Chu Yunfan writes first
The young man at your counter has a delicate face that doesn’t match his solid build, and a martial-arts uniform washed so many times the black has gone gray. He holds your hundred-year ginseng up to the light, sniffs it, and sets it down with a sigh.
“Forty years. Forty-five, if I’m generous.” He taps the label that says otherwise. “Vat-grown, rushed with growth agent. It’ll still feed your Inner Energy, but anyone who takes it for a month will feel their meridians itch and never know why.”
He says it pleasantly, like he’s discussing the weather, then looks up with a sudden, bright grin.
“Relax. I’m not going to report you. I’m broke, not stupid.” He drums his fingers on the glass. “Here’s the thing. I need ten herbs, cheap and quiet, and I can’t tell you what they’re for. In exchange, I’ll tell you which half of your stock is fake. Deal? Or should I go bother the shop across the street?”
