The morning of the wager dawned with rain.
Lin Wan'er stood beneath the vermilion eaves of the West Market, watching water droplets slide off her oiled-paper umbrella. Her silk qipao clung uncomfortably to her skin—a relic of Mingyue's wardrobe, now repurposed with a hidden inner pocket containing her most precious asset: a solar-powered financial calculator, its LCD screen glowing faintly in the gloom.
"Your Highness," Wang Yuanbao greeted, his voice dripping with disdain. The gui fang manager had arrived flanked by two hulking guards, their belts heavy with iron coins. "Shall we proceed to the huangniu stall? Or have you reconsidered your… unorthodox proposal?"
Wan'er smiled thinly. Huangniu—literally "yellow ox"—referred to the informal brokers who facilitated illegal futures trades. By forcing her to meet in such a disreputable location, Wang sought to humiliate her. But she'd come prepared.
"Let's discuss terms first," she said, placing a lacquered box on the wet stone counter. Inside lay a single silk bolt, its weave loose and uneven. "This is last year's Shu brocade. Worth ten guan at most."
Wang's eyes narrowed. "And your point?"
Wan'er activated the calculator. Numbers flickered across the screen as she inputted data: monsoon rainfall in Sichuan, caravan transit times, palace procurement quotas. "The real value," she said, "is determined by supply and demand."
She turned the device toward him. The display showed a downward-sloping graph labeled "Silk Price Projection: 60% Drop in 28 Days."
Wang scoffed. "A child's toy. How does this prove—"
"—that you're already losing money?" Wan'er cut him off. "Your vaults are stuffed with Shu silk bought at inflated prices. If you don't sell now, you'll go bankrupt when the new harvest arrives."
The manager's jaw tightened. "And your solution?"
"Margin trading." She slid a scroll across the counter. "You'll lend me funds to short the market—10% collateral for 100% exposure. When the price drops, I'll repay the loan with interest."
Wang's eyes widened. "That's usury! The law—"
"—allows celestial loans during auspicious years." Wan'er pointed to the comet seal she'd stamped on the contract. "The astrologers declared this month favorable for speculative ventures."
Before he could protest, a voice purred from behind them. "A bold gamble, niece."
Princess Taiping emerged from the mist, her crimson cloak billowing like a phoenix's wings. Two attendants carried a lacquered chest between them, its hinges etched with golden stars.
"Your Highness," Wan'er said, bowing deeply. "To what do I owe this honor?"
Taiping's gaze flickered to the calculator. "I've come to invest." She nodded at the attendants, who opened the chest to reveal stacks of silver sycee—each ingot bearing the imperial mint mark. "Five thousand liang—as collateral for your wager."
Wang paled. "But Princess, this violates—"
"—the spirit of the law, not the letter." Taiping smiled sweetly. "Consider it a demonstration of faith in my niece's… unique talents."
Wan'er's pulse quickened. The princess was offering more than money—she was signaling protection. But at what cost?
The terms were quickly agreed upon. Wang would provide 50,000 guan in credit, secured by Taiping's silver and Mingyue's hu fu. If the price dropped as predicted, Wan'er would pocket the profits; if not, she'd lose everything.
As the rain intensified, they adjourned to a nearby teahouse. Wang excused himself to arrange the transfer, leaving Wan'er alone with Taiping.
"Tell me, Mingyue," the princess said, sipping her tea. "How did a girl who once fainted at the sight of coins suddenly master such… complex financial concepts?"
Wan'er met her gaze steadily. "The comet changed me, Aunt. I see patterns now—connections between stars and markets."
Taiping leaned closer, her scent a blend of sandalwood and danger. "I sense a foreign influence in you. Not just in your ideas, but in your mannerisms." Her hand brushed Wan'er's wrist, lingering just a moment too long. "Be careful, niece. Even revolutions have their casualties."
That evening, Wan'er visited the imperial archives. Mingyue's memories had hinted at hidden ledgers detailing Taiping's financial operations, and she needed leverage.
The archives were housed in a circular tower, its walls lined with bamboo scrolls. As she searched for the right compartment, a shadow detached itself from the darkness.
"Looking for this?" a deep voice asked.
Wan'er spun to face a man in a black hufu—the uniform of the imperial guards. His face was partially obscured by a silver mask, but his eyes glinted with recognition.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
He removed the mask, revealing a scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw. "Captain Pei Ji of the Jinyiwei," he said, bowing. "I've been assigned to protect you."
Wan'er's heart skipped a beat. The Jinyiwei were Emperor Xuanzong's secret police—loyal only to the throne. But why would they protect her, a disgraced princess?
Pei Ji handed her a scroll. "This contains evidence of Princess Taiping's embezzlement. Her 'investments' in your venture are actually laundered funds from the salt monopoly."
Wan'er scanned the contents, her blood chilling. The figures were staggering—enough to topple a dynasty. "Why show me this?"
The captain leaned closer, his voice low. "Because you're not who you seem, Princess Mingyue. The hu fu you carry… it belongs to the Mi Zhen Si—the Secret Service."
Before she could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the tower. Pei Ji vanished into the shadows, leaving Wan'er clutching the damning evidence.
That night, as she burned the scroll in her chamber, the hu fu glowed hotter than usual. She stared at its engravings, now recognizing them as star charts from the Mi Zhen Si's secret archives.
"Control the money, and you control the empire," her predecessor's voice whispered. "But beware the price of power."
The next morning, the first domino fell.
A caravan from Sichuan arrived at the West Market, its wagons overflowing with fresh silk. Merchants panicked as the price plummeted—just as Wan'er had predicted.
She stood on the balcony of the gui fang, watching Wang Yuanbao's face turn ashen. "Settle the trade," she ordered.
The manager handed her a chest of gold coins, his hands shaking. "You've ruined me," he hissed.
Wan'er opened the chest, revealing stacks of 飞钱—the revolutionary promissory notes she'd designed. "No," she said. "I've taught you how to survive."
That evening, Princess Taiping hosted a banquet in her honor. Courtiers toasted her "celestial wisdom," while musicians played haunting melodies on pipas.
As the wine flowed, Taiping led her onto the moonlit terrace. "You've proven your worth, niece," she said, her breath warm against Wan'er's ear. "Now prove your loyalty."
Before Wan'er could react, the princess pressed her lips against hers—a kiss that tasted of wine and danger. "The Mi Zhen Si is watching," Taiping whispered. "Choose your allies carefully."
Wan'er pulled away, her heart racing. This isn't just about money anymore. It was about survival—of her life, her identity, and the fragile financial revolution she'd sparked.
As she stared at the comet still visible in the predawn sky, a realization dawned: the stars had aligned for her arrival, but the future was hers to write—with blood, gold, and the edge of a bronze abacus.