Snow fell again at dawn.
This wasn't the wind-whipped blizzard from before, but a vertical, quiet, densely falling snow, as if heaven and earth were sewing together an oversized burial shroud for this blood-soaked land. When snowflakes landed on ground scorched by yesterday's Heartfire, they made faint sizzling sounds—like residual warmth still resisting this white covering, like memory fighting oblivion.
Lu Wanning had cleared a ten-meter square area by the broken wall in the southwest corner of the fortress.
She moved the bodies one by one, arranging them side by side on stone ground swept clean of snow. Fifty-seven. Some intact, some broken, some barely recognizable as human forms. She refused all help, performing this work alone—each movement excruciatingly slow, excruciatingly steady, a ceremony where no mistakes were permitted.
Her tools: a bundle of Li-silver thread, seven Cold Mountain soul-calming needles of varying lengths, and a stone lamp burning with pale blue soulfire.
When she lifted the thirty-second body, Shen Yuzhu appeared in the broken wall's shadow.
He leaned against ice-cracked stone, one hand pressed to his temple, blue-black light seeping between his fingers. The mirror patterns in his heterochromatic eyes flowed backward uncontrollably, reflecting final soul-shadow remnants:
A soldier looking south toward home, soul-shadow entwined with cooking smoke.
A herdsman dying with half a frozen ration clasped, soul-shadow echoing sheepdog barks.
A boy of fifteen, his pupils fixed on last night's banner unfurling in flames—that crimson hue branded into his soul-shadow's deepest layer.
Too many remnants. Too broken. Too painful.
Lu Wanning noticed but didn't turn. She continued stitching a chest wound pierced by a spear. The needle was Cold Mountain forged, its tail carved with soul-resting sigils. Each insertion made wound edges glow with faint, moonlight-like halos that briefly solidified dissipating "soul-trace remnants."
"You're slowing their absorption by the Order-Net," Shen Yuzhu rasped, voice like sandpaper on ice.
Her needle paused.
She finally looked at him. Those heterochromatic eyes held no reproach, only a physician's icy focus facing stubborn illness. "I'm not stitching wounds, but fractured causal links. Flesh rots, souls scatter, but the thread of 'this person fought and died here'—if stitched firm enough, the Order-Net needs more effort to devour it completely."
She lowered her head, continued stitching. Silver thread passing through frozen flesh sizzled faintly, as if burning something intangible.
"You focus on staying alive." Her voice dropped half a notch. "I'm responsible for making the dead leave traces. That's our division."
Shen Yuzhu closed his eyes.
The mirror patterns still flowed backward, but that maddening pain, because of her words, strangely found an anchor.
Nearby, soldiers began gathering.
They stood twenty paces away, silently watching. No one cried, no one spoke, no one even coughed. Wind scraped against hemp cloth covering the bodies, making monotonous, paper-tearing sounds.
Every soldier knew: beneath those cloths lay people who yesterday shared rations, traded curses, raised banners shoulder-to-shoulder.
Chu Hongying stood at the broken window on the main tower's second level, looking down.
She wore no armor, only thin dark traveling clothes, the Crimson Flame Bloodlock fully exposed on her arm, showing a dark, congealed-blood hue in dawn light. The lock's patterns pulsed faintly beneath skin—not burning hot, but a deeper rhythm like magma flowing slowly in earth veins.
She felt those bodies.
Not through sight, but through the Bloodlock's connection to this land—each added body created another faint, icy "soul-trace void" in the earth veins. Not lost power, but some "once-existed" imprint forcibly carved away leaving emptiness.
Her hand pressed against the window frame, wood groaning under her strength.
Gu Changfeng came up the stairs, footsteps heavy as if crushing something unseen. His face was iron-gray, eyes bloodshot, wind domain unconsciously expanding and contracting around him, stirring accumulated dust and chill. "They're watching," he said hoarsely, pointing below. "They're waiting for us to give... some answer."
Chu Hongying didn't reply.
She watched Lu Wanning stitching, watched Shen Yuzhu suppressing pain against the wall, watched snow quietly covering everything.
Then she said: "The answer is right there. In Wanning's needle, in Yuzhu's quiet endurance, in the fact we're still standing here breathing."
Gu Changfeng stared at her profile. That face held no grief, no anger, only near-cruel acceptance. As if she'd already taken these deaths, this weight, these silent questions, all into the burden she must carry.
