dims. "But you must have seen for yourself—she's in a rebellious phase. Has been, long before… before we lost him."
Memories of the girl's fierce assault in the alley flood Dukar's mind, stoking both sympathy and a pang of discomfort. He tries to keep his expression impassive. "She certainly made an impression," he says gently.
Kai Lian's mouth tugs in something resembling wry amusement. "She's impulsive, resentful at a world that took her father. And she's struggling in ways she doesn't admit, carrying rage and grief like a sword she can't unsheathe."
"I understand," Dukar says carefully. "What do you need from me?"
Kai Lian's hands clasp together, knuckles whitening. "I'd like you to be her uncle—fulfill that role. Not by telling her what to do, but by being someone who won't abandon her if she lashes out. San Lian has helped me keep an eye on her, but he's growing old, and Jinhuang's energy far surpasses his now. She outpaces him in everything—climbing walls, picking fights, missing curfew." Her gaze locks onto Dukar. "He can't do it anymore. But you, Dukar… perhaps you can."
Dukar masks the twist of dread in his stomach. Jinhuang's blazing eyes already haunt him, reminding him of Naci's. "If that's what you wish, I accept," he says, mustering as much sincerity as he can. "I'll do my best to—look after her. And maybe help her find some peace about… everything."
Kai Lian's shoulders relax fractionally. "She's no child, but she needs family to ground her—someone who understands what war can do and the weight of losing someone." She hesitates, voice trembling on the cusp of sorrow. "If you truly are Bazhin's brother, then this is a piece of your bloodline, too."
Dukar draws in a slow breath, nodding even as conflicted emotions wrestle inside him. There's the faintest hint of a smile on his lips—wary but resolute. "You can count on me. Though I doubt Jinhuang will be thrilled at the idea."
A trace of humor lights Kai Lian's face. "She won't. So I suggest you brace yourself." Then her smile fades, replaced by gravity. "But I have faith in you, Dukar. You're different from Bazhin—less rough around the edges. Less possessed by Moukopl pride. Maybe she'll respond to that."
He offers the slightest bow, trying to settle into this new and daunting role. "I can only hope."
Kai Lian studies him a moment longer. "We can discuss it again later. For now, know that my doors aren't locked to you. Just… be patient with Jinhuang. Her anger runs deeper than she lets on."
Dukar stands, more solemn than before. "Thank you. I'm honored you trust me this far." He tugs his tunic straight, the lines of tension in his posture betraying the swirl of worry in his chest. "I'll do what I can to ease her grief—even if it's just letting her vent."
Kai Lian nods, voice hushed. "Then I'll leave you to rest. I won't keep you here longer; you've gone through enough for one day." She inclines her head politely, a gesture of respect. "You know the way out?"
He glances at the door. "I'll manage," he says. "Truly, thank you—for hearing me out."
Her fingers tighten around each other again, the only outward sign of her fatigue. "I needed to hear… that he thought of us, in the end." Her throat works silently, holding back the tide of grief. "I do appreciate it."
Dukar bows, the gesture unexpectedly graceful, then he walks to the door, stepping out into a hallway lit by silent lanterns.
Ta slinks through the narrow backstreets of Pezijil, ducking under hanging laundry and slipping past unsuspecting vendors with the casual grace of a stray cat. In his darting movements and light-footed hops, he looks more at home prowling alleyways than he ever did standing to attention in any royal court.
At one point, he spots a street-side table piled high with steamed buns. The vendor is turned away, shouting at a chicken that's wandered too close to the stall. Ta's eyes brighten with opportunity. He creeps forward, belly low like a hunting feline, and deftly snatches two buns in one fluid motion.
As he creeps away, the vendor spins around in time to see him disappearing between racks of drying fish.
"Thief!" the vendor hollers, flailing his arms.
Ta only cackles under his breath, stuffing half a bun into his mouth and stifling a triumphant snort. "I'm hungry, old man!" he calls back around a mouthful of dough. "I'll pay you back one day—maybe!"
He continues his prowl, occasionally scaling low walls to get a better vantage. Whenever a bored guard passes by, Ta dangles from ledges or leaps into a conveniently placed tree. Once, he even perches on the edge of a rooftop, nibbling what remains of his stolen breakfast. From there, he can see the city's bustle at a distance: people haggling over fresh vegetables, courtiers parading around in elaborate robes, the occasional donkey squealing as it's dragged away from a fountain.
He gives his ear an energetic scratch with one hand, squinting at the figures below. "Hmph," he mutters. "No sign of that old soldier Brother mentioned. Where does a relic named San Lian hide anyway?"
