Lace Glory Universe King GL - Chapter 30

Night draped Chang’an like ink. The Western Market had already shed the noise of day, leaving only a few lonely lanterns swaying in the wind. Yun Ying tightened the collar of her cloak and slipped into a near-deserted tavern.

This tavern had no signboard. It was dim and cluttered, with a few drunken patrons scattered about. The shopkeeper, slouched behind the counter, was dozing off and didn’t even lift his head at her footsteps. Yun Ying walked straight toward the innermost private room. The wooden door creaked open, and under the candlelight sat Jing, leaning lazily by the window, a bronze coin twirling between her fingers. Her silver hair shimmered in the glow, making her black pupils appear even deeper.

“You’re late,” Jing said coolly. The coin flipped once more, then came to rest in her hand.

Yun Ying removed her cloak, revealing a crisp red-and-white tunic. She casually poured a cup of cold tea and drained it in one go. “The paperwork at the Court of Judicial Review was delayed.” Setting down the cup, she got straight to the point. “That ‘birdman’ case in the Western Market—have you heard anything?”

Jing let out a soft laugh, dropping the coin onto the table with a ding.

“Just street rumors. A thief pretending to be some phantom—worth your personal visit?” She leaned closer, the candlelight casting shadows across her near-perfect features. “Or is it simply… an excuse to see me?”

Yun Ying frowned, tapping her fingers on the table twice. “Don’t flatter yourself. This case is strange. The so-called birdman may be connected to the winged tribe wiped out at Yunmeng Marsh years ago.”

“Oh?” Jing’s finger traced the rim of her cup, her tone casual. “Then I’ll keep an eye out.” Suddenly, she reached forward and lightly pressed Yun Ying’s wrist as she tried to withdraw her hand. “What’s the rush? The night is still long—stay a while.”

Yun Ying pulled free, stood, and drew her cloak around her shoulders. “I’m on duty, no time for games.” She pushed the door open. The stale air of the tavern corridor rushed in, making the candle flame flicker.

Jing’s voice followed her softly: “Next time you want information… bring a good bottle of wine.”

Without pausing, Yun Ying disappeared into the night. Jing chuckled faintly and snuffed out the candle.

In truth, Yun Ying never dared linger too long—this troublesome informant was always capable of making mischief.

Mischief?

A year ago, while investigating the Mirage Organization, she had met this silver-haired assassin. Later, she happened to save her life. Since then, Jing had broken from the Mirage and become a free assassin.

Yun Ying always drew a firm line between duty and personal life. Yet Jing showed keen interest in her, contriving chance encounters. Eventually, they struck a bargain: Jing would serve as Yun Ying’s underground source, trading palace secrets for information from the underworld.

This arrangement had lasted nearly half a year. Jing was bold, never hiding her feelings. Yun Ying had made her stance clear: during work, no personal entanglements.

“So when does Little Yun step off duty?” Jing once teased.

“The Court of Judicial Review is on call twenty-four hours,” Yun Ying replied, face set in workaholic resolve.

“Well then, worse than the Mirage itself for squeezing its people.” Jing had pouted, though not without amusement. “No matter. I’ll wait. Sooner or later, you’ll have free time.”

“Wait until I resign my post at old age,” Yun Ying shot back.

But such a distant promise only fanned her pursuer’s resolve—it sounded like a veiled consent. Jing relished the chase, finding it more exhilarating than anything before.

The next morning, Yun Ying entered the Court in her pale white uniform, fingers unconsciously stroking the token at her waist—a habit whenever she weighed a case.

“My Lady, another report from the Western Market. Witnesses saw the flying monster again. Descriptions match the ‘birdman.’ Thankfully, no injuries this time.” A night patrol officer, voice low, looked uneasy.

Yun Ying arched her brow. “The third report this month. Where exactly?”

Unrolling the dispatch on her desk, she marked the location.

“Qingshi Street, near the Big Seal stall.”

She circled the spot. The three incidents clustered tightly together—a neighborhood dense with foreigners and Heluo migrants.

The alleys of the Western Market were narrower than its main streets, moonlight sliced into fragments by tall walls, scattering across the cobblestones. Yun Ying signaled the constables to fan out while she slipped into the deepest lane. Her boots barely sounded on the damp stones—an art honed from years of pursuit.

Suddenly, a faint rush of air swept overhead. Yun Ying snapped her gaze upward. A black shadow darted between the rooftops—far too fast for any human.

