Fully Polished English Version — Purified of All Chinese Residue
The snow ceased in that lifeless hour before dawn, when cold settles so deep it feels eternal.
Lu Wanning lifted the medical tent's hemp curtain, her breath leaving a transient scar in the dark. Inside, two oil lamps burned with the sickly glow of a fever patient's eyes, barely illuminating three rows of straw mats. Each held a body—some unconscious, some staring at the ceiling with pupils that reflected no light.
She knelt beside the innermost mat. The young soldier's bandage wept dark red at the shoulder, but the wound wasn't the concern. It was his eyes.
"Name." Her voice held the clinical precision of a needle finding its point.
His mouth worked. No sound emerged.
"What are you called?" A Li-silver needle appeared between her fingers.
"I…" His brow furrowed, searching some misplaced drawer of memory. "Wang… Wang Two? No… perhaps Li…"
The needle halted half an inch from his temple. Wanning's heterochromatic eyes narrowed in the gloom.
The third one.
Since midnight, the third patient showing memory fragmentation. Not from trauma or blood loss, but a cleaner, more disturbing emptiness—as if a meticulous hand had erased the very lines defining self.
The curtain stirred again, admitting bitter cold.
Shen Yuzhu entered leaning against a post, his steps unsteady. Pallor clung to his face; the mirror-runes in his eyes pulsed wearily like dying embers. Last night's forced analysis of the Order-Network still chewed his nerves—every breath carried the sediment of cold data in his veins.
"Not injury. 'Effect.'" His voice rasped like stone on stone. "Definition radiation leaking from the Order-Network's completed filing. It's… corroding their anchors of self."
Wanning didn't turn, needle steady at the soldier's Fengchi point. "Reversible?"
"Unknown." He slid down the post. "The Empire inscribes us in their records not with words, but with law. They're rewriting this territory's existential priority."
A pause, then softer, almost to himself: "We're 'Specimen Garrison-Seven' now. Not people anymore."
The lamp flame shuddered.
Chu Hongying stood at the curtain's edge, arrived without sound. No outer robe, only simple clothes, the Bloodlock on her arm glowing like subsurface magma in the dim. She looked at neither Yuzhu nor Wanning, her gaze fixed on the soldier's vacant eyes.
She approached, crouched, reached out—
Not to assess pulse or wound, but to knock once, firmly, on the soldier's chest.
Thud.
The impact echoed in the tent's silence.
The soldier jerked, pupils snapping into focus.
"Does it hurt?"
"…Yes."
"Then remember this hurt." She stood, voice devoid of inflection. "When you hurt, you are."
She turned to Yuzhu. "Can you stand?"
He opened his eyes. The mirror-runes' light was faint but clear. "Yes."
"Then come hear." She moved toward the entrance. "Hear how those outside learn to scream each other down before oblivion takes them."
The curtain tore open as Gu Changfeng burst in, his entrance extinguishing one lamp with a gust of snow.
"Rations counted!" His face was iron, voice suppressing fury. "Three days at most, and that's with chaff! They're tearing themselves apart out there—some want to raid the granary, some to flee into the mountains, and those Hánshān purists still preach we're defying heaven and should disband!"
He slammed a fist against a post, dust sifting from the ceiling: "The enemy hasn't arrived, but we'll fracture from within first!"
Silence gripped the tent.
Only the soldier's ragged breathing and the distant, snow-muffled shards of argument.
Wanning withdrew her needle, standing with the poised cold of moonlight. "So the Heartfire burned through the Order-Network, but cannot burn through human fear."
Hongying reached the curtain, her Storm-Piercer already in hand. She paused, speaking over her shoulder, tone unreadable: "Then let them witness how fear is trampled by those determined to outlive it."
She stepped into the storm.
Wind and snow struck like ice needles.
Dawnlight bleached the fortress square like a consumptive's skin.
Two hundred souls gathered in three distinct clusters—not ranks, but factions. Wind carved channels between them, carrying desperate voices laced with despair, rage, and shattered faith.
Old Chen, the one-armed veteran, stood on a broken watchtower base, waving a notched blade with his remaining arm. "Three days of food! Then what? Eat snow? Feast on corpses?" His bloodshot eyes glared southward. "Thirty li! The granary holds a fortnight's supply for a thousand! The Mirror-Guards' Order-Network shattered last night—they're paper tigers now! We risk everything, take the grain, live! Or we die leaving blood on the Empire's ledger!"
