Hour of the Dragon. Depths of the Nightcrow Division.
Light slanted in through the high window, cutting a straight line across the grey bricks. That line exactly crossed the corner of the desk, splitting nine dossiers into two halves—half in the light, half in the shadow.
The topmost dossier's cover read:
"Northern Frontier Rhythm Phenomenon · Ninth Record"
Below it, in smaller script, a note: "Collective empty space synchronized once · Cause pending investigation"
Vice Minister of Pivot Affairs Han Gui turned to the last page. The waveform diagram glowed with an extremely faint blue under the lamp—the mark left by the ice mirror's restoration. A curve of 0.41 breaths, as steady as if drawn with a ruler.
He closed the dossier.
"Two months now."
Across from him sat Shen Du, Left Director of the Nightcrow Division. A cup of tea, long since cold, rested by his hand. He didn't touch it. He just looked at Han Gui.
Han Gui pushed the dossier forward half an inch: "Observation, recording, classification, pending. Nine times now. How much longer will it stay in 'Pending Discussion'?"
Shen Du: "You want to use it?"
"Not whether I want. It's whether it can be used."
Shen Du was silent for one breath. The length of that silence was exactly the same as the empty space in the dossier's curve.
Then he spoke: "For training, maybe. For battle formations... not yet known."
Han Gui stood and walked to the window. Outside was the direction of the drill ground; the shadow of a flagpole was faintly visible.
He didn't turn back. His voice came from his silhouette:
"Then try."
The order was issued at the third mark of the Hour of the Dragon:
Incorporate the "Northern Frontier Rhythm" into controlled training. Objective: replicate the rhythm of 0.41 breaths, error below 0.01 breaths.
The Recording Officer received the order and left.
On the desk, the nine dossiers lay quietly stacked. Sunlight shifted half an inch, enveloping them completely in light.
Hour of the Snake. Side hall of the drill ground.
Twelve men. Three rows. Four in each row.
They stood very straight, like all Empire soldiers who had received training—shoulders at the same height, feet the same width, eyes on the same direction. If not for their breathing, they could almost be considered the same thing.
But their breathing was different.
Before them was an ice mirror projection. In the blue light, a waveform flowed quietly: a perfect curve of 0.41 breaths, inhale—empty space—exhale, inhale—empty space—exhale. Like a heartbeat, like the tide, like some rhythm older than humanity itself.
The Recording Officer stood beside the mirror, hand on the mirror's edge.
"Breathe according to this rhythm. Begin."
First time. Synchronized.
Second time. Synchronized.
Third time. Synchronized.
Fourth time. Synchronized.
Fifth time. Synchronized.
Sixth time. Synchronized.
Seventh time. Synchronized.
The Recording Officer wrote on the paper: "First seven times, error below 0.005 breaths."
Eighth time—
The waveform on the ice mirror did not shift.
But the soldier in the third row on the left, during inhalation, felt that the empty space was lighter by 0.01 breaths.
Too light. So light even he himself wasn't sure.
He didn't say anything.
The Recording Officer only watched the waveform. The waveform was synchronized. He wrote on the record: Eighth time, normal.
The ninth time continued.
Noon. Training break.
The soldiers sat leaning against the walls, no one speaking. The side hall of the drill ground had poor ventilation; the air was thick with the smell of sweat and the extremely low hum of the ice mirror operating.
That soldier from the third row on the left—what was his name? The Recording Officer hadn't asked. Now he leaned against the wall, eyes on the ground.
The comrade beside him lowered his voice: "What happened to you just now?"
He didn't look up: "What do you mean?"
"The eighth time. You seemed to pause for a moment."
"No." He paused. "Just... felt like there was something in the empty space."
"Something?"
"Don't know. Not a thing. A... position."
The comrade frowned: "What position?"
He didn't answer. After a long time, he said: "Like there should be someone there."
The comrade was stunned for a moment, then laughed: "You're tired."
He didn't laugh. Just kept looking at the ground.
He didn't know that a thousand li away, a person at that moment was pressing his left arm.
That arm was half a degree fainter than at sunrise today.