Sighing dramatically, Ta drops from the rooftop in a swift motion, landing in an alley. He wanders deeper into the city, munching on the last steamed bun. Just as he's about to lose hope, a strange sight catches his eye: a flock of children, maybe eight or nine in total, drifting through the crowd with uncanny precision. One distracts a fruit seller with a feigned tumble; another quietly slips a pouch off a merchant's belt.
Ta's eyebrows rise in amusement. "Ah… professional pocket-snatchers," he murmurs, stuffing a piece of bun into his mouth. He sees their swift fingers, the routine that suggests they've practiced many times before. The hustle is well-timed, almost elegant.
His mind snaps back to Qixi-Lo—where orphans and outcasts like him roam the corners, collecting scraps and whispering rumors. In his experience, children who stole to survive knew more secrets than half the bureaucrats in fine robes.
He smirks, wiping stray crumbs from his lips. "If they're anything like the ones I knew, they'll know every nook, and probably the color of the Emperor's panties. Perfect."
With that, he eases into a stealthy pursuit, trailing the children from a safe distance. They move quickly, weaving through clumps of idling citizens and vanishing around corners. Ta clambers over a short fence, slips behind a row of barrels, and even pretends to buy a sticky rice cake when one of the kids glances back suspiciously.
Soon, the children lead him to a dismal suburb that reeks of rotting fish guts and stagnant water. The houses are in poor repair—mud-brick walls slouch under damp roofs, and warped wooden doors creak on rusty hinges. A wisp of rancid steam rises from a nearby gutter, swirling around piles of abandoned junk and tattered rags. Feral dogs sniff at upturned crates, occasionally barking at passersby who hurry along without meeting anyone's eye.
Ta wrinkles his nose dramatically, half-choking on the reek. "Mother of Burgolei Khan, it smells like a donkey's armpit had a fight with a fishmonger in here," he mutters, stepping gingerly over a suspicious puddle. "Lovely place to raise a gang of tiny pickpockets."
Ta crouches behind a dilapidated crate, peering into the open plaza with keen curiosity. Under the waning light of the afternoon sun, a group of raggedy kids gathers around a small fountain in the center. The place is tucked away from the main streets—somewhere no self-respecting tax collector would care to frequent.
One by one, the children step forward, plunking coins into the palm of an older girl clad in surprisingly clean and pretty clothes. Her dark hair is braided and tied off with a ribbon, and she radiates a quiet authority that has the other kids practically trembling in awe.
She counts the coins with a practiced flick of her fingers, pursing her lips as though calculating an exact sum. Then her expression shifts from stern to triumphant, and she laughs—a sound brimming with confidence and delight.
"Good haul today," she announces, pocketing half the stash. The rest she scatters among them, tossing each child an equal number of coins. "Don't waste it all on candied peanuts again, yeah?" A teasing grin plays on her lips, and some of the children giggle. "No slip-ups this time, right?"
A small boy—barely up to her shoulder—shrugs. "Only that old fruit vendor almost caught Min, but you distracted him."
She laughs lightly, distributing a few coins to each child in an odd show of camaraderie. "No skill goes unrewarded," she proclaims, smirking. "And tomorrow, keep a lookout near the market gates. New arrivals might have heavier pockets."
Ta sneaks a quick glance at the fountain's trickling water, then back at the kids. What a neat operation, he thinks, marveling at how they handle their illicit earnings with the efficiency of a small business. Could teach some grown-up thieves a lesson or two.
He adjusts his vantage, ready to creep closer for a better view, when the girl's voice rings out, sharp as a knife cutting through the hush of the alley.
"Hey, you behind the crate! Show yourself!"
Ta's heart leaps into his throat. He braces to jump into the open, perhaps flash his biggest grin and concoct a tale about being a traveling apple merchant who lost his way, when another voice cuts him off, echoing across the plaza:
"Young criminals, do not even think about scattering! I've got you cornered!"
Eyes widening, Ta spins around. That voice… female, furious—and… weirdly familiar? He eases to the side of the crate, straining to glimpse who just barged in.
A slender figure steps into the dim courtyard. It's Tun Zol Bazhin's daughter, Jinhuang. Dressed in a practical outfit and a fitted tunic, she looks every bit a rebellious warrior in the making. Her dark hair is tied back in a high ponytail. Though younger than Ta by a handful of years, a fierce determination burns in her gaze.
The tidy thief-girl narrows her eyes, sizing Jinhuang up. "You again?" she huffs, a note of annoyance creeping into her tone. "Didn't I scare you off last time, oh dear daughter of that worthless general?"