"...Don't you feel terrible?" he finally asked.
She looked at him. Her eyes were deep brown in dawn light, but pupils held a tiny, inextinguishable crimson point. "Terrible. But feeling terrible is luxury. Right now we can only do one thing—" She pointed downward. "Remember. And make remembering itself a weapon."
When stitching the forty-third body, Lu Wanning's needle hesitated.
This body was different—Empire standard light armor torn open by violence, revealing pale-as-paper skin beneath. More importantly: his face.
Young, no more than twenty. High browbone, straight nose, mouth corners curved faintly upward as if smiling in death. But her fingers touching his neck sensed abnormality.
Soul remnants were so faint they approached nonexistence.
Six hours dead—long enough for the soul's final whispers to still linger in the air, like the last warmth of a cooling hearth. Yet around this body, there was none of that faint, clinging soul-qi that usually clings to the newly departed: no imprint of last wishes, no murmur of unfinished grudges, no trace of the obsessions that once breathed life into this flesh.
Only a clean, chilling absence.
It felt less like natural decay, and more like the work of a meticulous hand—a soul not faded, but erased.
"Yuzhu." Her voice held tension for the first time.
Shen Yuzhu pushed off the wall. The mirror patterns in his eyes, upon seeing this body, erupted with piercing azure light—not actively triggered, but forcibly activated by some intense "Order-Net imprint" remaining within.
"Step back." He reached to block her.
Too late.
The body's brow split open a thin seam.
Not a wound. No bleeding. Just flesh parting sideways, revealing beneath a pale, mirror-like bone layer. Silver talisman patterns surfaced, flowing, rearranging at astonishing speed—
Forming law maxims.
Forming discipline statutes.
Forming inhuman, purely orderly proclamation.
Shen Yuzhu's mirror patterns frantically parsed the law information. He grunted, fresh blood seeping from mouth corners, but didn't look away. "He's... 'echoing.' Body embedded with Order-Net imprint. Death isn't endpoint, but trigger for 'soul-trace recovery ritual'—"
Before he finished, the body opened its mouth.
No sound.
But a pale light screen manifested, hovering three feet above. It flowed with cold, orderly law text—not written characters, but Order-Net discipline sigils directly imprinted on reality's fabric.
Shen Yuzhu's mirror patterns forcibly decoded them. His voice trembled with suppressed horror:
text
[Unit Registry: Garrison-Seven·Mirror-Guard·C Platoon·Four-One-Nine] [Status: Physical Vessel Destroyed (Permanent)] [Final Mandate: Purge All Unregistered Life Signs] [Erasure Count: Eleven (Civilians Seven, Non-Standard Combatants Four)] [Performance Evaluation: Second-Upper] [Emotion-Cognition Integrity: Zero] [Pain-Feedback Threshold: Infinite] [Self-Designation: Recovered] [Disposal: Vessel Recovery, Soul-Imprint Extraction, Remains Incineration]
The screen paused, then displayed final text in heavier font:
text
[Final Conclusion: This Unit Has Fulfilled Its Assigned Mandate. No Mourning Required. No Memory Required. No Meaning Assignment Required. —Empire Order-Net·Law Command Division]
Light dissipated.
The brow seam closed. The young face returned to calm, as if everything was illusion.
But surrounding soldiers froze.
They didn't understand the law text, but understood Shen Yuzhu's decoding. They saw those final words.
No Mourning Required. No Memory Required. No Meaning Assignment Required.
Twelve words, like twelve ice spikes, piercing every heart present.
First to break was a young soldier—no more than eighteen, face still holding un-faded youth. He pointed at the body, voice sharp as tearing: "He killed eleven... eleven! And the Empire says 'No Memory Required'? Then our fallen brothers?! They also 'No Mourning Required'?!"
No one answered.
Only snow falling, dense, quiet, endless.
Lu Wanning slowly straightened. The soul-calming needle in her hand still glowed, but that light seemed suddenly weak, powerless. She looked at the body, at that young face, at her half-stitched wound.
Then she crouched and continued stitching.
Needle piercing, thread passing, moonlight halo glowing again. Her movements slower, steadier than before, each stitch a silent protest.
"Wanning..." Shen Yuzhu began.
"Shut up." She didn't look up, voice cold as ice. "In my hands, he's my patient. Patient dead, I stitch wounds. Natural duty. As for how the Empire writes his 'Conclusion'—" She raised her head, heterochromatic eyes kindling with icy flame: "None of my damn business."