He slammed his blade down, sparks flying: "Better a stain they can't erase than being wiped away like nothing!"
Soldiers behind him roared agreement, fists pounding breastplates like war drums.
Across the square, old herdsman Batu huddled in ragged sheepskin, frostbite sores dark on his face. "Raid? You soldiers know only charge and kill!" He gestured to shivering women and children. "Look at them! Children burn with fever, women's feet freeze black! You charge out, the Empire needs no army—three Mirror-Guard squads would nail you to the snow!"
His clouded eyes held the weary knowledge of a man who'd seen too many winters: "The Empire will erase us… Running won't stop it, but it buys another day. North to the mountains, find ice caves, dig roots, hunt foxes… One more day. Better than charging to die today."
Herdsmen, refugees, mothers with children shifted closer to him, their silence heavy with dread.
At the square's edge, Hánshān head disciple Bai Ji stood in pristine white, a stark contrast to the surrounding ruin. His sword remained sheathed, but his hands formed an intricate seal. "Was last night's 'Heartfire' truly victory?"
The square stilled.
His gaze held glacial depths. "Heartfire that incinerates Order shakes heaven's foundation. This is defiance, and heaven's retribution follows. The northern leylines already groan; last night's battle disturbed energies for a hundred li. Force that forbidden power again, and you'll bring avalanches, ice floods, earth splits…"
A deliberate pause. "Then the dead won't be just you, but every living thing here. Can you bear that karma?"
Hánshān disciples stepped forward as one, hands on sword hilts. Their unspoken intent pressed like ice-wind.
Three factions faced each other.
The air tightened like a bowstring at its limit.
Old Chen's blade trembled. Batu's breath grew ragged. Bai Ji's fingers tightened around his seal.
Then—
"Enough."
The voice came from the main tower.
Not loud. Not angry. Almost devoid of emotion.
Yet it struck like a hammer, shattering the tension.
Chu Hongying descended the steps.
No armor. No banner. Only dark, simple clothes, her Storm-Piercer trailing behind, its tip carving a deep line in the snow. The Bloodlock on her arm lay fully exposed, glowing like a wound that refused to heal, pulsing with her steps.
She stopped at the exact center between the three groups.
Her gaze swept Old Chen's bloodshot eyes, Batu's festering face, Bai Ji's icy seal.
Then she spoke, each word clear as cracking ice:
"All debate ends for three days."
Silence swallowed the square.
Only wind sweeping snow-dust whispered in response.
She raised her left hand, indicating the three who had followed her down—Gu Changfeng, Lu Wanning, Shen Yuzhu standing half a pace behind her, forming a triangle of stability.
"The only command now: survive."
Her second statement held the finality of natural law:
"Gu Changfeng—walls, patrols, supplies. Broken walls are his failure."
Changfeng stepped forward, his Cloud-Edge Blade half-drawn with metallic resonance, humming with the storm's rhythm.
"Lu Wanning—wounded, medicine, rations. Medicine shortage is her concern."
Wanning produced a Li-silver needle, its tip glowing with moon-white logic-patterns.
"Shen Yuzhu—scouting, prediction, threats. Ambushes are his to foresee."
Yuzhu lifted his gaze, mirror-runes swirling, azure light-traces like countless eyes seeing in all directions.
Four figures stood fixed.
Hongying ahead, three behind.
No grand oaths. No theatrical display.
Yet in that moment, an intangible structure crystallized—four pillars driven deep into frozen earth, holding up a space where breath was still possible.
Her final gaze cut across every face—angry, terrified, doubting:
"In three days, if you're still here—"
A pause. Her spear tip tapped the ground:
"I will provide a path."
Silence.
A long, wind-whipped silence.
Then Old Chen moved.
He jumped down from the watchtower base, sheathed his blade, and walked to Hongying. Without words, he straightened his hunched spine, clenched his remaining hand, and struck his own chest three times—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The border army's century-old salute, heavier than any oath.
He stepped back, standing at her right flank, shoulder-to-shoulder with Changfeng.