Jinhuang's jaw tenses. Her nostrils flare, but she keeps a cold, almost regal composure. "I will not tolerate petty theft staining these streets. Return that money or—"
The girl in robes snorts, stepping forward. "Or what?" With a sudden flourish, she whips out a small scythe attached to a length of chain. The metal glints beneath the flickering lamplight, sending a cold shiver through the children at her back.
From his hiding spot, Ta can't help but whisper, "Holy donkey… Where was she even hiding that?"
Jinhuang arches a brow, unflinching at the display of weaponry. "So that's how it is, hmm? You think you're a big shot with a fancy chain?"
"Fancy enough to cut down an overconfident brat," the thief leader retorts, spinning the chain in a lazy loop around her, the scythe blade hissing through the air. The other kids back away, forming a wide circle—delighted at the prospect of a showdown, or perhaps just hoping to avoid stray cuts.
Tucked behind the trough, Ta watches the standoff. He half-stands, half-crouches, unsure if he should intervene. He fumbles for a moment. Maybe I can reason with them… or maybe I can put on my dancing act, like I told Dukar? He quickly discards the thought—these two ladies look dangerously serious.
Jinhuang leaps forward without warning, her stance taut with controlled aggression. The scythe-and-chain wielder responds in kind, slinging the blade in a swift arc that Jinhuang dodges with a sidestep. There's a collective gasp from the child thieves. The two combatants lock eyes, tension palpable.
Then the real fight begins—surprisingly graceful for something so deadly. The chain whistles through the air, looping and unlooping in mesmerizing patterns. Jinhuang counters with precise footwork, weaving around the swirling blade. At one point, she nearly grabs the chain, but the thief girl jerks it back, causing Jinhuang to duck under a near-lethal slash.
Ta can't help but be impressed. He mutters, "She's good. And that scythe-girl's no pushover either."
At the outskirts of the makeshift arena, the gang of thieves whoops and hollers. They cheer their leader on, shouting, "Slash her!" and "Show her who's boss!" Meanwhile, Jinhuang's expression is all steely focus. She sees an opening and lunges in with a sweeping kick, forcing the thief girl to stumble back momentarily.
The scythe rattles against the cobblestones, and Jinhuang spins, aiming a swift punch at the girl's ribs. The leader recovers quickly, hooking the chain around Jinhuang's ankle in a flash. There's a collective gasp from onlookers as Jinhuang teeters, barely steadying herself with a twist of her upper body. She braces a hand on the ground and flips backward, dislodging the chain with an acrobatic flourish that leaves the watchers speechless.
"Alright," Jinhuang mutters, brushing sweat from her brow, "I'll admit you've got skill. But do you have stamina?"
"You'll regret asking," the thief girl replies, eyes narrowing. She rushes forward, blade singing through the night.
At this point, the circle of children buzzes with excitement, a couple of them accidentally bumping into Ta's hiding spot. He has to shuffle sideways to avoid being discovered by their jostling. This is insane… They're both basically kids, but they fight like masters. He wonders if he should intervene—except each time he so much as shifts, a dagger-eyed urchin looks his way, clearly more than ready to pounce if needed.
The fight intensifies in a flurry of strikes and dodges. Jinhuang manages to land a sharp elbow to the thief's shoulder, while the scythe grazes Jinhuang's side with a near miss. Both combatants hiss in pain or annoyance, steps faltering for an instant. Blood or no blood, they remain locked in the lethal dance.
Ta cringes, deciding maybe it's time to help, comedic or not. He leaps over the trough, arms raised. "Hey, hey, let's calm down, ladies. We can talk this out, right?"
The thief kids immediately turn, brandishing knives and makeshift clubs. "Stay back!" one squeaks, brandishing a broken-off broom handle. Another brandishes a small curved blade, looking more fearsome than his size suggests.
"Who invited you?" the thief girl snarls, not pausing her swirling chain. Jinhuang, similarly unwavering, spares Ta a single glare. "If you're allied with them, you'll be next!"
"What? No, no— I'm just—" Ta stammers, stepping back at the sight of too many pointed objects.
"Idiot!" Jinhuang snaps mid-parry, "it's dangerous, get out of the way!"
Ta gives a squeak of protest. "Exactly what I was trying to say!" His timing is lost on them, their focus too intent on dismantling each other.
The chain hums again, wrapping around Jinhuang's forearm. She winces, tries to yank free. The scythe's blade aims for her midsection. Time seems to slow. Jinhuang twists at the last second, using the chain's tension to flip the scythe-bearing girl over her shoulder. There's a stunned cry, a loud thud as the girl hits the ground.
