Chapter Three: Whispers in the Market

The morning sun gilded the tiled roofs of Chang’an, chasing away the shadows of the night. By dawn, the city was already alive with movement vendors shouting prices in West Market, scholars hurrying to the academies, soldiers marching in neat rows past the watchtowers.

Wu Zhen strolled through it all as if she owned the streets. Which, in a sense, she did.

Dressed once again in men’s robes this time a jade-green set embroidered with silver cranes she strutted past the stalls with her usual swagger. Children pointed, women whispered, and men quickly averted their eyes. Everyone in Chang’an recognized her.

“Zhen-lang, another scandal last night?” one vendor called boldly, emboldened by familiarity.

Wu Zhen flashed him a grin. “Would it even be dawn in Chang’an if there wasn’t?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but beneath it she felt the faint tug again the pull of something not quite mortal. Spirits were restless today.

She stopped at a stall selling candied hawthorn skewers. The old man tending it blinked nervously when she pointed. “Three sticks.”

As he wrapped them, Wu Zhen’s sharp eyes caught the shimmer at his shoulder. A faint outline, like smoke curling into the shape of a child’s face, clung to him. It whispered in a language of sighs, almost drowned by the bustle.

Wu Zhen leaned in, her voice low and casual. “You’ve had a loss recently, haven’t you, old one?”

The man’s hands trembled. “My grandson… last month. Fever took him.”

Wu Zhen’s smile softened for the briefest second. She pressed the coins into his palm, then turned away, biting into the first skewer. The taste was sharp, sweet, alive.

From the crowd, a calm voice spoke. “You see them even in daylight.”

Wu Zhen didn’t need to turn. “Following me already, Taoist? Careful, people will think you’re one of my admirers.”

Mei Zhu Yu stepped beside her, his robes neat, his presence utterly composed despite the bustling chaos. He glanced at the old vendor, then at the shadow clinging faintly to his back.

“That spirit doesn’t belong here,” he murmured.

Wu Zhen licked syrup from her lips, unconcerned. “It belongs where grief is strongest. You want to rip it away? Let the poor man mourn his own blood?”

Mei Zhu Yu’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Together they walked deeper into the market, their silence threaded with something heavier than words.

They stopped at the central square, where storytellers drew crowds with tales of generals and poets. Today, however, the crowd buzzed with unease.

A woman stood in the center, hair unbound, eyes vacant, her voice a hollow chant.

“The river runs red, the lanterns fall, Chang’an burns beneath heaven’s wall…”

People shuffled back, frightened murmurs spreading. Children cried, vendors abandoned their stalls.

Wu Zhen’s golden gaze sharpened. She stepped forward, Mei Zhu Yu at her side.

The woman’s limbs jerked as if pulled by invisible strings. Her lips moved faster, the chant twisting into a scream. Then, with a guttural cry, she lunged at the nearest bystander.

Gasps rose. The crowd scattered.

Wu Zhen caught the woman by the wrist, twisting her arm behind her back with effortless strength. “Not so fast, sister.”

The woman thrashed, but her eyes glowed with a sickly green light no mortal madness, but possession.

Mei Zhu Yu drew a talisman from his sleeve, pressing it to her forehead. The paper burned instantly, releasing a hiss of smoke. The woman shrieked and collapsed, unconscious.

The spirit that had ridden her form burst free a twisted shape of claws and teeth, shrieking as it tried to flee.

Wu Zhen’s pupils narrowed to slits. With a flick of her fingers, golden claws slashed through the air, severing the thing’s escape. It howled before dissolving into nothing.

The market stood silent, stunned. People stared at the unconscious woman, then at Wu Zhen and Mei Zhu Yu.

Wu Zhen dusted her hands, smirking. “Well. That was lively. Who’s next?”

No one answered.

The two exchanged a glance. For Wu Zhen, it was a grin of reckless delight. For Mei Zhu Yu, a sober weight pressed on his features.

He murmured, almost to himself, “This isn’t random. Something is stirring the dead, sending them into the streets.”

Wu Zhen bit the last of her candied haw, eyes glinting like a predator’s. “Then let it stir. I was getting bored anyway.”

And with that, the Cat Master of Chang’an and the Taoist prodigy walked side by side through the unsettled city, unaware of the storm that was only beginning.

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