The third wine jar of the evening shattered against the vermillion lacquer pillar, painting the polished cypress floor of the main hall in cheap, pungent red.
"Worthless! All of you are worthless!"
Li Wei, the Fifth Young Master of the Li Merchant House, slurred his words, his elegant silk robes hanging askew from one shoulder. He swayed, pointing a trembling finger at his eldest brother, Li Jun, who stood rigid with controlled fury at the head of the family table.
"You… you think you can sell me off? Like a side of mutton? To that… that harpy from the Zhang family?" Li Wei hiccupped, a trickle of wine escaping his lip. "I'd rather drink the dregs of the Eastern sewers!"
A collective gasp went through the assembled servants. Mother, a frail woman with sorrow-etched eyes, dabbed a handkerchief to her lips. Second Brother sneered. Fourth Sister looked away in shame.
"Enough!" Father's voice, like grinding stones, cut through the tension. The Patriarch of the Li House, Li Kong, rose from his carved chair, his face a mask of profound disappointment. "You disgrace your ancestors with every breath. The Zhang marriage alliance is our last hope to settle our debts to the Imperial Silk Commissioner. And you, a wastrel who contributes nothing but scandal, dare to refuse your one useful purpose?"
Li Wei blinked, the world a fuzzy, tilting mess. Debts? Silk Commissioner? His addled brain, soaked in rice wine, could only latch onto the insult. "I am not a wastrel! I… I have thoughts!"
"Thoughts best drowned," Second Brother muttered, earning a sharp glance from Father that wasn't entirely disapproving.
"Take him," Father commanded, wearily waving a hand. "Lock him in the western study. No more wine. He stays there until he agrees to the betrothal or learns humility, whichever comes first—though I doubt the latter."
Two burly household guards stepped forward, their faces impassive. As they hauled the sputtering, stumbling Fifth Young Master away, the family's silence was heavier than any condemnation. He was not a villain; he was a stain. A problem to be disposed of.
---
The western study was a tomb for forgotten things—dusty scrolls on outdated trade laws, an abacus with broken beads, the scent of mildew and neglect. The heavy oak door thudded shut, the iron lock clicking with finality.
Li Wei collapsed onto a threadbare divan, the last of his bravado evaporating. He felt sick, hollow, and profoundly confused. Why was everyone so angry? The Zhang girl had a sharp face. He didn't like sharp faces. Was that so wrong?
His head pounded. The cheap wine, a cruel gift from Second Brother "to soothe his nerves," curdled in his gut. A final, violent heave, and he was empty, slipping into a black, dreamless stupor against the cold silk of the cushion.
---
When his eyes opened, the light in the room had changed. The sliver of moonlight through the high window was sharp, clean, painting a silver bar across the floor.
Li Wei sat up. His mouth was dry, but his head was… clear. Unnaturally, icily clear. The nausea was gone, replaced by a serene, chilling focus. He looked at his hands, turning them over. They were steady.
Interesting.
He stood, his movements fluid and precise, and walked to the study's sole desk. He brushed dust from a ledger left open—the household accounts for the last quarter. His normal self would see a blur of numbers and yawn. Now, his eyes scanned the pages, each entry imprinting itself on a mind suddenly vast and calculative.
Exorbitant price for Southern jade. A shipment delay coinciding with the Commissioner's audit. Second Brother's sudden investment in a "sure-thing" pearl venture that failed…
A faint, cold smile touched his lips. It was not Li Wei's clumsy, drunken grin. It was the smile of a spider feeling the first tremors in its web.
He heard footsteps outside—the soft, hesitant patter of servant slippers, followed by the heavier tread of a guard. Voices murmured.
"…just leave the tray, girl. He's probably still dead drunk."
"But the Master said no wine… this is just water and congee…"
"He won't know the difference. Just slide it through."
A small wooden tray slid under the door. A bowl of congee, a cup of water.
The figure who was and was not Li Wei glided to the door. He did not reach for the tray. Instead, he knelt and spoke through the gap, his voice a low, melodic tenor utterly foreign to his own ears.
"Xiao Lan," he said, addressing the maid. "Your mother's cough worsens in this spring damp. The physician from Silver Needle Alley has a new formulation. He is expensive, but his remedies are effective."
Outside, there was a stunned silence. Then a shaky breath. "F-Fifth Young Master? How… how did you…"
"A guess," the voice replied, smooth as oil. "Tell me, the guard with you… is it Old Kuo? The one with a fondness for gambling on cricket fights?"
The guard, Old Kuo, grunted in surprise. "What's it to you, drunkard?"
"The champion fighter 'Iron Wing' at the Red Cricket Pavilion will lose its next match. Its owner is feeding it sour berries to fake vigor. Bet against it. You might recoup your losses from last week."
Silence, thick and charged.
The voice continued, softer now, laced with a compelling gravity. "I will be in this room for some time. You will be my eyes and ears. In return, I will see your mother healed, Old Kuo. And you, Kuo, debt-free. A simple arrangement. Do we have an accord?"
The silence stretched. In the hallway, the maid and the guard exchanged a look of sheer, superstitious terror. This was not the bumbling, clueless Fifth Young Master. This was someone who knew things he should not, who saw threads in the dark.
Finally, a whisper. "Yes, Young Master."
"Good. Now, take the congee away. Bring me ink, a fine brush, and the cleanest paper in the house. And," the voice added, the cold smile audible in its tone, "a pot of the strongest tea you can find. It seems I have work to do."
As the footsteps hurried away, the figure—the mind now fully in control—returned to the desk. He opened a fresh, blank ledger in his mind. At the top, he wrote four names: Father. Second Brother. Imperial Silk Commissioner. Zhang Family.
Then, beneath them, he began to list not debts of silver, but debts of fear, secrets, and ambition.
Outside, the moon climbed higher. Li Wei, the drunken fool, was asleep in the prison of his own mind. But in that dusty study, a different creature was awake, sipping imaginary tea and weaving a web with the cold, neutral precision of a master architect. He had a family to save from its own greed, a debt to twist into a weapon, and a marriage to quietly dismantle from the inside out.
And when the dawn came, and the wine's final vestiges reclaimed his consciousness, he would remember none of it. Only a vague, pleasant feeling, like the afterglow of a strange, empowering dream.