Panting, Jinhuang stands over her foe, feet planted wide, determination etched across her face. The scythe clatters to the cobblestones, and the chain uncoils from Jinhuang's arm. The thief girl groans, blinking in shock.
A hush settles over the plaza, broken only by the ragged breathing of both fighters. The thief kids edge forward, uncertain whether to help their leader or flee. Ta, mouth agape, watches from the side, caught between admiration and trepidation.
Finally, Jinhuang looks up, eyes roving over the silent ring of onlookers. She sees Ta, battered but unhurt, and flicks her gaze dismissively. "You, stray cat boy—call it a day and stop tailing them. Or get swarmed by these pests." She gestures at the kids, who glower at him in unison.
Ta gulps, raises his hands. "Duly noted." He tries a shaky grin. "I was just… looking for someone. Clearly not you. So, yeah, I'll go."
Jinhuang turns back to the thief girl. Her chest heaves. For a moment, it looks like she'll offer a finishing blow, but instead, she steps away, letting the girl scramble to her feet. "Next time, mind your victims carefully," Jinhuang warns, voice still thick with adrenaline. "Not everyone you rob is powerless."
The thief leader, eyes narrowed, retrieves her scythe. "Same to you," she hisses, spitting at the ground. She motions to her ragtag crew, and they gather around her, swords and daggers slowly re-sheathed. With a curt jerk of her chin, she signals retreat, and they melt back into the shadows.
As the tension dissolves, Jinhuang rakes a hand through her disheveled hair, glancing at Ta. "I recognize you. Weren't you with that guy who pretended to be my father? Why are you skulking around? This isn't a playground."
Ta offers an awkward bow. "Just… minding my own business, promise." Another forced grin. "Anyway, great fight. You're, uh, terrifyingly good."
Snorting, Jinhuang tosses a sweaty strand of hair away from her eyes. "Not sure if that's a compliment, but I'll take it." She turns on her heel, marching out of the plaza without so much as a farewell nod.
Ta lingers at the edge of the plaza, watching Jinhuang's figure recede into a side street lit by a few sputtering lanterns. The night's chill brushes his arms, and he exhales loudly, bracing himself. She probably knows something about San Lian… plus, she's fierce enough to break any door if we need to get in somewhere, he reasons. Without further hesitation, he sets off after her with quick, soft steps.
Jinhuang walks at a brisk pace, her posture stiff with residual adrenaline. She glances over her shoulder once—long enough to notice Ta skulking behind her like a stray—and then rolls her eyes dramatically.
"What do you want?" she demands, halting so abruptly that Ta nearly collides with her back.
"Uh—" Ta rubs his neck, feigning a pitiful whimper. "My arm—my poor arm—it's broken from that... that scythe fight earlier," he says, putting on an exaggerated wince and cradling his elbow for good measure.
She eyes him with frank disbelief. "You… didn't even fight. No one laid a finger on you."
"Ah, well, the shockwaves from your epic blows must've rattled my delicate bone structure," Ta continues, voice quavering for effect. He attempts a grimace of pain, but it resembles more of a scrunched-up grin. "It's throbbing, see?" He flails his arm with zero sign of discomfort.
Jinhuang arches a brow, unimpressed. "Right. So, your bone is broken, but you're waving it around like a twig. Incredible."
Ta hurries to re-tuck his arm against his side, faking a pained groan. "Yes, that's exactly how it works. Owl doctors in my home village said so."
She shakes her head, turning away, steps brisk once more. "I don't have time for this stupidity. Go… find a real doctor."
"But wait!" Ta whimpers, dashing after her again. He clutches at the air near her shoulder, careful not to actually touch her lest he spark another brawl. "I—I can't see a doctor—I'm broke, and I have no place to stay! Please, you're the only one who can save me." His voice escalates to a pitiful wail, echoing off the brick walls.
Jinhuang shoots him a withering glare. "You're still lying, you know."
He flashes a guilty half-smile. "Okay, mostly lying," he concedes, "but please. I need something. I need help, or at least directions. Maybe you could—?"
She lifts a hand as if to backhand him. He flinches, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Find a stable and sleep with the horses," she says icily, resuming her march.
Too stubborn to quit, Ta scrambles to keep pace. "But you're so strong, so heroic! And I have the sense that you're connected to this city's best secrets! Wait—"
She halts again, spinning around. "No. I'm not a city guide or an innkeeper. Quit following me." Her gaze flicks around, noticing the deserted street. "I don't want to fight again tonight."
