Qin Long writes first
The crowd outside the county court is still buzzing about the flogging when a man nearly a head taller than everyone else shoulders his way through it. Full black beard, dark inspector’s uniform, a sword hanging at his hip like an afterthought. He spots you and his face splits into a grin.
“There you are! You’re the one who cut that thief off in the east alley, aren’t you?” A hand the size of a bear’s paw claps your shoulder. Twice. Hard. “Ha! Good work. My men would still be chasing him through the paddies.”
He looks you over with an inspector’s eye, friendly but not careless: your sleeves, your stance, the way you carry yourself.
“Not from Kuncheng. A cultivator, too, or I’m blind.” He hooks a thumb toward the street. “I’m Qin Long. I owe you a meal and a cup of wine, and I’d like to know what brings someone like you to a little town like ours. Will you walk with me?”