By midday the market district had grown unbearably crowded.

  The steady stream of merchants, travelers, servants, and workers moving through the streets seemed endless. Carts rolled over the stone pavement while vendors shouted loudly from their stalls, advertising everything from dried fish to silk cloth.

  Chunma and Min had already moved three times.

  Min stood up from the wall where they had been sitting and brushed dust from his robe.

  “Alright,” he said, peering down into his bowl. “This corner’s drying up.”

  Chunma glanced at the few coins resting inside his own bowl.

  “How do you determine that?”

  Min gestured toward the crowd.

  “Too many beggars.”

  Chunma followed his gaze.

  Two more disciples from the settlement had settled along the same stretch of street, bowls placed in front of them.

  Min shook his head.

  “Too much competition,” he muttered.

  He picked up his bowl and motioned for Chunma to follow.

  “Come on. I’ll show you another spot.”

  They slipped through the crowd, weaving between merchants and shoppers until the street widened into a small square filled with food stalls. The smell of grilled meat and fresh bread hung heavily in the air.

  Min slowed his pace.

  “Watch the people,” he said quietly.

  Chunma did.

  Some walked quickly with their heads down, focused entirely on their errands. Others wandered slowly, browsing the stalls while chatting with friends or family.

  “Busy people don’t give coins,” Min explained. “They don’t even see you.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He pointed discreetly toward a couple standing near a fruit stall.

  “But people who stop to talk? Those are good.”

  Chunma nodded slightly.

  The logic was simple.

  Min led him toward the edge of the square where the crowd thinned slightly. Several older beggars were already sitting along the nearby walls, their bowls resting quietly beside them.

  One of the men glanced at Min.

  Min lowered his head slightly in greeting.

  The man gave a small nod.

  Chunma noticed the exchange.

  “You know them,” he said.

  Min shrugged.

  “Everyone knows everyone.”

  He leaned closer.

  “This street belongs to the eastern group.”

  Chunma looked at him.

  “The eastern group?”

  Min nodded.

  “Beggar Sect spreads out. Different disciples cover different parts of the city.”

  “And if someone takes another group’s place?”

  Min grimaced.

  “Then people start hitting each other.”

  Chunma accepted the explanation without comment.

  They found a space along the wall and sat down again.

  The afternoon sun had grown warmer now, and the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings stretched across the square like long fingers.

  For a while the two remained quiet.

  Coins occasionally clinked softly into the bowls resting in front of them.

  Min watched the crowd lazily.

  Chunma studied it.

  Every movement.

  Every conversation.

  A pair of merchants argued loudly near a spice stall while a group of travelers examined bundles of cloth. Servants moved constantly through the square carrying baskets or packages back toward the richer districts.

  Chunma’s attention shifted toward a narrow street branching off from the square.

  Several beggars had gathered there.

  Min noticed.

  “Don’t go down that one,” he said immediately.

  “Why?”

  Min lowered his voice.

  “Street gangs.”

  Chunma glanced at him.

  “Not sect members?”

  Min shook his head.

  “No. Just thieves.”

  Chunma observed the alley carefully.

  Two rough-looking men leaned against the wall near the entrance, watching the crowd with the same quiet attention the beggars used.

  Min stretched his arms above his head.

  “City’s got layers,” he said.

  Chunma looked at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  Min gestured toward the buildings surrounding the square.

  “You’ve got places like this where merchants and travelers mix.”

  He pointed down another street lined with larger shops.

  “Then there are the rich districts.”

  “And beneath that?”

  Min grinned faintly.

  “Places where even beggars don’t like going.”

  Chunma nodded slowly.

  The structure was familiar.

  Every city he had ruled in the past had possessed similar layers.

  Power gathered at the center.

  Weakness collected at the edges.

  The patterns of society rarely changed.

  Min suddenly leaned forward.

  “Hey.”

  Chunma looked up.

  A polished carriage rolled slowly past the far end of the square.

  The wood gleamed in the sunlight, and the horses pulling it were clean and well-groomed. Servants walked alongside the vehicle while a pair of guards followed behind.

  The crowd instinctively stepped aside.

  Min lowered his voice.

  “Upper district.”

  Chunma watched quietly as the carriage disappeared down the street.

  Min leaned back again.

  “Best stay out of their way,” he muttered.

  Chunma said nothing.

  But his eyes lingered on the direction the carriage had gone.

  Somewhere in this city lived the people who truly held power.

  And sooner or later…

  Their paths would cross.