Lanterns woke along the square, one after another, until the ropes of light made a bright river over the crowd. The bell rope hung still. The judges sat in a row with hands folded, eyes on the kettles. Smoke from the food stalls drifted and then cleared as the evening breeze found its way down the stone street.
Zhang Wei stood across the ring, calm and pleased, his kettle already in place. He held a small cloth pouch between two fingers. When he shook it, something inside made a dry, tight sound, like small sticks rubbing together.
"A wager," he said. His voice did not need to be loud. The crowd leaned nearer without meaning to. "I put this on the table. Ironroot Shavings from the mountain's deep bark. A measure enough for three perfect pots. Hard to find, harder to buy, and hardest to use well."
He set the pouch on the plank between kettles. People at the rope line rose on their toes. The judges did not smile, but four heads tilted the slightest bit. That meant the thing was real.
Li Yun looked at the pouch, then at Zhang Wei's eyes. "What do you want from me," he asked.
"Not your coin," Zhang Wei said softly. "Not your new leaf. We both know the market would die if we dumped all the tricks on one table. I want something simple, and all of Willow Street will know it when they see it."
He touched the plain clay teapot at Li Yun's elbow with his gaze, not his hand. The teapot was not rare. It was old. The lid fit as if the clay had learned the pot's breath. The handle had been held so many times that the curve had taken on a memory of fingers. It had belonged to Li Yun's master. It had poured tea on the day Li Yun had taken the oath that made him a disciple. The thought brushed him like a hand on the back.
"My pot," Li Yun said.
"For a month," Zhang Wei said, quick but not cruel. "No breaking. No giving away. Only use. If I win, I will brew with it, in public, and the city will taste how that simple pot sings in my hands. If you win, I will give you these shavings and I will brew one pot in your teahouse… your leaf, your water, your rules, and I will call you master for the length of that brew. One cup. One call. A bow that everyone will remember."
A hush moved through the square. People did not often hear Zhang Wei offer his pride in a cup. Even Old Man Willow blinked. Mistress Han's mouth tightened, then eased as if she had weighed the coin inside the words and found it good currency.
Li Yun ran his fingertip along the teapot's rim. He could say no. He could make the match clean and leave the crowd to talk about cups instead of stakes. He looked at Zhang Wei again. The man's smile was not a knife. It was a challenge made by someone who wanted the shape of the story to be clear.
"Agreed," Li Yun said. "A month for the pot if I lose. A pot in my house and that one word if I win."
"Good," Zhang Wei said, and he brushed the pouch with the back of his knuckles. "Let us see then."
The clerk climbed the stool. "Wager recorded," he cried. "Rules stand. Aroma first, then taste, then clarity. Ten breaths after first pour. Begin on the bell."
Shy Lin settled on the plank by the rope, guqin across her knees. Old Man Willow stood at Li Yun's shoulder and said nothing. Mistress Han pressed a small packet into Li Yun's palm, then withdrew her hand.
"Silver Rain Water," she whispered. "For the second pot if you need it."
Li Yun nodded once and set the packet by the kettle. His breath found its calm place. He warmed the cups. He warmed the pot. He steadied the flame so it spoke softly, not loud, and waited for that small moment when the water in the kettle shifted from quiet to quick… then back to quiet again.
Across from him, Zhang Wei fed his fire a narrow finger of fuel and brought the water to that bright line where the first bubbles appear and do not break. His hands were neat. He moved like a calligrapher who knows where the stroke must end before it begins. He took a pinch of ironroot and let it fall through his fingers onto his leaf. The scent that lifted was mineral and deep, like rain in a cave. It did not shout. It pressed.
The bell rang.
Zhang Wei lifted his kettle and poured a thin silver stream. He kept the spout low, just a finger over the mouth of the pot. He did not circle. He did not shake. He breathed once, twice. He set the kettle down without a sound. The first cup came out clear with a faint gold. He made a small movement with his wrist and the steam rose straight, without spreading. Ironroot held the scent like a spine under silk. He set the first cup before the judges.
Nine breaths.
His second cup came at the tenth breath. The third at ten and a half. Judges leaned, inhaled, sipped. The middle judge closed his eyes for the length of two heartbeats. He did not smile. He did not frown. He simply waited for the taste to finish and placed his cup down in the same place it had been before. The others did the same. Three sticks lay still on the table between them, ready to lift in either direction when they had both drunk from both sides.
