The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis-Chapter 349: The Seven Stones

Seven Stones wasn’t like the rest of Daiyu.

It never pretended to be.

If the Imperial Court was all echoes and etiquette, Seven Stones spoke in smoke and coin, its alleys paved in market dialects, its air thick with spice and the low hum of wagers laid under breath.

No one here looked up when they passed.

Mingyu walked in plain robes without crest or title, Deming beside him in the unmarked silk of a man who had learned long ago that power sharpened best in quiet. Yizhen strolled as if the whole quarter belonged to him—which, in a way, it did. Longzi stayed close enough to be useful without blocking sightlines, his eyes sweeping roofs, shadows, doors.

Xinying moved at the center of them, not hidden, not flaunted, simply... there. The still point around which everything else turned.

Yaozu slipped in and out of the narrow mouths of side streets like he’d been born to them.

Seven Stones noticed none of it.

Or more accurately, it pretended not to.

Factor Fei’s house sat where the caravans met the river wall, its door painted with a knife-fish in curling strokes. A charm, meant to mean luck in trade. It meant bribes, smuggling, the kind of silver that traveled faster than law.

They didn’t knock.

Mingyu set a hand to the door and pushed once.

It opened with the soft complaint of hinges that had not been asked permission in years.

Inside, Factor Fei waited with the kind of courtesy that came from fear dressed as hospitality. His tea set gleamed on the low table. Steam rose like offerings he knew better than to speak aloud.

"Your Majesty," he said smoothly, not rising. Then his eyes cut toward Yizhen. "And Daiyu’s King of Hell. What a surprise."

"No surprise," Yizhen corrected, pouring himself a cup before Fei could reach for the pot. "You’ve been selling information across three borders and two rivers. Of course the throne comes calling."

Fei smiled thinly, the kind of smile men wear when they want to measure the room before they decide how to lie.

Deming walked once around the edge of the chamber, fingers trailing lightly along the carved screens as though counting exits by feel. He found three, all guarded before Fei realized it.

Longzi didn’t sit. He took the place near the back wall where shadows met the floor, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on the courtyard beyond the open shutters.

Xinying lowered herself to the mat opposite Fei. Her robe whispered as she settled. Nothing about her moved quickly.

It made Fei nervous.

Mingyu poured his own tea with the slow precision of a man who had no intention of drinking it.

"You’ve been busy," he said mildly.

Fei inclined his head. "Seven Stones thrives on trade, Your Majesty. Caravans bring coin. Coin brings food. Food keeps the city quiet."

"You’re not feeding the city," Yizhen interrupted softly. "You’re feeding information to men who pay in currencies they don’t want counted."

Fei spread his hands, elegant as any courtier. "Information flows where it will. Like water."

"Like knives," Xinying corrected, her voice low enough that Fei’s eyes snapped to hers before he meant them to.

Something about the way she held her teacup—steady, unhurried—made him shift on the mat.

Yizhen noticed. He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it.

"Let’s skip the part where you pretend to be stupid," Yizhen suggested. "You sold someone access to Daiyu. Assassins walked my streets. Two of them died under my roof. One gave us your name before he stopped being useful. Now I want the name you served, and I want it before the tea goes cold."

Fei reached for his own cup, fingers steady by effort alone. "Names are expensive."

"No," Mingyu said softly, without looking up. "Names are free. Loyalty is expensive. And you’ve already sold yours."

Deming drew a slip of paper from his sleeve and set it on the table between them. A list of caravan permits. The ink was still drying on the bottom line.

"Interesting," Deming murmured, as if speaking only to himself. "All stamped by your clerks. All waved through the southern gate without inspection. Every wagon carrying grain sacks heavier than they should be. Half empty by the time they reached the granaries."

Fei’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You think smuggling grain is the same as hiring knives?" he asked carefully.

"I think," Deming said, still mild, "that the man who pays you to look the other way uses the same road for both."

Xinying set her cup down. The sound was very small. It still cut the air in half.

"Fei," she said, almost gently. "The men who came for us weren’t from Daiyu. They didn’t know the streets, the alleys, the rhythms. They didn’t know the people. That means someone gave them maps. Times. Guards to bribe. Places to hide. Someone who lives here. Someone who eats here."

Fei’s eyes flicked toward Yizhen before he could stop them.

Yizhen leaned back, stretching one long leg out like a man settling in to watch someone else dig their grave.

"You think the King of Hell doesn’t know his own streets?" he asked softly.

Fei said nothing.

Mingyu reached for the tea pot again, poured a fresh cup, and set it directly in front of the merchant without sliding it across the table.

"Drink," he said.

Fei hesitated. Then obeyed.

Mingyu watched him swallow before speaking again. "The name. The hand paying you. Now."

Fei’s tongue darted across his lips. "A foreign factor," he said finally. "Calls himself the Jackal. Western Road. Deals in caravans and couriers. I never saw his face."

Yizhen’s gaze flicked toward Xinying. Her expression didn’t change.

"That was too easy," she said softly.

Fei stiffened.

"You want us to chase him," she continued. "You want the Jackal to look like the center while the real patron keeps buying knives somewhere else."

"I gave you what I have," Fei insisted.

"No," Yizhen said, voice pleasant as poison. "You gave us the name you were told to give if anyone came asking."

Fei went very still.

Xinying leaned forward just enough that the merchant flinched.

"Do you know what happens," she asked softly, "when men wake things better left sleeping?"

Fei’s throat worked.

"Too bad," she said, reaching for her cup again, "you woke us up."

Mingyu set his tea down with slow precision. "Keep him breathing," he told Yaozu without looking away from Fei. "I want him alive when we find the Jackal. I want him to understand exactly how unimportant he’s been."

Deming rolled the caravan list back into his sleeve. Longzi shifted by the wall, already planning which river routes needed closing before sunset.

Yizhen rose first, all lazy grace again, the kind that promised trouble without showing its teeth.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let’s go find our Jackal."

Xinying stood last.

Fei didn’t breathe until the door closed behind them.