Chapter 3: The Key to Breaking the Deadlock

The echoes of the night bell had barely faded before Musa was already hugging the shadows of the city wall, slipping toward the west wall of the South City Branch Residence. The moonlight, sliced into fragments by the clouds, dappled the weathered masonry in shifting shades of grey. He held his breath, pressing his ear against the bricks for a long moment. Only after confirming the courtyard was silent did he crouch down and dig his fingers into the soil at the base of the wall.

His fingertips searched through the damp, cold earth until they brushed against a piece of rusted iron. It was the old key his father had buried years ago; the teeth were corroded, but the shape of the residence's secret lock was still recognizable. The rust grated against his palm with a lingering, ancient chill, feeling like the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder one last time. Gripping the iron tight, he vaulted over the wall.

Overgrown weeds reached past his knees in the courtyard, and the window frames had partially collapsed. Moonlight slanted between the corridor pillars, staining everything a ghostly white. The wind whistled through the torn window paper, sounding like a faint, distant sob. He remembered this path. His father had brought him here three times as a child, and every single time, they had bypassed the main hall and headed straight for the study in the southeast corner. His father always said that the things in that room were worth more than the entire estate.

He hadn't understood it then; he only remembered how light his father’s footsteps were, as if he were afraid of waking something. Now, standing here alone with the weeds rustling against his boots, he vaguely understood that lightness—it was the ingrained alertness of a man who had spent his life living in the shadows.

The study door was ajar, the lock long since pried open. He stepped inside, his boots crushing a carpet of dried parchment. The scraps of paper looked deathly pale under the moonlight, like shredded old letters. His gaze swept across the bookshelves and landed on the third floorboard from the wall—there was a thin crack there, hidden under a layer of dust. He knelt, used the tip of the key to pry up the board, and found an iron box nestled beneath.

The surface of the box was covered in a thin layer of rust, but the keyhole was clean, as if it had been regularly polished. The key fit the lock perfectly, turning with a heavy *clack* that sounded unnervingly loud in the silence. The lid popped open to reveal a red velvet lining, and resting inside was a Brass Key. Its handle was engraved with intricate patterns, resembling some kind of ancient royal seal.

He picked up the key, his fingertips tracing the engravings. It felt warm, as if it had just been handed to him by someone. Just as he tucked the key into his inner pocket, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed from outside the courtyard.

"Search everywhere! Don't miss a single room!" That was Khalid’s voice—hoarse, accompanied by the sharp clatter of iron gear. Musa held his breath, peering through the doorframe into the yard. Torchlight flooded in from the main entrance; at least seven or eight figures were sweeping in from two different directions. The fire stretched the shadows of the pillars into long, chaotic shapes, like a pack of clawing beasts.

He retreated into the corridor. He remembered a derelict narrow alley in the southeast corner that ended in a collapsed wall—his father had mentioned years ago that the wall was overdue for demolition. He hurried past the pillars and, upon reaching the alley entrance, intentionally scraped his heel against a wooden post. The resulting screech was piercing. Then, he vanished into the dark.

As expected, Khalid followed the sound. A torch illuminated the alley entrance. "Someone's over there! After him!" Footsteps thundered into the narrow passage. At the end of the alley, Musa kicked off the wall and leaped onto the roof. Looking back, he saw the pursuers crowding into the depths of the lane, their torches turning the narrow space into a blur of flickering orange and shifting silhouettes.

The leader raised his torch and spotted the half-collapsed wall. Just as he started to turn back, Musa kicked a loose stone from the roof. It crashed down, triggering a landslide of masonry that slammed shut the alley entrance. Dust billowed up, leaving the pursuers coughing violently. Khalid’s muffled roar came from behind the wall: "You bastards! Tear it down!"

The shout was smothered by the dust, sounding as if it were being crushed by the stones.

Musa sprinted along the roofline, leaping over two eaves. As he dropped toward the main courtyard, a line of torches suddenly flared up before the gate. A squad of Imperial Guards stood in polished armor, led by a man on horseback: Hafiz. The fire lit up his grim face, his armor gleaming with a cold light. His gaze swept over Musa, then toward the alley, and he asked in a low voice, "What is going on here?"

Khalid screamed from behind the wall, "Commander Hafiz! An intruder broke in! I've got him pinned in the southeast alley!" Hafiz narrowed his eyes. He didn't answer immediately; instead, he urged his horse forward a few steps, the torchlight illuminating the side of Musa's face.

"You." Hafiz stared at him, his voice dropping. "The mark on your wrist. Show it." Musa didn't move at first, then slowly lifted his arm. His sleeve slid back, revealing a dark mark on his wrist that shimmered with a faint blue hue under the firelight. Hafiz’s expression froze. He slid off his horse and stepped quickly toward him, whispering, "You are Musa."

It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact. Musa remained silent for a moment before replying, "You have the wrong man." Hafiz let out a cold sneer, keeping his voice low. "Don't play games with me. I've seen the seal on the parchment in your father's study more than once. You are of the royal bloodline—the one who was cast out."