Li Yun let the ring narrow until the table and kettle were the only things he could see. He felt the old clay pot's weight through his palm. He lifted the lid and let the warmth touch his face. The crowd had become only a wind that rose and fell, soft then strong, then soft again.
He measured Moonbud Leaf and raised the kettle. Calm Pour. The stream fell like a thread. He did not chase speed. He let the water meet the leaf and then rest. He turned his wrist a fraction, just enough to send the stream along the edge of the pot, then straight to the center. A bright note rose. Then another behind it. The room in his chest opened.
He set the kettle down and took up a cup. He had warmed it well. It held heat like a small stone. He covered it, then lifted the lid the width of a breath and set it again. One… two… three… He did not count with numbers. He counted with the pace of the steam rising through the small gap each time he lifted and set. Lift, set, lift, set, lift, set… He did it three times, then poured.
Three Breath Aroma Lock was not a lid slammed on top to trap scent like a bug under glass. It was a door that you opened and closed three times so the room inside would breathe with you. When you finally opened it wide, the breath inside came out whole, not broken.
The aroma rose and did not scatter. It gathered like a pale ribbon above the cup, then drifted forward in a single sheet that the judges leaned into without noticing they had moved. It smelled clean at first, then sweet in a way that did not stick to the tongue, then cool, as if a spring had opened in the mind.
Nine breaths.
He set the first cup before them with both hands. Shy Lin plucked three notes, then rested. The crowd went quiet the way it had the night before. Even Copper Bell Jin forgot to shout.
Li Yun took the second cup and closed it again. Lift, set… lift, set… lift, set. He felt the lid and the cup speak to each other through the porcelain. Each small lift let the steam gather, then settle, then gather again. He watched the judges angle the first cup to the light, tipping it a little to see how the color held. Good. Clear. He had to keep it.
He looked down at the flame. Still low. Still steady. He looked up and found Zhang Wei watching his hands with a calm that was almost kind. Zhang Wei lifted his chin as if to say, I see what you learned. Now keep it steady when the world moves.
The world moved. A stray gust came through the square and made the banners snap. The rope line bowed and a child squealed as a paper lantern bobbed low. The judges did not move, but the air around them shifted. It was enough to pull at steam, enough to take a thin ribbon and tear it into mist if the cup was opened wrong.
Li Yun did not change his breath. He changed his angle. He kept the lid close, then opened it toward the wind so the first rise would push into the breeze and not be pulled by it. He poured and set the cup down. The scent that came out moved like a fish under water, flexing and then sliding the way it wanted to. It did not break.
Ten breaths.
The middle judge's mouth eased at the corner. The woman at the end of the table set her cup down very gently, as if it were a sleeping thing. The stick in her hand did not move yet. She would lift all three when she had tasted both brews.
Li Yun took the third cup. The kettle's song deepened by a hair as the flame kissed a little more heat from the coals. He did not feed it. He did not lower it. He let the water stay where it was and watched the small line of steam at the spout. Lift, set… lift, set… lift, set. The heat was perfect now, but perfect is a moment. If you hold it too long it will change. He poured and set the cup down and did not breathe for the length of a blink.
Ten breaths, and a half for luck.
The aroma rose a little slower and held a longer sweet tail. It was the same leaf as the first cup, and not the same cup. That was the point. He wanted the three to speak like a line of verse, each one finishing the last note of the one before.
On the far table, Zhang Wei bowed his head to the judges in a courteous line. Then he lifted his kettle again, not for them, but for the crowd. He poured a splash into an empty cup and tossed it into the air. The steam made a clean column and then disappeared. The crowd applauded without words. He had control and he knew it.
The judges leaned back. They took water to clear the mouth, the way proper judges do. They spoke to each other in low voices that no one else could hear. They did not talk long. Then they reached for the sticks.
One judge lifted a stick for Zhang Wei and a stick for Li Yun. The second judge did the same. The third judge took a little longer. He held one stick. He held the other. He smelled the cups again, then sipped the second cup from each side. His hand rose, paused, then settled.
Two for Li Yun. One for Zhang Wei.
