The courtyard smelled of iron and jasmine.
Shuye stood barefoot beneath the worn awning, sweat trailing down his brow as he held the wooden staff in both hands. Opposite him, Wei moved with the unhurried grace of a drifting shadow — faster than thought, yet never rushed.
"Again," Wei said, tone quiet, almost lazy. "Keep your feet under you. Every step should have purpose."
Shuye exhaled sharply and lunged, twisting the staff into a sweeping arc. Wei stepped aside with a single pivot, caught the strike on his arm, and flicked his wrist — the staff was gone, and Shuye was flat on his back.
Lianhua winced from where she sat under the plum tree, rubbing a fresh bruise of her own. "He makes it look too easy."
"Because he's not trying to win," Wei replied, offering Shuye a hand. "He's trying to teach you how not to lose."
"Isn't that the same thing?" Shuye muttered.
"No," Lianhua said, standing with a groan. "Losing is dying. Not losing means we get one more day."
They had little choice but to train. With Ziyan, Feiyan, and Li Qiang gone south, the weight of the teahouse — and their survival — now fell on their shoulders. Wei insisted that martial strength was now as necessary as sharp tongues or ledgers.
And already, there were signs that the Merchant Guild had not forgotten their defiance.
The first warning had come in silence — a bribe rejected. The second came in shattered porcelain, a night-jar tossed through their main hall window with a note tucked inside.
"Loyalty to ghosts is bad for business."
Since then, fewer customers came. The regulars who remained watched the staff too closely, as if waiting for something to break.
Shuye had begun sleeping in the entryway, blade beneath his pillow. Lianhua tightened the coin records, cross-checking deliveries for any unfamiliar names. Wei disappeared during the day and returned with dust on his boots and grim news on his lips.
"They're preparing something," he said one morning as they sat on the roof, overlooking the market. "The Guild doesn't forgive public defeat. Especially not at the hands of girls who serve tea."
"So what do we do?" Lianhua asked, arms folded.
"We remind them that girls who serve tea," he replied, "can also cut throats."
She sighed. "You're not inspiring confidence."
"Good," Wei said. "Confidence breeds arrogance. I want you sharp. Wary."
That afternoon, the first strike came.
A fire broke out in the delivery storeroom — fast, controlled, meant to damage but not destroy. Enough to frighten the servants and cast suspicion over their safety.
As the smoke cleared and the flames were doused, Wei studied the crowd that had gathered.
"One of them was already inside," he said quietly to Lianhua. "This wasn't thrown in. It was lit from the shelf."
She looked at him sharply. "You think it was one of ours?"
"I know it was."
"But how—"
He held up a hand. "Don't act on it yet. Spies are most useful when they think they're still hidden. Let them report what they think they know. And when they finally step too far—" His eyes darkened. "We strike."
The next morning, Wei called them to the courtyard once more.
Shuye's bruises had faded slightly, and Lianhua now moved with more purpose, her stance less rigid than before. Wei tossed each of them a pair of wrapped wooden daggers.
"You're not soldiers," he said. "You're not meant to fight toe-to-toe. You're foxes. Use the shadows. Use silence. Use timing."
Lianhua looked at the blades. "I thought you'd teach us how to win."
"I'm teaching you how to disappear," Wei replied. "The Guild uses brute strength. You'll use confusion. They expect fear — give them inconvenience. Make them bleed money. Make their threats cost them."
"Sounds like business," Lianhua muttered.
Wei smiled. "Exactly."
By the second day, the teahouse ran more like a sentry post. Runners were assigned. Watch rotations began. A false ledger with planted errors was kept behind the counter — bait for anyone looking to snoop.
They didn't wait long.
A staff boy named Jin — young, clumsy, eager to please — knocked over one of the sealed scroll baskets and quickly tried to hide it. Wei said nothing at the time, only watched how Jin's hands moved with too much familiarity around hidden compartments.
Later that night, he said, "One more day. Then we show him what we do to liars."
Shuye hesitated. "Will you kill him?"
Wei didn't blink. "Not yet. Information is always worth more than fear."
That evening, Lianhua sat alone in the tea garden, rubbing at the bruises beneath her sleeves. The night blossoms had begun to bloom, even as danger loomed over them like the weight of thunder.
Shuye joined her with two cups of warm tea. "How long do you think we can hold?"
"As long as we must," she said.
"Do you think Ziyan knew it'd come to this?"
Lianhua looked at the stars. "She always knew. But she also believed we could rise without her."
They drank in silence, the teahouse around them still — wounded, watched, but not broken.
In the shadows beyond the gate, Wei leaned against the wall, eyes closed but listening. Behind him, the faint rustle of feet in the attic told him Jin was on the move again.
Tomorrow would come with questions. And answers.
And maybe blood.
But for now, there was breath in their lungs and steel beneath their sleeves.
And sometimes, that was all it took to start a war.