Next came a young soldier with a fresh blood-scab on his brow. He walked to Hongying's feet, laid his broken spear in the snow, waited three heartbeats, then picked it up again.
—Laying down old identity. Lifting new purpose.
He joined Old Chen, spear held steady.
A woman approached, clutching a sleeping infant. She extended the child wordlessly, her plea in her eyes.
Hongying looked at the small, cold-flushed face. She didn't take the child, but reached to touch its forehead with a single fingertip.
That warmth, in all that cold, flashed like a spark.
"I will," she said.
Tears traced the woman's cheeks as she retreated behind Wanning.
One after another.
Soldiers laid down broken blades and reclaimed them. Herders coiled whips into fists. Several Hánshān disciples silently removed their swords, wiped sect insignia from the hilts with snow, then stood at the crowd's edge—not leaving, but no longer speaking of defiance.
Bai Ji watched, white robes whipping in the wind. After a long stillness, he closed his eyes, exhaled a cloud of breath, and gestured to his followers: "Withdraw to the east wing. No participation. No interference. No departure."
He chose observation.
Batu remained, his clouded eyes scanning the forming crowd, then gazing south. Dozens behind him still hesitated, whispering, shuffling.
Finally, he sighed, walked to the tool pile, and picked up a shovel: "I'll repair walls. At least… make them a little higher."
A rough, grinding, yet tenacious order was born—not from ideals, but from the raw arithmetic of survival.
No slogans. No vows.
Only actions.
Only choices.
Hongying stood before them all, watching faces gather, watching the light in their eyes shift from confusion to determination, watching the Crimson Heart Banner whip wildly against the torn sky.
Then she spoke, voice low yet reaching every ear:
"You chose me—"
Her fist struck her own chest, a dull echo resonating:
"Then I'll carry your weight."
In that instant, Shen Yuzhu's mirror-runes flashed violently.
He saw—
Countless fine, warm threads rising from every heart present, weaving toward Hongying, tangling around her, around that banner, coalescing into a vast, silent force of collective will.
Not energy. Not law.
The tangible weight of trust.
Evening brought miraculous respite—a sliver of sun pierced the clouds.
Golden light fell upon the banner atop the broken tower, making it bloom.
The patched fabrics—indigo uniform sleeves, brown herder cloth, gray refugee scarves, charred black remnants—revealed their textures in the glow.
And beside the silver-embroidered crimson heart, another pattern surfaced.
Not embroidered. Not dyed.
It seeped from the fabric's depths like congealed blood vessels, gnarled roots, healed scars. Intricate, dense, hinting at overlapping faces, clenched fists, screaming mouths—
The "collective memory scar" left in the Order-Network from last night's Heartfire, absorbed by this cloth.
Yuzhu noticed first.
He was helping Changfeng plot patrol routes when his mirror-runes stung. He looked up.
Resonance flashed between his vision and the banner's dark pattern—images flooding him:
A soldier's last sight of snow.
A mother's trembling hand pushing her child to safety.
The warmth of Hongying's grip when he coughed data-toxic blood.
And last night, when thousands shouted Crimson Heart undying, that soaring, formless yet incandescent collective will.
"This banner…" he murmured. "It remembers us."
Hongying stood below the tower, gazing upward. She showed no surprise, only deep understanding.
She reached out, not touching the pole, but stroking the air above the banner's shadow.
"Then let it remember," she whispered, only for him. "Until the Empire's paper burns, ink dries, writing hands turn to ash—"
"Let this banner remember every life, every struggle, every defiance on this land."
He turned to her.
Evening light gilded her profile. The fire in her eyes wasn't fervent passion, but something harder—forged metal that had endured pressure.
"Hongying."
"Hm?"
"If one day…" His voice softened. "Every record of 'Chu Hongying' in the Order-Network is rewritten, every memory of your face forgotten, every scroll burned… How would you prove you existed?"
She didn't answer immediately.
She looked at the Bloodlock on her arm—a chain of dark light flowing beneath skin, a wound that wouldn't close yet wouldn't yield.
Then her gaze swept the square—workers at the walls, Wanning distributing medicine, Changfeng arguing tactics with veterans—before returning to him.
"I don't need to prove," she said.
