The Persian caravan arrived at dawn, its 500 camels loaded with spices and silk, their bells jingling like coins. Lin Wan'er stood at the edge of the West Market, watching as the lead merchant—a towering man with a beard braided with gold thread—dismounted and knelt before her.
"Greetings, Khatun," he said in heavily accented Chinese. "I am Muhammad ibn Suleiman, master of the Samarkand Caravan. We come bearing gifts for the celestial princess who tamed the market."
Wan'er inclined her head. "Your reputation precedes you, Master Muhammad. I've heard tales of your karim—your 'merchant princes'—who trade across the Silk Road."
Muhammad smiled, revealing teeth stained with betel nut. "And I've heard of your futures contracts and yanzhi fen. You've brought chaos to the markets, Princess Mingyue. Chaos and opportunity."
He gestured to his camels. "These spices are bound for the imperial kitchens—ginger, cloves, saffron. But the journey is perilous. Bandits, storms, disease… many have lost fortunes to such risks."
Wan'er's eyes sharpened. He's here for insurance. "What if I told you I could guarantee your profits—no matter what happens?"
Muhammad's smile widened. "Then I'd say you're either a fool or a genius. Name your terms."
They adjourned to the Yanzhi Bank, where Wan'er spread a map of the Silk Road across her desk. "For every dinar you invest," she explained, "I'll pay you double if your caravan arrives safely. If it's lost, I'll compensate you for half the value."
Muhammad frowned. "That's usury, Khatun. My people follow the Sharia—we forbid riba."
Wan'er nodded. "Then we'll call it takaful—Islamic insurance. You'll pay a tabarru—a donation—to a mutual fund. If disaster strikes, the fund compensates you."
The merchant's eyes lit up. "A takaful pool! This is brilliant. But how will you manage the risk?"
Wan'er activated her calculator. "Probability analysis," she said, inputting data on historical caravan losses. "I'll charge a premium based on the likelihood of each risk—10% for bandits, 5% for storms, 3% for disease."
Muhammad studied the screen, his brow furrowed. "And if I pay 20% premium for full coverage?"
"Then you'll have peace of mind," Wan'er replied. "But remember—the more risks you insure, the higher the cost."
As they finalized the contract, Princess Taiping arrived unannounced, her crimson cloak trailing behind her. "What's this I hear about Islamic insurance?" she demanded. "Since when does my niece concern herself with foreign laws?"
Wan'er smiled. "Since foreign laws can be leveraged for profit, Aunt. Master Muhammad's caravan is worth 100,000 dinar—insuring it will bring the bank 20,000 dinar in premiums."
Taiping's eyes glittered. "And if the caravan is attacked?"
"Then we'll pay out 50,000 dinar," Wan'er said. "But according to my calculations, the probability of total loss is less than 3%."
The princess leaned closer, her voice low. "You're playing with fire, niece. The Tian Xian don't appreciate competition."
Before Wan'er could respond, Muhammad cleared his throat. "If I may, Khatun—there's another matter." He withdrew a velvet pouch and emptied its contents onto the desk: a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg, 镶嵌 in gold filigree. "This is the Eye of the Desert—a betrothal gift for the celestial princess."
Wan'er froze. "I'm flattered, Master Muhammad, but I—"
"—are unmarried," Taiping interrupted, her voice sweet. "And a woman in your position needs allies. What better ally than the wealthiest merchant in Samarkand?"
Muhammad bowed. "My offer includes a dowry of 500 camels, 100 dinar of gold, and the exclusive right to insure all my caravans through your bank."
Wan'er's mind raced. The dowry was tempting—enough to solidify her position as a financial power. But marriage to a foreigner would tie her to Samarkand, limiting her influence in Chang'an.
"I'll consider it," she said finally. "But first, I must consult the stars."
That evening, Wan'er visited the Mi Zhen Si archives beneath the imperial tombs. The old woman—the former bodyguard—awaited her, her scarred face illuminated by torchlight.
"You're considering Muhammad's proposal," she said. "A marriage of convenience."
Wan'er nodded. "It would give me access to Samarkand's trade routes. But I sense a trap."
The woman handed her a scroll. "Read this. It's the Mi Zhen Si's file on Muhammad ibn Suleiman."
