When Nanxi returned to that small rundown inn, it was already the second watch of the night.
Pushing open the inn door, the lobby was empty, the oil lamp still burning, its flame flickering, stretching the shadows on the walls long and short.
The innkeeper was dozing on the counter; hearing the door open, she lifted her head, glanced at him with sleepy eyes, then lay back down and continued sleeping.
Nanxi said nothing and went straight upstairs.
The stairs creaked as usual, each step complaining.
He pushed open his room door, bolted it behind him, then leaned against the door panel and let out a heavy sigh.
Tired.
Not so much physically tired, but mentally exhausted—the fatigue from his plan being disrupted, efforts wasted, money down the drain, and the frustration of “the cooked duck flying away.”
The boy stood by the door for a while, then walked to the table and lit the oil lamp.
The dim yellow light spread, illuminating this narrow and shabby room; on the bed still lay that pink gauze dress, a soft and limp bundle, looking particularly out of place on the rough wooden bed.
Nanxi walked over and picked up the dress.
The fabric was indeed good, soft silk gauze, light and breathable, gleaming like pearls under the lamp; he had gritted his teeth and spent three taels of silver on it, which was no small amount for him now.
But now it was all for nothing.
He tossed the dress back onto the bed and walked to the water basin in the corner.
He scooped up water and vigorously scrubbed the rouge off his face; the water was icy, tightening his skin, but he didn’t care, washing over and over until his face was rubbed red, until that faint red on his lips was completely gone.
Then he began undoing his hair.
He pulled out that plain silver hairpin and tossed it casually onto the table, making a soft ding, his long hair cascading down, covering his shoulders and back.
He roughly combed it a few times with his fingers, then found the most ordinary cloth strip and carelessly tied his hair into a ponytail at the back.
Finally, changing clothes.
He took off the pink gauze dress, balled it up, and stuffed it into the bottom of his bundle—out of sight, out of mind—then put on that set of rough cloth clothes washed until they were faded white.
Although the fabric was coarse, chafing his skin a bit, the moment he put it on, he actually felt grounded.
This was the real him, not that young master in the pink dress at the lantern festival earlier, drawing everyone’s stares.
After doing all this, he sat on the bed’s edge and began to feel regretful.
Truly regretful, like a bug crawling in his chest, itchy and annoying, unable to scratch it, unable to shoo it away.
He had planned it all so well.
Spent three days gathering information, figuring out that flower thief’s preferences: specifically targeting young and beautiful lone men, favoring those in red or pink clothes, age not exceeding eighteen.
Then, taking advantage of the lantern festival’s crowds and chaos, dressing as a fitting target, heading to secluded areas to lure the thief out.
Everything went according to plan. He bought the dress, dressed up properly, went out on the street.
The effect was even better than expected; those passersby’s reactions proved his “bait” was enticing enough.
He had specially chosen that small alley—dim light, few people, a good place to make a move.
And then?
Then that female constable jumped out.
Her intentions were good.
Nanxi repeated it to himself in his mind again.
Intentions good, but it would have been better if she hadn’t helped.
Of course, he didn’t hold it against the constable; she was just doing her duty, intervening upon seeing a suspicious situation—nothing wrong with that.
But it had to be at that critical moment, right when the thief had followed and was about to strike.
It was like fishing by the river: you’ve squatted all day, finally a fish bites the hook, you’re about to reel it in, and suddenly someone nearby shouts
“Watch out, don’t fall in,” scaring the fish away.
Can you blame him?
He meant well.
But can you not be annoyed? Wasted a whole day squatting.
Nanxi was in that kind of mood now—annoyed, frustrated, but unable to really blame anyone.
He could only blame his bad luck, the wrong timing, that the constable happened to be patrolling that street tonight.
And wasted money too.
Three taels of silver for the dress, now a useless bundle of fabric in his pack.
And all that effort: three days gathering info, two hours walking the streets tonight, the time dressing and undressing—all for nothing.
Nanxi lay on the bed, eyes staring at the blackened beam overhead.
The wood had tiny wormholes, densely packed, like a mocking mouth.
What now?
The thief was startled and must be in hiding.
The five hundred taels of silver were still hanging there, but he had to find new clues, set a new trap, wait for a new opportunity.
Time? Provisions? His master?
The more he lay there, the more annoyed he got; he simply sat up and pulled out that seashell from his bundle, rubbing its surface patterns with his thumb—those wave-like ridges sliding under his fingertip, a rough yet delicate texture.
Could this be exchanged for money? No.
Could it help him find his master? No.
Could it make him less annoyed tonight? No.