Soft words.
Everyone heard.
Chu Hongying descended the main tower. The square's atmosphere had changed—no longer simply heavy, but soon-boiling suppression. Soldiers surrounded that special body, surrounded Lu Wanning and Shen Yuzhu, no one speaking, but everyone's eyes burning with the same question:
What are we fighting?
Gu Changfeng followed, hand on sword hilt. Wind domain unconsciously expanded, stirring ground snow into vortices—his emotions teetering.
She walked to the crowd's center. Glanced at Lu Wanning (finished stitching, washing hands, knuckles white), at Shen Yuzhu (leaning against pillar, breathing heavily, blood dried), then at the body.
She looked long.
So long soldiers grew restless, so long Gu Changfeng nearly spoke. Then: "Yuzhu. Can you make them 'see'?"
Shen Yuzhu opened his eyes. "...See what?"
"Truth. Not through your decoding. Let them see with their own eyes—what the Empire turns living people into."
Three breaths of silence. Then he nodded.
He walked to the body, knelt. Hands hovering above the forehead, palms down. Mirror patterns lit again—not passive backflow, but active, precise, deeply penetrating reflection.
Azure light enveloped the head like water.
Next moment—
Three feet above, air wavered.
Scenes, memory fragments, appeared like broken mirrors floating, piecing together, unfolding. Multi-layered soul-trace overlays:
Deepest layer: original soul fragments—hometown cooking smoke, mother's mending hands, first wearing uniform...
Middle: transformation imprint remnants—bound on icy altar, law-carving knife scraping brow, soul-imprint branded, emotion-cognition stripped while soul screamed (voice erased, only twisted soul-wave tremors)...
Surface: "Mirror-Guard" discipline flow and behavior recordings. Cold, precise, emotionless, like artifact operation log:
text
[Morning: Patrol mandate, route Garrison-Seven·Zone Three] [Late Morning: Encounter refugees, execute dispersal, non-lethal force] [Noon: Spiritual energy replenishment, standard soul-paste] [Afternoon: Emotion-cognition self-check, integrity zero, meets specification]
Scenes flowed to last night, recordings growing dense:
text
[Evening: Detect Heartfire reaction] [Night: Receive purge mandate, target all rebellion units] [First Watch: Combat status, pain threshold infinite] [Third Watch: Erasure target seven (civilians)...
Final recording:
text
[Fourth Watch: Encounter blood-anchor unit, destruction unavoidable] [Final Mandate: Activate soul-trace recovery] [Self-designation recovered...] [Mission concludes.]
Scene stopped at that line. Pale. Cold. Tombstone inscription.
The entire square, dead silent.
Only wind sweeping snow, and suppressed, ragged breathing.
The eighteen-year-old soldier knelt. Covered his face, shoulders shaking, but couldn't produce crying sounds—as if weeping ability was stolen by witnessed truth.
"They..." Voice squeezed through fingers, hoarse like broken bellows. "They don't feel pain... don't feel fear... don't even feel they're killing..."
He looked up, tear-streaked, eyes empty: "Then yesterday... what were we fighting?"
The question smashed into every heart.
Shen Yuzhu withdrew his hand. Face pale as paper, wavering unsteadily, but forced himself upright, looked at Chu Hongying.
She didn't answer the soldier.
Walked to the body, crouched, reached out—not touching, but hovering above that young face. "He was once human. Had a name, had family, could laugh and cry, could fear and be brave." Her hand descended, gently closing the eyelids. "Then the Empire turned him into 'instrument.'"
She stood, turned facing all soldiers. Gaze like blade cutting across bewildered, pained faces. "You ask what we're fighting? I tell you—We fight the order that 'turns people into instruments.' Fight discipline that 'strips away pain, strips away fear, strips away memory.' Fight a world believing life can be simplified to 'performance evaluation.'"
She paused, inhaled Northland's icy air piercing lungs, making flame in her eyes burn clearer. "So from today—We don't just fight to live. We fight for 'right to feel pain.' For 'right to remember the dead.' For 'every life should have its own name, not registry number'—fight for that."
Dead silence.
Then first sound: that kneeling soldier. He swayed up, wiped tears, walked to the body, imitating her, knelt, brushed the other not-quite-closed eyelid. "What's your name?" Whispered, asking body, asking self.
No answer.