The contents chilled her blood. Muhammad was not just a merchant—he was a qadi of the Assassins' Creed, tasked with infiltrating Tang through financial means. His "betrothal" was a cover for espionage.
"How did you get this?" Wan'er asked.
The woman smiled bitterly. "I was the one who recruited him—before he betrayed us." She pressed a dagger into Wan'er's hand, its hilt etched with the Mi Zhen Si star symbol. "Kill him. It's the only way to protect the empire."
Wan'er hesitated. Assassination? She was a financier, not a murderer. But if Muhammad's plans succeeded, the consequences could be catastrophic.
That night, she met Muhammad at the Yanzhi Bank, ostensibly to discuss wedding arrangements. As they stood on the moonlit balcony, she slipped the dagger into her sleeve.
"Your Highness seems distracted," Muhammad said, his voice silky. "Is it the marriage… or something else?"
Wan'er met his gaze steadily. "I know who you are—qadi of the Assassins. I know you're here to destabilize Tang."
Muhammad's smile vanished. "Then you also know I can't let you live."
He lunged for her, but Wan'er was faster. She drove the dagger into his chest, her hands shaking as blood soaked his silk tunic.
"You… were supposed to be smarter than this," he gasped, collapsing to the ground.
Wan'er stared at his corpse, her heart pounding. What have I done?
Before she could react, the sound of applause echoed through the bank. Princess Taiping emerged from the shadows, her eyes glittering with triumph.
"Well done, niece," she said. "You've just eliminated a threat… and proven your loyalty to the Mi Zhen Si."
Wan'er's blood ran cold. Taiping knew. The assassination had been a test—a test she'd passed, but at what cost?
The princess handed her a scroll. "Here's the takaful policy for Muhammad's caravan. It expires tomorrow."
As Taiping left, Wan'er unrolled the scroll. The terms were clear: if the caravan didn't arrive in three days, the Yanzhi Bank would be liable for 50,000 dinar—enough to bankrupt it.
This is no accident. Taiping had orchestrated Muhammad's assassination to force Wan'er into a corner. Now she had to choose: let the bank fail, or find a way to save it.
The next morning, Wan'er met with her nuxu scholars. "We need to find Muhammad's caravan," she said. "And fast."
They pored over maps and trade records, tracking the caravan's last known position. According to a 粟特商队,it had been ambushed by bandits near the Gobi Desert.
Wan'er made a decision. "We'll send a rescue mission. But first, we need to raise funds."
She activated her calculator, inputting data on the caravan's contents and estimated market value. "We'll issue caravan bonds," she announced. "Investors who buy them will receive a share of the spices' profits."
The scholars nodded, already drafting the prospectus. As they worked, Wan'er stared at the hu fu's star chart, now recognizing the constellation as the Mi Zhen Si's symbol for assassination.
This is what it means to play the game. Lives and fortunes hung in the balance, and she was both player and pawn.
That evening, as the rescue mission departed, Wan'er visited Pei Ji's quarters. He lay in bed, bandaged from the previous day's attack.
"You knew about Muhammad," she accused.
He nodded. "The Mi Zhen Si ordered his elimination. I tried to warn you, but—"
"—you were too late." Wan'er sighed. "I killed him, Pei. With this dagger."
She showed him the weapon, and his eyes widened. "That's the Starfall Dagger—only given to Mi Zhen Si assassins. How did you get it?"
"The old woman gave it to me." Wan'er hesitated. "She said she was my mother's bodyguard."
Pei Ji's face paled. "Your mother was the Mi Zhen Si's greatest agent. She died uncovering a plot to assassinate Emperor Xuanzong."
Wan'er's mind reeled. Mingyue's mother was a spy. And now she'd inherited her legacy—whether she wanted it or not.
As they spoke, a rider burst into the courtyard. "The caravan's been found!" he shouted. "The spices are safe!"
Wan'er collapsed into Pei Ji's arms, relief washing over her. "We did it."
He kissed her forehead. "You did it. Now rest. Tomorrow, we'll face whatever Taiping throws at us."
But as Wan'er drifted into exhausted sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that the Mi Zhen Si's web of secrets was tightening around her—one financial revolution at a time.