This time, she couldn’t just grab a random passerby and ask.

  Ren Lin needed to know the birthday of the princess—the day the story truly began.

  Figuring out the current year, month, or festival cycle was simple enough. But the exact date she’d once written for that girl? That was gone. At the time, it had seemed trivial—any date would do, if it fit the character. She had chosen one, of course, but that was years ago, and her mind refused to recall.

  The memory itself was still there, buried somewhere, yet because she hadn’t revisited it in a long time, the path back had simply faded.

  A sigh left her lips.

  So, what were her options?

  She needed someone who could pick the lock of her memory.

  A First Order cultivator? Unlikely, most of them lived day by day, uninterested in what didn’t affect them directly. On the other hand, silver tagged cultivators were more reliable. They were the real upper class. They had information, even for royal affairs.

  Spotting one in this district was rare. After all, the chances to reach this rank was perhaps one in a hundred. Even in the two days she’d spent here, she had only seen two—one in the bathhouse, the other in the tavern. Both were places she really shouldn’t visit again.

  Second Orders weren’t mythical—they lived just beyond reach. The vast kingdom was built like rings in an onion: slaves and bronze tags in the outer districts, silvers in the middle, Third Orders in the inner ring, and the strongest near the king himself. Best place to find answers? The middle ring. Impossible place to enter without a fortune. Auctions, ceremonies, festivals—all options she couldn’t afford. But the bridge between rings cost nothing. It wasn’t illegal to stay there without crossing it.

  Ren Lin arrived at the bridge as dusk began to color the sky with streaks of amber and violet. She stood at the edge, where stone turned white and polished, while dirt still clung to her sandals. Carts rumbled across, laden with goods from the outer ring. A steady stream of cultivators moved both ways—bronze-tagged traders returning home, silver-tagged elites heading inward with attendants trailing behind.

  Her gaze lingered on every glint of silver, heart tightening each time she thought she might have found her target, only to see the tag dangling from a servant’s bundle or a merchant’s guard.

  Then she saw him.

  The man stood out—the image of blood in the whites of snow came to mind. His robe was cut from pale silk. The silver badge gleamed at his waist, contrasting even the light robe. Its reflection was like a mirror. A folding fan rested in his hand, painted with cascading plum blossoms. Even his hair, bound with a jade clasp, caught the light like dark water.

  He was speaking to another cultivator. His voice was calm but carried—measured, eloquent, and pleasant, as though every word had been chosen with care. He laughed lightly at some remark, not loud or boisterous, but in a way that made the listener lean in closer. A man who knew his own presence.

  Ren Lin waited until his companion bowed farewell and moved on. Then, with her robe arranged neatly and her expression composed, she approached.

  “Excuse me… senior?” She began, copying the companion's bow.

  The man turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. Not unkindly—rather, with a sort of amusement, somehow, it still sent a chill down her spine.

  “Yes?” His tone was smooth, unhurried.

  Ren Lin steadied her breath. Her throat felt tight, but her bow was steady when she spoke again.

  “I… wished to ask something of you, senior. A date."

  His fan flicked open with a soft snap. Plum blossoms spread between them, painted strokes that somehow looked sharper than steel.

  “A date?” His eyebrow lifted together with his hand showing off a wedding ring. “I’m already taken.”

  “Not that kind of date… the birthday of the princess.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The words left her lips with an accidental chuckle.

  For a heartbeat, silence stretched. The man’s fan stilled mid-sway. His gaze lingered on her—not as one looks at a petitioner, but at a riddle, weighing what might be hidden beneath the asking. Then, slowly, he closed the fan and tapped it once against his palm.

  She tensed up. Was her chuckling too much?

  “The one and only Princess…?” He let the fan drift open. “She drew her first breath on the twenty third day of the eleventh moon, in the Goat year. The night was bitter, the winds merciless. Her wailing was said to shake the rafters, ill-omened from the start. A birth beneath dying stars… fit for the blemish among jade.”

  Hearing this, Ren Lin relaxed and felt a flicker of disappointment. How could a side character know it this detailed, even though she created it?

  He leaned closer, his smile faint but cold.

  “Tell me, girl—why would you want to know the birthday of that ugly frog? The black sheep of the imperial brood? Few speak of her willingly, unless to mock her.”