He answered himself: "Doesn't matter... I'll give you one."
Pulled a small ration-cutting knife, walked to broken wall, began carving into frozen stone.
Laborious. Stone hard, knife dull. But stroke by stroke, extreme earnestness.
Finished, stepped back.
Everyone saw:
"Tomb of the Nameless—He Was Once Human."
Simple. Awkward. Grammar flawed.
Every soldier present, seeing those words, eyes reddened.
Just then, abnormality.
The body began ashing.
Not rotting, not decomposing—literal ashing. Skin flaking like burnt incense, revealing pale bones. Bones powdering, silver-speckled dust scattering in wind.
Frighteningly fast.
Ten breaths, body mostly gone. Only gray-white powder, few un-ashed armor fragments.
Lu Wanning reacted first. "Order-Net remotely recovering soul-traces!" Three soul-calming needles flicked, piercing ground around powder, triangular barrier. Moonlight halo spread, temporarily solidifying ashing.
But too late.
Upper half already gone, including that young face.
The young soldier stared blankly at powder, at his carving, at empty ground.
Knife clattered down.
Then he laughed.
Soft, hoarse, like something shattering in his throat. "Ha... haha..." Laughing, tears flowing harder. "Not even the body... won't let remain... Empire... how afraid... afraid we'll remember something..."
Laughter echoed, more piercing than crying.
Other soldiers ignited.
"They won't leave whole bodies!"
"Afraid we'll discover something?!"
"What are we fighting?! Even dead's dignity stripped?!"
Commotion spreading.
Fear, anger, powerlessness—fermenting into dangerous, near-out-of-control collective emotion. Several soldiers gripped weapons, eyes reddening—not battle-intent, but need to destroy to vent.
Gu Changfeng's wind domain completely lost control.
Not his expansion.
But boiling, despairing, angry collective emotions, like intangible waves, impacted his perception as "wind-anchor." He heard—not with ears, but with domain's resonance:
Kill back! Kill them all!
We'll die anyway! Tear something apart!
This world's hopeless...
Too many voices. Too chaotic. Too despairing.
Temples throbbed, forehead veins bulging. Consciousness sea stuffed with madly fluttering insects, gnawing reason, screaming, urging—
Join them.
Go mad together.
Destroy together.
"Shut up—!!"
He roared.
Not at soldiers, but at consciousness voices.
Roar left his mouth, wind domain exploded.
With him as center, snow within ten-zhang radius violently lifted, forming white, high-speed rotating snowstorm ring! Snowflakes like blades cutting air shrieking, nearby soldiers blown stumbling back.
Gu Changfeng stood at storm center, eyes crimson, hair wildly flying. Drew Cloud-Edge Blade, blade humming, resonating with domain producing dragon-cry sharpness.
Didn't slash at anyone.
Blade tip pointed south—Empire's direction.
"Everyone fucking listen clear—!!"
Voice like thunderclap, overwhelming wind shrieks, all commotion:
"Empire wants to turn us into registry numbers! Into instruments! Into things not worthy of leaving bodies when dead!"
"Then let it see—"
"See if registry numbers bleed!"
"See if instruments roar!"
"See how unworthy things—hack holes in its perfect order!!"
Violently turned, blade tip sweeping every face present:
"Feel despair? Hopeless? Might as well go mad?"
"Then go mad!"
"But not at our own! Not at this banner! Not at people still willing to remember your names!"
Blade turned, pointing at powder Lu Wanning barely solidified:
"At it."
"At bastards who created it."
"At that emperor in Mirror Palace—treating people as instruments—go mad!"
Last "mad" left his mouth, he slashed down!
Not at ground, but at intangible law connection between powder and Order-Net.
Blade edge tore air, pale azure substance-like wind blade. Sank into powder, struck no entity, but everyone heard—
"Shrrip—"
Cloth forcibly torn.
Powder violently boiled, silver light points frantically flashing, then before eyes—completely dissipated.
Not even residue.
Gu Changfeng sheathed blade, breathing heavily. Domain calmed, snowstorm fell, ground around clean as swept.
Looked at stunned soldiers, hoarse: "This is madness. Mad at what deserves madness, madden till results."
Walked to young soldier, bent, picked up fallen knife, pressed back into hand. "Don't discard. Keep. Every Mirror-Guard killed, carve stroke on wall—carve till wall can't fit more."
