Ye Fan stood beneath the eaves atop Wanhua Tower, where grayish-blue clouds were churning in from the east, the wind carrying the scent of plum blossoms past his temples. The lingering notes of Su Qingxue's flute still resonated in his throat as he watched the fleet of black-sailed ships on the moat, their canvas snapping in the wind, the gold-threaded characters of the "Zhao" banner gleaming coldly in the twilight.
"Young Master," Boss Qian's hurried footsteps sounded from inside the building, the hem of his blue cloth robe still stained with tiny specks of mud, beads of sweat rolling down his wrinkled forehead into his collar. "Fatty Sun is making a move again. I just came back from the West Market—his lackeys are going around knocking on the vegetable vendors' bamboo baskets, claiming they want to 'cooperate,' but actually forcing them to sign six-month exclusive supply contracts with prices squeezed even lower than the cost."
When Ye Fan turned around, half a cup of tea remained on the stone railing, plum blossom petals sinking to the bottom. He tapped the railing with a crooked finger, and the Yuanqi within his Inner World darted into his Sea of Consciousness like a living creature, instantly sorting through the account books of the twelve vegetable stalls and eight rice shops in the West Market. Manager Sun's seemingly ruthless tactic was actually just desperate flailing now that the Zhao Estate had cut off his silver funds.
Chapter 38