He paused, then waved his hand, signaling the guards to let Khalid and his men out from behind the wall.

"Commander!" Khalid crawled out, covered in dust and grime, pointing a finger at Musa. "This man trespassed into a seized estate! By law, he must be arrested!" Hafiz didn't even look back. "He is with me. I arranged for him to retrieve some old belongings tonight."

Khalid froze, his eyes darting between the two men. Finally, he gritted his teeth and bowed his head. "If he is the Commander's man, this subordinate takes his leave." He led his men away, their footsteps fading and the circles of torchlight dimming.

Only the crackle of the torches remained in the courtyard. Hafiz turned, his voice hushed. "Your father treated me well in his time. But listen closely—Abdul is backed by the Chamber of Commerce. The entire gold market syndicate is on his side. Bloodline alone won't save your life."

He raised a hand to stop Musa from speaking. "I can shield you this once, but I cannot do it a second time. Leave the south city before sunrise tomorrow."

With that, he mounted his horse and led his squad away. The sound of hooves on the stone road echoed in a dull rhythm before vanishing into the night.

Musa stood alone in the courtyard as the night wind swirled the dust. He looked down at the mark on his wrist; the patterns felt slightly hot under the moonlight. The Brass Key pressed against his inner pocket, heavy, as if it carried the weight of a thousand old secrets. In the distance, the night bell tolled once more, the sound rippling through the empty courtyard like a whisper in his ear. He turned and vanished into the shadows of the alleys.

Musa crossed three different lanes before stopping at the end of a dead-end alley. Silence trailed behind him; no one was following. He leaned his back against a stone wall and slowly let out a breath.

He reached into his pocket; the Brass Key was still there. The seal felt warm against his palm. He closed his eyes, and his father's voice echoed in his mind: *The cellar of the branch residence, the third brick—the key is underneath. The key opens a secret compartment in the bookcase, and inside that compartment is a letter of trust. The Chamber of Commerce recognizes only the seal, not the man.*

He opened his eyes. The South City Branch Residence had been seized; there was a high probability the secret compartment in the bookcase had already been looted. But since his father had left the key in the house, he must have been certain the compartment was hidden deep enough that the searchers wouldn't find it.

Musa turned and headed back toward the residence.

Half an hour later, he climbed back up the rope ladder from the backyard well, drenched from head to toe, clutching an oilcloth bundle. The cellar had indeed been ransacked, but the compartment behind the third brick was still there—the looters had only searched the obvious spots and hadn't touched the masonry. Inside the oilcloth bundle was the parchment letter of trust.

He hid the bundle close to his body and hurried through the edge of the south city night market. The area was chaotic, crowded with wine stalls, incense shops, and street performers. He pulled his hat low and blended into the crowd.

Just as he was about to exit the market, a hand clamped onto his shoulder from the side. Musa stiffened, ready to strike back, but the man whispered, "Young Master, it's me."

It was his father's old servant, the elderly butler Bashir. He looked much older than before, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Bashir pulled him into a narrow alley, looked around cautiously, and whispered, "Young Master, you cannot return to the south city tonight. Abdul is hosting a banquet for the seven directors of the Chamber of Commerce. At the table, he personally mentioned that a 'vital item' had gone missing from the branch residence, and he suspects you took it.

The Chamber of Commerce has already put out the word: whoever recovers that item will be granted half a pier."

Musa frowned. Half a pier—the Chamber was trying to use him to force his father's trust into the open. He gripped the parchment in his pocket, his fingertips turning cold.

Bashir lowered his voice further. "One more thing. After Commander Hafiz left, Abdul's men sneaked into the residence and tore through the cellar. They didn't find anything, but they are suspicious. Young Master, you absolutely cannot stay in the south city tonight. Either go to the north city or leave the city entirely."

Musa pondered for a moment, then asked, "Who else in the south city is still loyal to my father?"

Bashir shook his head. "Everyone who could leave has gone. Only an old bone like me remains to guard the old house. Young Master, my life is worth nothing. If you must leave, I will draw the pursuers away for you."

Musa pressed his hand down on the old man's arm. "No need. The fact that you are still alive makes you a piece my father left on the board. Go back to the old house and live as usual. If anyone asks, tell them you haven't seen me."

Bashir froze, his eyes reddening as he nodded. He turned and disappeared at the mouth of the alley.

Musa stood alone in the dark, carefully re-rolling the parchment. The wind swept through the alley, carrying the scent of wine and the sound of laughter from the distant banquet. He pressed the oilcloth bundle tighter against his chest and turned north, merging into the long street.

The night bell tolled three times. The lights of the south city extinguished one by one, leaving only the glow of the Chamber of Commerce banquet. Musa stopped at a street corner and looked back. In the firelight, he could vaguely see figures moving, searching the area.

He looked away and quickened his pace. The oilcloth bundle pressed against his chest, weighing down his heartbeat like the weight of half the city.