Young soldier gripped knife, hand shaking, but eyes different.
Held light.
Not hope's light.
But hatred-tempered, cold-hard-as-iron resolve.
Chu Hongying didn't stop Gu Changfeng start to finish.
Only watched. Lost control, roared, severed Order-Net's law connection.
After wind calmed, walked toward broken wall.
Toward carved line:
"Tomb of the Nameless—He Was Once Human."
Reached out, fingertips brushing carving marks. Stone icy, marks rough, each stroke carrying deepest effort.
"Characters too shallow."
Young soldier froze.
She looked at him, at all soldiers: "Stone weathers, snow buries, time fades marks—until disappearance."
Paused, then did something making everyone's pupils contract.
Raised left hand, right hand gripped Storm-Piercer's tip—lightly drew across.
Palm split inch-long wound.
Blood welled.
Not spurting, but slowly, steadily flowing, color not bright red, but darker like congealed flame. Blood, leaving her body, didn't drip, but hovered mid-air, held by intangible force.
Bloodlock on arm hummed low, patterns glowing, magma flowing beneath skin.
Pressed bleeding palm onto carved line.
Blood seeped into marks.
Stone seemed alive, greedily absorbing blood. Marks glowed—not blood-red, but warm, ember-like crimson halo. Halo flowed along strokes, illuminating characters, making them deeper, clearer, engraved into stone's core.
Not only that.
Halos spread from carved characters, spreading like roots across wall, forming intricate vein-like patterns. Where patterns passed, stone's texture subtly changed—harder, denser, more resistant to weathering and erosion.
Withdrew hand.
Palm wound already stopped bleeding, edges glowing faint red, visibly healing.
Looked at glowing wall: "From today, this wall is 'Soul Stele.' All fallen names carved here. With blood. Not because blood precious—but because blood dries, becomes brown scabs, stays forever in stone, even if Empire uses more snow to bury, more time to grind, won't grind away."
Turned, facing everyone: "Now, line up. Report all fallen names you remember—true names, nicknames, even just 'that big-bearded laugher.' I'll carve first."
Walked to blank area, blood-stained fingertips hovering above stone.
Three breaths silent.
Then first name:
"Iron-Head Wang."
Old soldier who first charged at Mirror-Guards, body-blocked strike, created spear opportunity. No family, only nickname from hard head.
Blood seeped, glowed, solidified.
Second:
"Batu'er."
Old herdsman secretly sharing rations with children, died clutching half undelivered milk curd.
Third, fourth...
Carved slowly. Each name, paused briefly, remembering that face, that voice, that life's final moment.
Soldiers lined up.
First young soldier. Before her, voice shaking: "Li, Li Two-Dog... fellow villager. Left cheek scarred, laughed foolishly."
Nodded, carved.
Second one-armed veteran Chen Old-Four. Reported three names, all soldiers he led.
Third Cold Mountain disciple. Hesitated: "White Feather... senior brother. Didn't support raising banner, but died blocking before me."
Glanced at him, still carved.
Line grew.
Not just soldiers. Herders came, refugees came, even neutral Cold Mountain disciples silently joined end.
Names appeared one after another.
"Bold Zhao"
"Little Bell" (singing-loving girl)
"Blind Old Chen" (actually squinting)
"Fast Runner" (message deliverer)
Some surname and name, some nicknames, some descriptive features.
But each seriously carved, blood-soaked, light-lit.
When Lu Wanning approached, Chu Hongying had carved over seventy names, palm cut again—Bloodlock's healing had limits.
"Enough." Wanning gripped her wrist, voice cold but movements gentle. "Keep bleeding, blood thins, marks won't hold soul force."
Looked at her, shook head: "Not enough. As long as someone remembers, someone reports names—not enough."
Wanning silent.
Then released grip, pulled new Li-silver thread from waist. "I'll help. Silver thread locks soul-traces, blood marks lock form—double seal, Order-Net needs tenfold effort to devour."
Began weaving intricate silver network in wall seams around carved characters. Silver threads contacting bloodlight warmed slightly, resonating with blood marks forming more stable structure.
Shen Yuzhu approached.
Face still pale, but eyes clear. Looked at wall's growing names, at bloodlight and silver woven net, softly: "I'll overlay mirror-seal carving marks on each name. Not protection—but 'anchoring.' As long as name exists, wall stands, my mirror-seal can sense its existence anywhere. If Empire tries secretly devouring... I'll know."