But the match was not done. The clerk raised his hand. "Round of first pours counted. Second pours begin. Aroma holds, taste decides. You may change water if you declared it before the bell."
Mistress Han's small packet rested by Li Yun's elbow. He had declared it. He had not decided whether to use it. Silver Rain Water would sharpen the edges of aroma and lift a cool note, but it would also punish any roughness in the leaf. It was a water that says yes to skill and no to hurry.
He looked at his kettle. He looked at Zhang Wei's hands. Zhang Wei shook the ironroot pouch once more. The scent pressed again. That iron note would start to dominate if he did not balance it. It would make people feel strong for a breath and then tired after three. Judges like strength, but not if it leaves a stone on the tongue.
Shy Lin's fingers hovered over her strings. "Do you want it," she whispered, eyes on the packet.
"Listen first," Li Yun said, but he was not talking about music.
He brought the kettle close and let a drop fall on his wrist. Heat was right. He lifted the packet. He smelled it. It carried a high sky in the scent, thin and clear. He would use it for the second pot, not to overpower the first, but to set a brighter line over it. He nodded to the clerk and poured a measure into the kettle.
Zhang Wei smiled as if amused, then as if pleased. "Good," he said under his breath. "I was hoping you would not take the easy road."
"No road is easy," Li Yun said. "Only walked."
They began again.
Zhang Wei's second pour was like the first, only stronger. He drew out more earth from the ironroot and laid a narrow heat under it with a gentle lift in the finish. The aroma did not wander. It came straight. The taste held in the mouth like a weight that felt comforting for a moment and then had to be set down. He would win many cups with that. He might win this one.
Li Yun warmed the pot and cups again. He breathed with the kettle. He did not think of pot and month, of pride and bow. He thought of the sound of water over stones in early spring and of the way calm can carry a whole street when you let it.
He poured. The stream was thin. The sound was small. He did not cover the first cup. He let it open and speak as it wished. The scent that rose carried the clean of Moonbud and a new bright that the Silver Rain Water had drawn, a light note that hung over the rest like morning on a pond.
He closed the second cup and opened it once, then again, then once more. Three Breath Aroma Lock with light water made the scent gather and then step out in one smooth line. The judges leaned the way flowers lean when sun finds them. The crowd breathed in and sighed without meaning to.
He lifted the third cup, then paused.
The lantern nearest the judges flickered low and then bright. The rope above it creaked. A boy behind the line bumped another boy and knocked a stool, which knocked a board, which bumped the post at the corner of the ring. The post wobbled. A single trailing cord from a banner brushed the edge of Li Yun's cup.
Rules said no touching the brewer or tools, but a rope that sways is part of the street. The lid shifted under that brush, just a hair. Steam that had been gathered now had a door it had not asked to take.
A sound ran through the crowd, small and sharp, the sound people make when they watch a cup tip. Shy Lin's fingers froze above her strings. Old Man Willow's hand tightened on the rope.
Li Yun did not snatch. He did not slap the lid down. He lowered his eyes and listened. The steam that had been ready to rise was already moving. If he fought it, it would break. If he chased it, he would spill. He turned his wrist the smallest amount and let the lid pivot open with the steam. The scent came up in a longer curve, not the one he had planned, but not broken either. He poured… slow, steady… and set the cup down.
The ten breaths began. The judges leaned in. The wind shifted once, then settled. The aroma thinned, then thickened, like a river running over a shallow stone and then back to deep water. The taste would tell the last part. They lifted the cups and sipped.
Zhang Wei's mouth held a quick line. Not a smile. Not a frown. A question with teeth hidden behind it. He waited for the judges to place their sticks.
The middle judge looked at Li Yun's third cup as if it had said something he had not expected to hear. He glanced at the first cup, then the second. He spoke to the others in a voice that still did not carry. They nodded, then shook their heads, then nodded again.
The clerk took a breath to step up and call the count.
A hand touched the rope by the far post. A sleeve with pale thread. A hood that hid a face in the lantern wash. The hooded watcher had returned and stood still as a post that had been there since morning. The movement of evening went around that stillness. The air seemed to pause.
Li Yun did not look that way, but he felt the weight of a gaze settle on the small world of his kettle and cups. He set his hands flat on the table again and breathed once, deep and clear.
The clerk lifted his arm.
The judges raised their sticks…