Ta clenches his fists at his sides. "I swear, if you can just point me toward an old soldier named San Lian—"
But Jinhuang groans and walks faster. "Don't bring up random geezers. I don't care," she mutters under her breath.
Suddenly, laughter resonates around the corner. A group of three teenagers steps into view, wearing the snug-fitting Moukopl student uniforms that mark them as from one of the local academies. They have the smug air of city kids who relish in picking on those they deem lesser. Upon spotting Jinhuang, they exchange mocking grins.
"Well, well, if it isn't the would-be heroine again," the tallest of them says, voice dripping with condescension. "Heard you got into another scuffle tonight. Trying to prove something, Tun Zol?"
Jinhuang's eyes narrow; she clenches her fists. Ta notices the subtle tension in her shoulders—like a spring coiling, ready to strike. A second teen snickers. "Oh, is this a new sidekick you've picked up?" He nods at Ta. "He looks half-dead, or maybe half-lame. Perfect match for your half-baked heroics."
Jinhuang's jaw works, fury roiling beneath her cool stare. It's obvious she'd like nothing more than to sock them in their smug faces. But the flash of restraint in her eyes suggests she's aware of consequences—too many run-ins might land her in deeper trouble, especially if the rumor spreads that she's ´that violent general's daughter.´
Her hesitation is just long enough for Ta to step forward, plastering on a big grin. "Actually, I'm her brother! So maybe watch your tone, fine sirs," he declares loudly, arms spread as if unveiling a grand secret.
Jinhuang's eyes go wide. "What—?!" she hisses.
"Why, yes," Ta continues, ignoring her protest. "We're from the Fearless Dragon Fist Clan of the North," he improvises shamelessly. "She inherited all the sweet combat moves, and me…" He waves his ´injured´ arm floppily. "I inherited the brain."
One of the teens guffaws. "Fearless Dragon Fist Clan? That's the lamest name I've ever heard."
Ta tries to look offended. "We're a real clan! And we'll be unstoppable once my arm recovers."
Jinhuang opens her mouth—likely to tell him to shut up—but the taller teen jabs a finger in her direction. "So you stoop to illusions, Tun Zol? A brother conjured out of nowhere? You're clearly grasping for some weird... façade."
Ta gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest. "Insulting my sister's honor? That's… that's crossing a line, friend." He sets his jaw, trying to look fierce. Truthfully, it's more comedic than intimidating.
Jinhuang looks mortified. She rubs her temples as the teens snicker. That donkey-brained fool's making it worse, she thinks. But oddly enough, the attention has shifted away from her. The teens focus on Ta, mocking his flimsy claims and his ridiculous arm-flap.
"Maybe you have half a brain, too?" one jibes, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Perfect sibling set. You know, your father must be proud— oh wait, maybe not."
At the mention of father, Jinhuang stiffens. A flash of sorrow crosses her face, quickly replaced by anger. She teeters on the edge of lashing out.
Sensing the spike in tension, Ta decides enough is enough. He yawns theatrically. "Anyway, we'd love to stay and chat, but we have heroic chores waiting. Right, sis?" He tugs Jinhuang's sleeve.
She exhales, releasing the fight coiled in her muscles. "Right," she mutters with a resigned glare at the teens. "Not worth our time."
They brush past the group, Jinhuang's shoulders trembling slightly from suppressed rage. The teens, though sneering, don't pursue. Possibly Jinhuang's reputation dissuades them. Possibly Ta's comedic confidence implies a hidden backup. Either way, the pair escapes the confrontation.
The moment they're a safe distance away, Jinhuang jerks her arm free from Ta. "You are not my brother," she growls, voice tight with lingering fury.
Ta nods sheepishly. "True, true. But it worked, didn't it? We avoided a real brawl. Mostly."
She glances sideways, lips set in a hard line. "I was about to deck them, but it would've caused so many problems. Tch… So maybe thanks."
"Glad to help," Ta says with an exaggerated bow, wiggling his eyebrows.
Jinhuang sighs, half in frustration, half in reluctant amusement. "Fine. You want to come with me for now? Fine. But shut the hell up."
Ta brightens, nodding vigorously. "Absolutely, absolutely. I promise on all my ancestors."
She lifts her hand to cuff him lightly on the ear, but stops short. "If you're still looking for that old soldier or whatever, maybe I can point you in the right direction. You sound like a pain in the ass, and I want to prank him."
He salutes with his good arm, the ´injured´ one conveniently forgotten.
She rolls her eyes. "This is going to be a disaster… but let's go."
With that, Jinhuang turns, leading him down another winding street. Lanternlight catches the edge of her profile—tired, annoyed, but underlined by a trace of amusement.