Raised hand, fingertips glowing azure. Light transformed into countless hair-thin traces, drifting toward wall, lightly landing on each name, covering with invisible yet real "mirror-imprint."
Gu Changfeng finally approached.
Didn't speak, drew Cloud-Edge Blade, walked to wall—with blade tip, carved four large characters at top:
"Crimson Heart Undying"
Carved deep. Each stroke wind domain's sharpness and weight, stone chips flying.
After carving, stepped back two paces, looked at four characters, then at wall's dense names, suddenly: "Wind will remember. Every time I blow past this wall, I'll carry these names—to every inch of Northland. Let wind live for them."
Four people, four powers, different ways, jointly protecting this wall.
Protecting these names.
Protecting these "once existed" proofs.
When final name carved, sunset fell.
Golden twilight slanted across wall, bloodlight, silver light, mirror-seal's blue, stone's luster—all interwoven, indescribable, tragic yet warm hue.
On wall, three hundred twenty-one names total.
Some complete, some fragmentary, some never matching specific people.
But all there.
Silently, solidly, existing.
Chu Hongying stepped back several paces, looked at whole wall, looked long.
Then: "This is Crimson Heart Army's first true banner. Not cloth-made, but stone and blood. Not flying in sky, but standing on ground. But it will live—longer than any banner."
Deep night, medical tent.
Lu Wanning struck a flint to the wick of a storm-lantern. Its yolk-yellow light pooled outward, exposing the tent's spare, makeshift interior: rough-hewn herb racks stood like silent sentinels; a low table served as her diagnosis bench, its surface covered by a sheet of clean, frayed hemp; and in one shadowed corner, orderly piles of bandages and her cases of Li-silver needles gleamed dully.
Shen Yuzhu sat on low stool, eyes closed, letting Wanning inspect mirror patterns. "Backflow stopped, but foundation damaged. Next three days, no deep reflection, especially Order-Net imprints—once more, patterns may permanently shatter."
Opened eyes. Patterns dimmed, cracks shallower, but pupils held soul-trace overload void-feeling.
"Wanning." Suddenly: "Those Mirror-Guards... transformation reversible?"
Her hand paused.
Withdrew needle, turned organizing medicine box, back toward him: "Emotion-cognition stripped is permanent damage. Soul-imprint fuses with consciousness sea, forcibly peeling causes soul dispersion. Pain threshold infinite, meridian system adapts, even if sensation restored, cannot normally perceive..."
Stopped.
Meaning clear: Irreversible.
Silent.
Only wick crackling.
After long while, softly: "Then we... actually killing people, or destroying instruments?"
Question heavy, tent's temperature seeming to drop.
Turned back, looked at him. Heterochromatic eyes especially calm under lantern light, but especially deep. "Any difference? When person transformed into instrument, killing them, and destroying instrument—for executor, what difference?"
Couldn't answer.
Walked back to table, picked up soul-calming needle, examined tip against light: "But I'll tell you another fact. That ashing body... when solidifying powder, I sensed something." Put down needle, gaze toward dark night outside. "Not simple 'soul-trace recovery.' Powder contains soul poison—trace amounts, but exists. Kind I've never seen, acting on soul origin not body."
Pupils contracted. "You mean..."
"Empire might use Mirror-Guard bodies as... 'soul-trace pollution source.'" Voice low. "Body ashes, poison releases into environment, spreading through earth veins, water sources, even air. Today just one, but if battlefield has hundreds, thousands ashing simultaneously—"
Didn't continue.
But already understood.
Large-scale soul-trace pollution.
Water source poisoning.
Plague breeding ground.
Not battlefield method.
Extermination method.
"They don't want to defeat us," voice tightened. "But want this land... unable to sustain life."
Nodded. "So what we're racing isn't just time. We're racing how long this land can still 'live.'"
Tent flap opened.
Chu Hongying stood at entrance, arm's Bloodlock emitting faint red light in darkness. Clearly heard latter conversation, face no surprise, only long-anticipated calm. "Yuzhu. Order-Net's current monitoring level?"
Closed eyes sensing briefly. Patterns transmitted faint stinging—high-intensity observation feedback. "First-Upper. And rising. Not just observing, already predictive modeling our next moves."
Entered tent. Carried night wind's chill, faint blood scent—not hers, but wall-carving沾染.
