Gan Mao was in a good mood. A very good mood, indeed. His raid on Xiǎo Chéngshì had been a success. They'd only lost twelve men to violence (and another twelve to Confucianism), and of those, half had been disciples of his second in command…

Some might say it was harsh of him to try and keep his second in command in check through violence, especially given said second's brilliance in architecting the downfall of Hong's allies (and, dare he say, the exile of Hong himself), but the second himself didn't mind. After all, such killings merely delayed his ascension to head of the sect; they wouldn't stop it.

But moving on. They had captured Yue, the lady who Tou Tong had discovered to be Hong's girlfriend, and taken her to the castle fortress of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect. There she was forced down before Gan's throne, while the master of the demonic sect cackled mirthlessly, the folds of his fleshy face bending horribly as they sought to accommodate his morbid grin.

“So… I see you've fallen right into our paws,” Gan gloated. Yue just sat there blandly, looking almost bored. Gan waited for her to say something - to beg for mercy, or stamp her feet in rage, or even only to burst into tears - until, finally giving up, he waved her off in disgust and continued his triumphant monologue. “If Hong and his sidekick don't die to our men, then doubtless they'll come here to rescue you, and will die to our men then.”

Gan Mao cackled. “Perfect, perfect. Now we just need to wait for them to arrive, and they’ll fall right into our trap.”

Ke Sou coughed. “About that… I’m afraid they won’t be coming, sir.”

Gan Mao was silent. Very silent. Dangerously silent. Ke Sou coughed again, and continued. “Our agents waited to see if there was an opportunity to ambush them on the road, but when there was no sign of them they went to the room Hong was renting and found it, well, empty. Questioning the innkeeper revealed that the both of them have been gone for nearly a week.”

Further silence. Ke Sou cringed and continued his story, moving his hands feebly as if to better justify his incompetence. “We figured they might have gone to another hotel, perhaps in a nearby village, or even one of the secret realms. But further searches proved… most unsatisfactory, shall we say. He was in none of the villages, nor the secret realms, nor the hideaways and hidey holes and nooks and hooks and grannies and crannies which so oft suffice as a place to flee from the weight of the world, i.e. the forces of daemonism (us). He has, so far as we can see, vanished en toto.”

Finally, not silence, but the rumbling of an earthquake. “So you’re telling me… that we kidnapped Hong’s girl… when he wasn’t even present to come after her.”

The Flaming Bloody Organs Sect’s fourth in command Yu Zheng clenched his teeth, and looked like he was about to speak up in Ke’s defense, but Gan raised a hand to silence him. The patriarch of the demonic cult stroked his second chin pensively, thinking about his next move. Finally he turned to Yue, who - bored out of her mind - had given up on sitting placidly and had instead been hopping around counting the dents in the woodwork.

“So, if he’s not here, then where is he?” He asked.

“Three hundred forty seven dents, two hundred fifteen bumps, and sixty six grooves, following the Yukou System of Classification.”

“ …I beg your pardon?” This remark was not quite a question, for Gan was so stupefied that it dropped out of his mouth quite unbidden, and without the lilting tone so often tacked onto questioning phrases. Yue looked at him triumphantly, arching her head in pride.

“That’s the number of inconsistencies in this hall’s columns, following the latest in scientific schemas for bump classification.”

“There’s a scientific schema for bump classification?”

“Of course! It was invented by Professor Yukou, a transmigrator of German extraction who specialises in the qualitative distinctions between imperfections in countertops and-”

“WAIT, hold on just a moment… I feel we’re off topic here.” Gan Mao drew a knife. “Tell me where Hong Yu is.”

Yue pouted. “You really are a demonic cultivator… no appreciation for the finer things in life (like bump classification). I'll happily tell you where he is, but it won't do you any good. He’s in Stivale, on a business trip. Him and Mu are attending a workshop on stone oven repair hosted by Repairzzeria, the Stivalian pizzeria repair sect.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Gan Mao’s eyes widened, his normally pale flesh turning a dark red, though whether it was just from anger or from his xie qi none could tell. “So you’re telling me that the guy we’re looking for isn’t even on the same continent as us, and not one of the spies noticed he was leaving?”