The ice mirror still ran, its blue light flickering. Like breathing.
Hour of the Sheep. Twelfth synchronization training.
That feeling from the eighth time—so light even he himself wasn't sure—he had already dismissed as "probably just an illusion." No one mentioned it again.
The twelve men stood again in three rows, the waveforms on the ice mirror synchronized again.
First eight times. Synchronized.
The Recording Officer nodded slightly.
Ninth time—
The soldier in the third row on the left did not exhale.
He stopped in the empty space.
0.1 breaths.
0.2 breaths.
0.3 breaths.
The man beside him began to panic: "What's wrong?"
He spoke. His voice was very light, as if coming from somewhere far away:
"...There should be one more layer here."
The room fell silent.
The squad leader came over from the front row: "What do you mean?"
The soldier looked up, his gaze unfocused: "Not a person. A... layer. In the empty space, one more layer."
Another soldier suddenly spoke up: "I feel it too."
A third soldier: "Not seven. It's one more layer."
A fourth: "It's waiting."
No one spoke. No one asked "waiting for what."
On the ice mirror, the twelve waveforms showed the first sign of divergence. Some paused longer, some exhaled early, some began to imitate the empty space of that non-existent layer—they themselves didn't know what they were imitating, but their breathing told them: something is there.
The Recording Officer's hand stopped at the edge of the ice mirror.
That pause lasted exactly as long as Sun Jiu's delay.
He suddenly remembered the eighth time. That extremely light feeling, uncertain even to the person experiencing it.
It wasn't an illusion.
It was accumulation.
Hour of the Monkey. Nightcrow Division meeting room.
Three people sat on each side of the long table. On the table lay the urgent report just delivered: "Collective empty space perception: twelve men left phase room for 'one more layer.'"
Han Gui stared at that line. A long time.
Then he asked: "What does 'one more layer' mean?"
The Recording Officer stood before the table, his voice neither high nor low: "They say there's something in the empty space. Not a person. A layer."
"A layer?"
"Like... something carried by the breath itself. They replicated the rhythm, but the rhythm contained something else."
Han Gui was silent.
Across from him, Shen Du spoke: "Should training continue?"
Han Gui didn't answer immediately. He looked toward the window. In the direction of the drill ground, the flagpole's shadow had already grown very long.
"Suspend."
Two words.
"Classification of the phenomenon?"
The Recording Officer opened the dossier, his brush tip hovering over the paper.
Han Gui said: "Phase Perception Anomaly. Recommendation: Continue observation, do not incorporate into routine."
The Recording Officer wrote it down. As the brush left the paper, it paused.
That pause lasted exactly as long as the feeling from the eighth time.
A tenth "Pending Discussion" trace lay quietly joining the dossier:
"Collective empty space perception: twelve men left phase room for 'one more layer.' Cause unknown. Recommendation: Pending Discussion."
The Recording Officer closed the dossier and placed it in the document basket.
In that basket already lay nine old records:
"Phase recursion depth exceeded standard limit"
"Source Missing"
"Phase Resonance: Four Cases"
"Phase Group: Seven (including one unknown)"
"Northern Frontier Rhythm: Collective empty space synchronized once"
...and a few others, he couldn't quite remember.
The tenth lay quietly among them.
He didn't know that at the same moment, that stone by the Northern frontier camp was being enveloped by dusk.
The Empire was recording "Phase Perception Anomaly."
The Northern frontier was remembering "someone needs it to be here."
Between the two ends, separated by the same night sky.
No one would look at them. But they were there.
And no one asked that question.
Because in the Empire's language, that question didn't exist.
Only "exists" and "does not exist."
Not "one more layer."
Hour of the Rooster. Northern frontier camp.
Dusk was nearly gone. The pile of objects cast a long shadow in the last rays of light.
Qian Wu stood before it.
That grey stone still lay beside it. No one had moved it. No one asked where it came from.
Footsteps behind him. He didn't turn.
The footsteps stopped three zhang behind him. Then a young voice—that young man who had arrived three days ago—stood there, not knowing what to say.