  Her head dipped immediately, lowering her voice to a hush. “Forgive me, senior. It was not idle curiosity. A woman in my quarter… she suffers greatly on the seventh day of each month. She believes her misfortune was tied to being born the same day as royalty. I thought if I could tell her she was mistaken, she might have peace.”

  The man regarded her in silence, tapping the fan once more against his palm. His gaze was sharp, but her tone held no tremor, no falter. At last, he gave a soft chuckle.

  “A harmless superstition then. Very well. You have your answer. But be careful—sometimes knowing too much about that one brings more misfortune than comfort.”

  Her hands cupped before her as she bowed. “Thank you, senior. I’ll remember your warning.”

  “See that you do,” he murmured, and without another glance he drifted away, swallowed by the stream of silvers crossing the bridge.

  Ren Lin remained bowed until the weight of his presence was gone. Only then did she straighten, her palms damp against the fine, cool silk of her robe. The air felt sharper, thinner—like she had been standing too near a blade.

  Still, she had what she came for.

  Earlier, on the way, she’d checked the current date. According to that, she had three weeks left before she could take the protagonist’s place.

  The sky had darkened fully by the time she made her way back through the market streets. Lanterns swayed above the stalls, their red paper skins glowing like scattered embers. Merchants shouted in tired but practiced voices, ridding the last of their goods before night claimed the square.

  Ren Lin’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t eaten since morning. To make it worse; the smell of pork and garlic invaded her nose. It lured her to a cart.

  “Two dumplings,” she said, sliding two celis onto the counter.

  The old woman behind the cart wrapped them quickly, pressing the paper into her hands with a nod. The first bite was thick, cakey, perfect. She didn’t linger—this wasn’t a meal, it was heaven.

  A few stalls down, her steps slowed. Bamboo paper hung in neat stacks; sheets pale as pressed moonlight with a tinge of purple. Brushes stood upright in jars, horsehair tips dark with ink. Small desks leaned against the wall, cheap ones meant for apprentices or clerks.

  The merchant sat cross-legged on a stool, fanning himself lazily. His robe was patched, his hair tied carelessly, but his eyes were sharp.

  Ren Lin stepped forward, arranging her face into a polite smile. “Senior merchant, how much for the small desk and chair? And… two packs of paper, with a brush and ink.”

  The man snapped his fan shut, straightening as if only now noticing her bronze tag. His eyes narrowed. “Eighty celi for the set. Fair price. Too fair, for someone dressed like that.”

  Ren Lin did not flinch. She tilted her head as if puzzled. “Eighty? Forgive me, senior, but your neighbor sold a desk larger than this for sixty. And his was polished. Yours—” she ran her fingers lightly over the surface “—still carries dust. Perhaps from the last tenant who returned it unsatisfied?”

  The merchant’s jaw tightened. “Returned? Don’t slander my goods.”

  She lifted her hand, wiggling her index finger. “Not slander. Observation. Look here—the leg bears a scratch, deep enough to catch ink if one spilled. And the brush?” She plucked it from the jar, rolling the handle between her fingers. “Horsehair that splits after a single week. A scholar would laugh to pay as much for this.”

  The man scowled, shifting on his stool. “Then perhaps you should buy from scholars instead.”

  She let her smile soften, her tone dropping into the hush of confession. “I would… but I’m only at the bronze rank. My purse is thin. I came to you because you are honest enough to know the worth of your stock—and kind enough not to cheat a girl who must choose between a meal and a brush.”

  That last word caught. The merchant’s gaze slid over her threadbare shoes, her too-loose robe. He clicked his tongue.

  “Sixty,” he muttered.

  Ren Lin lowered her eyes. “I only have fifty.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Sixty was the worth for a larger desk. Do you want to be known as a scammer?”

  Silence stretched. The merchant’s fan twitched. He studied her for a long moment, as if trying to see whether she was bluffing.

  Finally, with a scoff, he waved his hand. “Fine. Fifty.”

  Ren Lin bowed, lips curving faintly. “You got yourself a deal.”

  The merchant rolled his eyes. “Just go on.”

  She paid him, nearly emptying her pouch, and together with a skinny servant boy, carried the desk, chair, paper, brush, and ink through the narrow streets. By the time they reached her shabby room, her coin purse was flat against her side, weightless.

  She had no safety net anymore.

  Still, as she sat down. She felt something. For the first time since she’d awoken here, she felt the weight of authorship return—in a different way. It was the feeling of no one glancing over your shoulder. Freedom.