The problem announced itself with shouting.
Not the distant kind that drifted and faded, but the sharp, immediate kind that pulled attention whether it wanted to or not. Liang Wei heard it before she saw it, voices raised near the supply wagons where the road narrowed and tempers tended to do the same.
She slowed, not stopping outright. Stopping made people look.
Two soldiers stood too close to each other, armor half-unfastened, faces flushed with exhaustion and something uglier underneath it. One had his hand wrapped in the other's collar. The other had his fist clenched, knuckles white, jaw trembling as if holding back more than words.
Someone had dropped a crate. Grain spilled across the dirt.
"Enough," Liang Wei said, not loud. Neither of them heard her.
She took another step forward, already measuring distance, angle, where she could wedge herself between them without turning it into a spectacle.
"Let go."
The voice cut through the noise cleanly. Not sharp. Not loud. Certain.
The hand on the collar loosened at once. Liang Wei stopped.
A man had stepped into the space between the two soldiers, moving with the ease of someone who did not expect to be challenged. He was taller than most, broad-shouldered without being bulky, his armor worn smooth in places where others were still dented and scarred. Northern make, she noted automatically. Heavy. Practical.
He did not raise his voice again.
"You," he said to the first soldier. "Back up."
The man obeyed.
"You," to the second. "Pick up the crate."
The second soldier hesitated, then crouched and began gathering spilled grain with clumsy, shaking hands. No threats. No punishment. No names invoked. The tension drained out of the space like water finding a crack.
"Return to your unit," the man said when the crate was righted. "Both of you. Separately."
They left without argument. Only then did the surrounding soldiers breathe again. Someone muttered. Someone laughed, a little too loudly. The road resumed its rhythm.
Liang Wei stayed where she was, watching.
The man turned, eyes sweeping the area once more before settling on her. They were pale. Northern eyes. "Problem?" he asked.
"No," Liang Wei said. "It's resolved."
Something flickered across his expression. Not surprise. Recognition. "Good," he said. "That saves time."
He should have walked away. Instead, his gaze dropped briefly to her spear. Not with curiosity. With understanding. "You're Liang Wei," he said.
She did not ask how he knew. "Yes."
"Lì Běichén," he replied. "Recently returned."
Returned. Not transferred. Not promoted. That word carried weight. She inclined her head, just enough to be polite.
"You saw the problem," he said.
"Yes."
"And chose not to act."
"I was about to," she said.
He studied her a moment longer, then nodded. "Then you understand restraint." She wasn't sure if that was approval or warning.
Around them, movement resumed fully. Soldiers passed, carts creaked, orders were called and answered. The moment should have ended there. It didn't.
"A soldier who sees disorder and waits," Lì Běichén said, conversationally, "either trusts someone else to handle it—or serves no one at all."
Liang Wei felt the words land before she decided to answer.
"A soldier who serves no one," she said evenly, "cannot be used."
He smiled faintly at that. "A soldier who serves no one," he said, "still serves something. Survival. Pride. Fear. At least loyalty has a name."
The resemblance struck her then. Not in face or voice, but in posture. In certainty. In the way the world seemed to arrange itself around him without effort.
Wei Yunfeng.
Her grip tightened on the spear before she caught herself.
"You don't agree," Lì Běichén observed.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to."
They stood there a moment longer, neither yielding ground, neither escalating. It might have ended quietly after all, if he hadn't spoken again. "Show me," he said.
A few heads turned.
"Show you what?" Liang Wei asked.
"What you would have done," he replied. "If I hadn't stepped in." This time, the attention held.
"I'm on courier rotation," she said. "I have no authority here." A reasonable refusal.
Lì Běichén tilted his head. "Are you afraid?"
The question wasn't loud. But it carried. Several soldiers looked directly at her now. Someone shifted closer. Someone else grinned, anticipating a diversion.
Liang Wei measured the space. Commander Zhou stood farther down the road, half-turned as if in conversation, but his attention had settled unmistakably on them.
Running would draw notice.
Refusing again would look like weakness.
She exhaled once.
"Yes," she said.
The honesty unsettled them more than bravado would have.
"Good," Lì Běichén said. "Then you'll be careful."
He stepped back and gestured to the open stretch of ground beside the road. "Once. No blades."
Murmurs spread. A loose circle formed without instruction.
Liang Wei moved into the space with visible reluctance, spear in hand. She did not remove her armor. Neither did he.
"First one to disarm. That's it." He said.
She nodded.
They faced each other.
Lì Běichén advanced first. Not fast. Testing. His movements were economical, confident, the kind that came from years of repetition rather than flair.
She gave ground deliberately, letting him think she favored defense.
When he reached for her spear shaft, she shifted her grip and stepped inside his reach, twisting sharply. Not to strike, but to redirect. The spear slid under his arm. Her foot hooked behind his ankle. She didn't force it. She let gravity finish the argument.
Lì Běichén hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The spear rested against his throat. The circle went very quiet. Liang Wei stepped back at once and lowered the weapon.
"That would have ended it," she said, simply.
He sat up slowly, studying her with new attention. Commander Zhou approached then, breaking the moment without comment. The soldiers dispersed at once, disappointment mixing with unease.
Lì Běichén rose to his feet, dusting off his armor. "Interesting," he said. "You hide well."
She said nothing.
"I look forward to seeing what you do when you stop," he added.
"I don't intend to," Liang Wei replied.
His smile returned, thin and unreadable. "We'll see." He turned and walked away without another word.
The road resumed its noise. Orders were shouted. Movement swallowed the space they had occupied. Liang Wei stood where she was a moment longer, heart steady, face blank.
First Wei.
Now Li.
She adjusted her grip on the spear and resumed her duties without looking back. Above them, unseen, riders moved farther down the road.
And somewhere behind careful eyes, Commander Zhou began to revise his expectations.