“Stop!” Her voice rang out as she sprinted after it.

The shadow seemed injured, its flight path erratic. She chased through several alleys until it collapsed in a dead end. Moonlight broke through clouds, illuminating the figure cowering against the wall.

It was a young woman. Blood smeared her pale face. Most striking of all—behind her spread only a single black wing. The other side was a gaping wound, feathers matted in dried blood.

“A winged one?” Yun Ying drew a sharp breath, her hand on her sword hilt. The winged tribe was said to have perished two decades ago.

The girl—or rather, the winged survivor—lifted her head. Golden pupils glowed beast-like in the moonlight, unlike any human gaze. She tried to rise but staggered under her wounds.

Yun Ying’s tone was firm: “I am Yun Ying, Vice Minister of the Court of Judicial Review. Who are you, and why are you in Chang’an?”

The winged woman let out a bitter smile but gave no answer.

Before Yun Ying could act, her remaining wing flared wide. A storm of crimson feather-blades spun around her, each radiating decay and death. With a whirl, she vanished into the dark.

At the corner, Yun Ying picked up a single black feather she left behind.

When the third watch bell tolled, Yun Ying shed her robes and donned indigo battle garb, a short sword at her waist. She avoided the bustling streets and slipped to the outskirts.

Jing’s lairs shifted constantly, but Yun Ying knew where to find her tonight—an obscure teahouse at the northern end of Pingkang Ward. The warped door groaned open, releasing a stale mix of tea and mildew. The hall lay empty, lit only by a flickering oil lamp.

“Little Yun visits so late—could it be you missed me?” A lazy voice floated down. Yun Ying looked up. Jing reclined across a beam above, clad in sky-blue nightwear that glimmered faintly.

“Jing,” Yun Ying addressed her directly. “Any leads from last time?”

“I have no lackeys and no palace spies. Naturally—nothing.” Her tone carried a trace of reproach.

“Then look at this.” Yun Ying drew the black feather from her sleeve. “Found where the birdman appeared.”

Jing flipped lightly down, landing without a sound. Taller by half a head, she reached for the feather, but Yun Ying snapped her hand back.

“This is crucial evidence. Don’t ruin it with your mirror-analysis tricks again,” Yun Ying warned.

“Still holding on to that old mistake?” Jing smirked, taking the feather.

Yun Ying studied her expression—she was an expert at reading such tells. Jing likely recognized it.

“Well?”

“You came to the right person.” Jing’s eyes lifted from the feather, but she said no more.

“What’s the price?” Yun Ying knew her well.

A low laugh, her cold gaze curving like a crescent moon. “Little Yun is still so unromantic.” She leaned in close, breath warm against Yun Ying’s ear. “All I want… is you. For one night.”

Yun Ying flinched, stepping back. “You’ve overstepped.”

“Tomorrow at dusk. Drunken Immortal Pavilion, Heaven Room. Miss it, and the chance is gone.” Jing returned the feather calmly.

The stern young officer left helpless, and Jing delighted in that sight.

By evening, Yun Ying stood outside the pavilion, brows knitted.

The Heaven Room occupied the top floor. A servant, impassive, led her to the final door, gesturing her inside. Yun Ying pushed it open. The chamber brimmed with luxury—Western carpets spread across the floor, misty landscapes adorned the walls. Jing leaned by the window, holding a white jade teacup.

“I can’t tell good tea from bad here. Try it,” Jing said lightly.

Yun Ying strode forward, drained the waiting cup without comment. “Enough. Speak.”

Jing closed the window slowly, then sat, pouring herself another cup. “Why rush? The night has only begun.”

At Yun Ying’s scowl, she sighed. “The feather is from the Yunmeng Marsh tribe. But the black feather you gave me—belongs to only one.”

“High Priest Dongjun. Or rather, former High Priest… Ying.”

“But she died during the Calamity of No-Return, didn’t she?” Yun Ying frowned. “That’s what the Records of Yunmeng Marsh state.”

“Indeed.” Jing’s tone grew grave, fingers caressing the cup’s rim. “The tribe was annihilated. Yet Dongjun was revived. Only three knew: Taiyi, the Grand Fatekeeper, and the Mirage Organization.”

Yun Ying recalled the wounded woman she had seen that night. “She was clearly injured, fighting someone in Chang’an.”

“That much I don’t know. But it must tie to the winged clan.” Jing finally sipped her tea. “And with that—the workday ends, don’t you think?”

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