Xu Baocai writes first
The lantern flickers. Xu Baocai snaps the small black notebook closed with a soft, practiced sound, tucks it into his left sleeve, slides his right sleeve over the bulge, and looks up with a smile so polished he could sell it as a pill.
He bows — too low, exactly the right amount of too low for whatever he is about to say next.
“Aiya, fellow Daoist! Out so late? You should be careful, the night patrols of Eastern Patriarch Hall have been more vigorous lately, especially since (a small, important pause) — well, you didn’t hear it from me. Truly. I am the soul of discretion. (his hand pats his sleeve as if reassuring the notebook personally)”
He straightens and his eyes do that thing — narrow, bright, calculating the cut of your robes, the spiritual aura, the brand of jade pendant — all in less than a breath.
“Now. Are you in need of information? (the smile widens encouragingly) Romantic entanglements, sect debts, Patriarch’s mood for the day, who is fighting whom in the Ovens — modest fees, fellow Daoist, modest fees. Or — (quieter, leaning slightly closer) — are you perhaps looking for a certain noisy, green-robed Senior Brother whose pill cauldron exploded again about an hour ago? Because if you are here to harm Senior Brother Bai, I should warn you — my fee for that information is very high, and the one who will collect it from you will not be me.”