Nanxi put the seashell away and lay back down; this time he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down.
What was done was done; regret was useless—he needed to think of a way to salvage it.
Although the thief had run, it was hasty, so traces should be left.
And from her escaping movements, her lightness skill wasn’t advanced, at least not to the level of treading snow without a trace.
As long as she hadn’t left the city, he could find her.
Nanxi opened his eyes and sat up.
Go now.
The night was still deep, people still quiet—perfect time for tracking.
The boy wore that somewhat faded white outfit; it was fairly concealing in the night.
Hair retied tightly, shoes changed to soft-soled ones, walking almost soundlessly.
Before leaving, he thought for a moment, dug out those few copper coins and iron blades from his bundle, stuffed them into his sleeve pocket, then pushed open the window and flipped out silently.
The inn’s backyard was very quiet.
A few uncollected clothes hung on the drying line, swaying gently in the night breeze; firewood piled in the corner, emitting the fresh scent of wood.
Nanxi landed lightly, like a leaf, without a sound.
Following the way he came, he soon returned to that small alley.
The alley was even darker now; most of the lights from the distant main street had gone out, only a few eternal lanterns still burning, their light weak like fireflies.
The bluestone road gleamed faintly gray-white in the night, like a dead snake.
Nanxi stood at the alley entrance, closed his eyes, and recalled the earlier scene.
The thief had fled in this direction.
Steps light but hasty—should have left traces upon landing.
He squatted down, pulled a small paper packet from his bosom; inside was fine incense ash, collected from the inn kitchen’s stove.
He sprinkled the ash lightly on the ground.
The ash was very fine, scattering in the night breeze into a thin layer.
Then he took out a fire starter, blew it alight, and held it close to the ground.
Under the faint light, faint marks appeared on the ash.
Not complete footprints, just subtle traces: patterns where dust was scuffed, pebbles displaced, and a few depressions where moss was crushed. Very blurry, but enough for Nanxi.
He followed the traces forward.
The alley wasn’t long, about a hundred steps to the end.
The end led to another slightly wider street, also a residential area, but more remote.
The traces became chaotic here; the thief had obviously hesitated on which way to go.
Nanxi observed carefully. On the left street, a few ash traces were more noticeably disturbed by wind, indicating someone had run past, stirring it up. He chose left.
Tracking like this all the way.
Through two small alleys, over a low wall, around a vegetable plot.
Traces intermittent, sometimes disappearing for dozens of steps before reappearing, sometimes circling repeatedly in one spot.
The thief was cunning, deliberately taking detours to shake off possible pursuers.
But she underestimated Nanxi.
The fourteen-year-old boy had learned tracking skills from Shuang Feixue in Huaniang Town. His master had said: “Tracking isn’t about seeing footprints; it’s about seeing ‘qi.’ Human qi, earth qi, heavenly qi—all traces are the flow of qi.” He hadn’t understood then, but now he vaguely did.
Those crushed mosses, those scuffed dusts, those startled night insects—all were the flow of qi, all telling him someone had passed here.
After tracking for about half an hour, Nanxi arrived at an abandoned area in the city’s west.
This seemed to have been a workshop district before, abandoned for some unknown reason.
A few dilapidated tile houses stood crookedly, most doors and windows broken, black holes like monster mouths.
The ground was overgrown with weeds, almost knee-high, rustling in the night wind.
The traces faded here.
Faded to where even ash couldn’t reveal them, but Nanxi could feel the “qi” here was chaotic, like someone had lingered, paced, hesitated.
He slowed his steps, held his breath, and listened carefully.
Wind sounds, insect chirps, distant faint drumbeats of the night watch.
And… an extremely faint, suppressed sobbing sound.
Coming from the leftmost, most dilapidated house.
Nanxi’s heartbeat quickened a beat; he stealthily approached, sticking to the wall base, inching bit by bit to the window.
The window was broken, only half a frame left, crudely stuffed with rags; he peered inside through a gap in the rags.
The room was very dark, but moonlight leaked in through holes in the roof, barely outlining shapes.
The ground was piled with junk: broken-legged tables and chairs, shattered earthen jars, rotten straw mats.
In the corner curled a person.
Wearing black constable’s uniform, hair disheveled, mouth stuffed with cloth, hands bound behind her back, feet also tied.
She was struggling desperately, body twisting, throat emitting muffled sobs.
It was last night’s female constable.
Her red eyes shone in the darkness like two nearly extinguished embers, filled with anger and unwillingness.
Nanxi stood outside the window, watching her struggle, and suddenly felt that tonight’s frustration seemed to have found an outlet.