"Then let them predict." Voice flat, yet iron-cutting force. "But tell me: if we actively sever all connections with Order-Net—sever mirror-seal perception, sever Bloodlock's earth vein resonance, sever wind domain's environmental emotion reception, sever reason veins' spiritual energy monitoring—what happens?"
Question extreme.
Both froze.
Severing all connections meant becoming "blind," "deaf," unable to sense Empire movements, predict dangers, even coordinate.
But simultaneously—
"Order-Net loses observation window." Slowly, eyes brightening. "Can't collect soul-trace data, can't predictive model, can't precisely calculate harvest timing."
"Cost?"
"Enter spiritual perception darkness." Calm voice. "Don't know enemy location, water poisoning time, plague eruption—only react passively."
Nodded.
Walked to lantern, reached out—not adjusting wick, but pinching flame with fingers.
Flame danced at fingertips, didn't burn, instead brighter. "Then let darkness descend." Eyes reflecting firelight. "But don't forget—" Released hand, flame restored. "We ourselves are light source."
Looked at both: "Yuzhu, starting tomorrow, mirror-seal only internal—monitor water purity, predict weather, analyze heart fluctuations. Don't extend outward one more chi. Wanning, reason veins only medical and resource allocation—monitor wounded, purify possible pollution, ensure provisions safety. Don't perceive any Order-Net spiritual flows. Changfeng I'll inform. Wind domain only patrol and warning—don't resonate with environmental emotions."
Paused, gaze like blade: "We seal ourselves shut. Make Empire's eyes—suddenly go blind."
Exchanged glances.
Both saw same thing: Dangerous, but might be only way.
"What about you?" Wanning asked. "Bloodlock's earth vein connection deepest, severing would bring ten times our pain."
Raised arm.
Bloodlock glowed beneath skin, patterns slowly flowing like living things. Looked at it, looked long, then: "I won't sever."
Both froze.
"I'll make it—reverse resonate." Voice lowered, yet terrifying resolve. "Since Bloodlock connects earth veins, then through this connection, not receive information, but release chaos."
"Release what chaos?" Shen Yuzhu had ominous premonition.
Looked at him, mouth corners curling faint, icy arc: "Release 'disordered soul-trace fluctuations.' Empire Order-Net built upon absolute order and prediction. Then I'll turn earth veins into chaos—make spiritual flow lose regularity, make life soul-traces randomly appear and disappear, make entire Northland in Order-Net's perception become unparsable, constantly distorting nightmare."
Spoke calmly.
But both felt chill.
This wasn't resistance.
This was mutual destruction.
Turning Northland into Order-Net incomprehensible chaos meant this land itself would become difficult to inhabit—earth vein chaos triggering quakes, avalanches, climate abnormalities; soul-trace disturbances mutating creatures; possibly affecting people spiritually.
"Hongying..." Wanted to dissuade.
"I know consequences." Cut off. "But this is only way—either we get thoroughly analyzed bit by bit, harvested completely; or overturn the board, let no one play."
Walked to entrance, lifted flap.
Outside cold wind poured, blowing lantern flame violently swaying.
Looked back, finally: "Three days. Give me three days preparation. Three days later—I'll destabilize earth veins, make entire Northland, in Empire's eyes, 'disappear.'"
Walked out.
Flap fell, blocking wind, blocking silhouette.
Both sat inside, long without speaking.
Lantern swayed, casting flickering shadows.
Finally, Wanning softly: "She'll soul-disperse."
Not question, but statement.
Closed eyes. "I know. But she'll drag entire Empire's Order-Net system—collapse together."
Opened eyes, patterns completely dimmed, only pupils holding azure embers. "So we only have three days. Within three days, find method to prevent her soul-dispersal. Or—" Stopped.
But understood.
Or, find method to make sacrifice more valuable.
Outside, night wind howled.
Crimson Heart Banner whipped wildly atop fortress's highest point, surface's dark patterns glowing faint bloodlight under moonlight, like heart stubbornly beating against eternal night.
And thousand li away in Mirror Palace depths, the new emperor stood before flowing mirror walls, suddenly frowned.
On walls, that four-colored soul-trace fluctuation representing Northland "Garrison-Seven" node—
Suddenly unstably trembling.
Not strengthening, not weakening.
But unparsable, violating all predictive model chaotic state.
Fingertips hovered before walls, long unmoving.
That inhumanly handsome face, for the first time showed—
Puzzlement.