Yue raised her arms in mock surrender, her poorly done bindings falling about her as she did. “Hey, don’t blame me. We even threw him a going away party as a thanks for all his hard work.”

Yu Zheng blanched. “Wait… you mean that wasn’t just a regular festival?”

Yue didn't respond - not because the answer was obvious (it was, but that was no excuse for rudeness), nor because she didn't want to give it (she would have done so, if not happily, then certainly without any great burst of emotion), nor even because the question was purely rhetorical. She didn't respond because before she could even begin to do so, Yu Zheng had already been sent flying backwards into the wall.

Gan idly wiped a speck of blood from his hand, then once more addressed Yue, his voice making clear that he was only barely keeping his anger in check. “So if Hong is not here, but in Stivale, then you must have some way to contact him.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, ‘Nope’? You must have some way to reach him!”

“Noooo… why would I?” Yue replied, her eyes coming together in confusion.

“Well I don't know - maybe because you're his girlfriend?” Gan snarled.

Silence.

More silence.

Yet more silence.

Then- “Pffft. Wuwahahaha. Wait, wait, wait, you thought I was his girlfriend? Actually?”

“…Uhh, yes?”

Yue leaned over in a full belly laugh, wiping a tear from her eye. “Oh man, that’s hilarious. No, no - he’s a wonderful man, but he’s a bit too old for me, I’m afraid.”

She forced herself back upright, so as to address the watching and flabbergasted demonic cultivators with some measure of respect. “No - ha - no, we’re not dating. Never have been. We’re just acquaintances, you know?”

“Really?” Gan Mao whispered, glaring into thin air, in the vague direction of where he thought his chief strategist might be. “Not his girlfriend, you say. I do wonder what Tou Tong would have to say about this, what with his being the one to bring me the information.”

And Tou Tong would have had a great deal to say indeed, all of it in his defence, and all of it expertly reasoned, had not the Editor been successful in forcing the door. As Tou Tong’s villainous plan to kidnap Yue was falling to pieces he was defending the manuscript from the Editor with his life, wielding a sword with one hand and writing these words with the other.

“Information, you say? If I may ask, what’s your information network like?” Yue asked politely, desperately trying to keep herself from laughing.

“En garde, you briggand! - Come, and face your death like the man you could be, and not the dog you are,” the Editor swore, and tried in vain to skewer Tou Tong with a marshmallow toasting fork.

“What was that sound?” Gan asked inquisitively. The floor shook briefly as Tou Tong, one otherworld over in the Author’s office, activated an explosive technique, determined to maintain control of the story at all costs.

“Probably some sort of cosmic sympathy,” Yu Zheng replied vaguely, having successfully extricated himself from the castle wall. Gan raised one eyebrow sceptically, but nonetheless motioned for Ke Sou (who was nominally in charge of information gathering, as Tou Tong would have aggressively pointed out) to address Yue’s question.

“Information network… we don’t really have one,” Ke Sou conceded. He started as Yue gazed at him in unabashed disgust, and tried in vain to defend himself. “There just never seemed a need, you see. We were always able to deal with information needs on a case by case basis.”

The Editor threw aside the charred remnants of his marshmallow toasting fork, and whipped out a large piece of PVC piping. The cat corsair pointed his firearm at Tou’s head. “Behold, my Divine Heavenly Numinous Potato Gun! Prepare to face the wrath of my splendiferous spuds, and— now!”

And at his command the Intern burst through the office window. He charged Tou Tong, waving a giant pencil sharpener in the air and screaming incoherently.

Yue was aghast at Ke’s execrable explanation. “You don’t have an information network? Literally not one? How do you expect to keep up with the demands of the aggressive, fast-paced, forward-oriented modern business world without a viable information network? No wonder you’re so pathetic.”

Realising he stood no chance fighting the treacherous Editor and Intern - not when they’d so cowardly flanked him in this way - Tou Tong pulled out a small, grey, egg-like object. “Smoke bomb!” he cried, and threw it on the ground, and as the purplish and foul smelling smoke filled the room affected his escape to the sound of the Author’s companions coughing.

Ke waved his hands like a pathetic and backwards person. “Oh, you know, we make do.”

And it was at that moment that Gan finally lost control of his anger, and decided that now was the perfect opportunity to teach his subordinates how to avoid a grapple for the throat.