Beneath them, Wu An ascended through darkness that kept forgetting its shape. The stairway folded upward, down, inward, until direction itself broke like bone. His hands glowed with threads of silver, the veins no longer his own. Around him the city's foundations whispered the prayers of those who had built it centuries ago and been swallowed for their diligence.
He emerged into what had once been daylight. The false sun and the true hung together, one devouring the other until only a single ring remained. The soldiers guarding the courtyard saw him rise from the cracked tiles and fell to their knees, half from faith, half from instinct. For a moment, Wu An looked like salvation.
Then the earth under his feet began to bleed. The blood smoked where it touched air, spelling words no one could read.
Shen Yue staggered out behind him, voice a rasp. "What have you done?"
"Opened the rest of the bridge," he said. "Father built the first half. It's rude to leave a task unfinished."
The light that crowned him pulsed once, twice. The city shuddered. Far away, bells collapsed into dust.
At Hei Fort, the Lord Protector sat in his command tent with a single lantern. Maps lay before him, edges singed from the retreat. He stared at them until the lines blurred into rivers that refused to stay still.
A scout entered, armor dented, face gray. "The South has withdrawn beyond the marshes. They've left their dead. Shall we pursue?"
"No." The old man's voice was low but steady. "They've lost too much to fight. So have we."
He poured a cup of cold wine and drank without tasting. The river outside still murmured, though no wind moved it. "Send word to the capital," he said. "Tell them the line holds."
The scout hesitated. "And if they ask for more?"
"Tell them we can give no more men. Only faith." He looked at the map again, at the spot where the river curved like a wound stitched wrong. "And if they no longer have that, they'll have to find something else."
When the tent emptied, he allowed the mask to slip. His hands trembled over the map, tracing invisible paths. There were still old alliances buried under the ashes of wars, and debts owed by men who believed him long dead. A plan stirred, faint as breath before dawn. He could not yet name it, but it moved with the patience of roots.
Outside, the river gave a sigh that might have been his own. He looked toward the north, toward the faint glow rising from Ling An. "Hold a while longer," he murmured to no one. "I'll find the other shore."
The lantern guttered. For an instant, its flame shaped itself into a lotus before vanishing.
In Zhou's imperial city, the true Emperor received the news of the stalemate with the mild expression of a man hearing of weather. "A peace bought by exhaustion," he said. "Perfect."
He signed a decree in calm strokes. "Send condolences to both courts. Congratulate Nan He Wang on his endurance. Prepare an army of aid. And—" here his pen paused—"have the northern legions ready to march. Slowly."
A minister dared to ask, "March where, Your Majesty?"
The Emperor smiled, thin as a knife's edge. "Wherever bridges stand. When they collapse, we'll be waiting on the far side."
He rose and walked to the balcony. The sky beyond the palace glowed faintly red, the color of lotus petals bruised underfoot. "Heaven shifts," he said. "We should be ready to inherit what falls."
Far to the south, the River Hei turned once more upon itself, the motion widening into an eye. In its center, light spiraled upward, and the reflection of the world began to eat the world itself. The bridge was awake, and it was hungry.