"My name is written in the footprints of those who stayed."
"Written on this banner that remembers."
"Written in—"
The faintest curve touched her lips:
"The stubborn choices of people who could have left, but remained."
He watched her for a long moment.
Then he smiled—a real smile, stripped of the mirror-seal's detachment, just a young man grasping certainty in desperation.
"That's enough," he said.
Enough.
Deep night found Yuzhu alone atop the broken tower.
The mirror-seal's pain had dulled to background hum. He closed his eyes, perception extending southward toward those three pale points of light—and froze.
The data stream had transformed. No longer passive observation, but active analysis, predictive modeling, existential threat assessment. Characters of cold logic streamed through the void between worlds, etching themselves upon his consciousness:
text
[Priority Update] Garrison-Seven Node · Observation: Alpha-Prime → Alpha-Prime Special [Phenomenon] Unauthorized Collective Will Aggregate · Code: Crimson-Heart Cohort [Structure] Tetrahedral Anchor (Blood-Mirror-Wind-Logic) stability exceeds projections. Social cohesion: 87.4% [Threat] If allowed development, may form regional law-antibody in ≤3 years. Order-Network erosion estimate: 12-18% [Disposition] Maintain observation. Prepare second-stage pressure testing. Recalculate harvest timing…
The final line glared with clinical cruelty:
text
[Imperial Hand-Endorsed] Approved. Let them have names. Let them believe. At belief's peak—strip it away. Resultant "despair purity" = optimal cosmic fuel.
His eyes snapped open. He stumbled back against cold stone, sweat soaking through his clothes.
"Yuzhu?"
Hongying's voice from the stairwell. She carried a storm lantern, its light stretching her shadow.
"They…" His voice trembled with a chill deeper than fear. "They don't want to destroy us."
She hung the lantern on a broken post. "What then?"
"They want us to believe." He looked up, eyes dark wells. "Believe the Crimson Heart can succeed. Believe resistance works. Believe hope is real—then, at faith's strongest moment, before our eyes, smash everything."
His hand gripped her arm. "They don't want corpses. They want 'despair specimens.' The purest, darkest despair born from watching everything collapse—that's the 'fuel' they'll harvest."
She listened, silent.
The lantern flame danced in her pupils, reflecting something cold and unyielding.
Slowly, she withdrew her arm, walked to the tower's edge, gazed into southern darkness.
"Hongying," his voice was raw. "This was always a trap. The Heartfire succeeded not because we were strong, but because they allowed it. They're observing 'collective will's birth and destruction.' We're… experimental subjects."
She didn't turn.
She stared into the dark a long time before speaking, her voice terrifyingly calm:
"Then let them observe."
She faced him, her eyes holding the glint of quenched steel:
"Let them watch specimens grow fangs."
"Let them watch data rebel."
"Let them watch fruit stain the harvester's hands with blood."
He stood frozen.
She stepped close, pressed her palm against his chest.
Through fabric, he felt her warmth and something deeper—not Heartfire's blazing intensity, but the patient, enduring weight of earth itself.
"Yuzhu." Each word struck deep. "The Empire writes on paper that we're specimens, data, harvest-ready fruit."
"Then on this land, we'll write a different story."
"How specimens came alive."
"How data learned to bite."
"How fruit—"
Her hand withdrew, clenched. She looked down at the square's scattered fires, at the banner whipping madly in the night:
"Explodes when touched."
That night, the northern storm raged with particular fury.
But the Crimson Heart Banner held fast atop the tower, spread like a roaring beast, its dark patterns glowing faintly in the dark—a heart stubbornly beating against endless night.
A thousand li away, in the Mirror Palace's depths, the new Emperor stood before flowing walls, watching "Crimson Heart Army" solidify in script, watching the four-colored light-wheel stabilize.
A cold, satisfied curve touched his lips.
"Good…" he whispered, fingertips tracing Chu Hongying's light-silhouette in the air. "Burn brighter."
"When the fire is perfect—"
"I will pluck it myself."
What he didn't know:
Some fires, once kindled, refuse the harvester's hand.
They burn through ledgers, through definitions, through all attempts to catalog, specimen, and reap.
They burn until the pale sky itself catches flame—
And dawn rises not from the east, but from the ashes of the night.