A fool in disguise.

The Plum Blossom Inn stood at the heart of the city's night market, nestled between rows of food stalls and corridors bathed in the soft glow of red lanterns.

Merchants called out their wares, children played between stalls with sticky rice cakes in hand, and the occasional clash of wooden dice as gamblers huddled around makeshift tables, the streets were alive with movement.

The scent of roasted chestnuts and sizzling duck filled the air, mingling with the shar fragrance of rice wine. Laughter and whispered negotiations blended into midnight life, the kind that made the city feel both sprawling and intimate at once.

He had checked the inn, roamed around the area too. No one seemed to approach him or spy discreetly. How was he supposed to find the man who sent the letter?

At the moment, he could only see a familiar face, standing at the very center of it all and failing spectacularly to blend in. He was Minister Zhao.

A'Xian halted a few paces away, eyes narrowing.

Minister Zhao?

Did he send the letter?

The contrast was laughable.

The man had put on a ridiculous brown cloak, its hood tilted at such an awkward angle that it might as well have been a signpost declaring his presence.

Beneath it, glimpses of his ornate court robes gleamed under the lantern light, silk embroidered with gold thread, far too rich for a common traveler.

If the minister had been hoping for anonymity, he had failed miserably.

A'Xian felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips, but he tamped it down.

What was Zhao even thinking?

This was a man who had spent years drowning in court politics, his days filled with endless debates over tax reforms and diplomatic treaties. He was not a man built for deception, for the cold-blooded precision of treachery. His hands were meant for ink and scrolls, not daggers and conspiracies.

And yet, here he was.

Suspicious in all the wrong ways.

A'Xian watched as Minister Zhao shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, clearly out of himself.

A pair of women, their silk sleeves fluttering as they strolled past, gave him a glance and whispered behind their fans. A group of laborers, seated on low stools as they shared a bottle of baijiu, squinted at him in amusement before bursting into quiet laughter.

But Zhao seemed oblivious to it all.

Instead, he kept tugging at the edges of his hood, as if hoping it might suddenly grow large enough to cover the absurdity.

His fingers twitched, adjusting the fabric, then adjusting it again. As if realizing he still looked conspicuous, he made an even worse decision.

He turned abruptly, a little too abruptly and strode toward the nearest food stall.

The movement was so unnatural, so painfully rehearsed, that it made him even more suspicious.

A'Xian followed at a careful distance, watching as Zhao pretended to browse the skewers of grilled meat.

The vendor, an old man with missing teeth and an expression of deep skepticism, squinted up at him.

Zhao coughed into his fist, as if clearing his throat could somehow make him look more natural.

"I—I will take one," he said stiffly.

"Oh you will?"

The vendor blinked. "Which one?"

Zhao hesitated, as if he had not actually planned to purchase anything. His gaze darted across the skewers before he reached out blindly and grabbed the stick closest to him.

Which, unfortunately, was not meat. It was candied hawthorn.

A row of glossy, bright-red fruit coated in hardened syrup.

The vendor's lips twitched, as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or just take the money and spare the man further embarrassment.

Zhao, however, was committed now. He fumbled for his coin pouch and, in a rush, dropped a silver tael straight into the vendor's basket. A coin far too expensive for a simple street snack.

The old man, wisely, said nothing. He simply handed over the skewer.

But the show was still not over. Still determined to look casual, he took a bite.

A'Xian didn't even bother suppressing his amusement this time.

The minister's face immediately distorted in horror. The candy coating was far too sweet. The fruit beneath was far too sour.

But Zhao could not spit it out, not here, not when he was so desperately trying not to appear suspicious.

So he forced himself to chew.

A'Xian watched as he grimaced through every single bite, jaw working furiously, his taste buds in regret.

By the time Zhao finished, his lips were slightly stained red from the syrup. He looked thoroughly miserable.

And yet, despite it all, he still did not notice A'Xian watching him.

It was almost endearing, in a way.

This man was no traitor. At least, he was not good at it.

If that was what he was there for, this much was clear.

A'Xian could see the nerves in the way his hands twitched, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone any moment. If Zhao had been plotting against the court, he would not be standing in the middle of the night market, sweating beneath a poorly worn cloak and nearly choking on candied fruit.

At least, he was not the kind who might put A'Xian in danger.

Which meant it was time to approach.

A'Xian stepped forward, silent as a shadow, and spoke just as Zhao lifted another piece of fruit to his lips.

"Minister Zhao."

The man startled so violently that he nearly stabbed himself in the mouth with the skewer.

The last of A'Xian's amusement flickered into something colder.

If Zhao was this nervous, then whatever intention he had must be important.