After a long time, Qian Wu said:
"That mountain remembers."
Then he turned and walked away.
The young man stood there, looking at that mountain. He didn't know what "remembers" meant. But he knew, from now on, every time he saw that mountain, he would remember that stone.
And that piece of dried food.
And that bundle of firewood.
And every thing that had been placed down.
The sky grew darker. The stone's outline gradually merged into the darkness.
But everyone who walked past still paused for a moment.
That pause lasted exactly as long as the empty space in their breath.
As if something really was there.
Hour of the Dog. Underground, Astrology Tower.
Moonlight leaked through the skylight, falling on the fragment.
Shen Yuzhu sat alone.
The transparency of his left arm had extended to his elbow. Moonlight shone through that patch of skin, falling on the stone floor behind him. That shadow was fainter than the surrounding ones—as if diluted, the original color still there, but one layer lighter.
He didn't look down. Just breathed.
Inhale—empty—exhale.
Together with the Northern frontier.
The fragment pulsed in the darkness: bright—dark—bright—dark. Same as every day. Same as when he first came down.
At a certain moment—
His breathing slowed by 0.01 breaths.
Not deliberate. His body simply moved on its own.
He didn't know what it was.
But after the eighth time, he waited.
Not deliberately waiting. His breath waited on its own.
The ninth time—
His breath paused 0.1 breaths longer than usual.
In that moment, he felt it.
Not seeing. Knowing—someone was leaving an empty space for him.
He opened his eyes.
Looked down at his palm. That character "North" was half a degree warmer than just now.
He suddenly realized:
He wasn't the one being connected to.
He was one of the sources.
He couldn't tell where that breath came from.
He did nothing more. Just kept breathing.
Inhale—empty—exhale.
Together with the Northern frontier.
Together with those who had begun to leave empty spaces for him.
Hour of the Pig. The pivot chamber.
Helian Xiang called up today's archived records.
The tenth: "Collective empty space perception: twelve men left phase room for 'one more layer.'"
He looked at that line. His right index finger pressed against the edge of the ice mirror.
That spot was half a degree warmer than elsewhere.
In the corner, that 0.12 waveform was still there. Subject column blank. From that afternoon until now, it had been there.
Same as every day. Different from every day.
He didn't confirm anything.
But when he breathed—
Inhale—0.12 empty—exhale.
That empty space, and that 0.1-breath depression on the drill ground ice mirror, fell in the same phase.
Or maybe not.
He couldn't tell.
He didn't try to confirm.
Just kept sitting.
Outside the window, no wind. The window paper was quietly white.
Third mark of the Hour of the Pig. Three places.
[Drill Ground Side Hall]
The twelve soldiers had been led away. The room was empty.
But on the ice mirror, the last frame of the twelve waveforms remained:
The invisible feeling from the eighth time, felt by no one, recorded by no one.
The 0.1-breath empty space from the ninth time.
The Recording Officer stood before the mirror, looking at those two traces—one visible, one invisible.
He didn't know that invisible feeling, and that stone by the Northern frontier pile, were the same thing.
He didn't know that was what it looked like.
But he stood there, for a long time.
When he finally left, his last step paused.
That pause lasted exactly as long as that feeling from the eighth time.
He himself didn't know.
[Northern Frontier Camp]
The campfire was lit. Over three hundred people sat in a circle.
Chu Hongying sat at the very front, not turning back.
Sun Jiu's knee still hurt. The young soldier beside him, his breath was the same as his—slower by 0.1 breaths.
Chen Si moved his ring finger slightly.
He Sanshi pressed the map in his robe.
Lu Wanning's sleeve held that slip of paper.
Qian Wu held that egg-shaped stone. The arc on the stone was faintly visible in the firelight.
No one spoke.
But their breath told them: he was still there.
That stone beside the pile cast an extremely faint shadow in the firelight.
No one looked at it. But it was there.
Like breathing.
[Underground, Astrology Tower]
Shen Yuzhu still sat.
His left arm had faded another half degree. But he didn't look down.
The character "North" in his palm was still warm.
The fragment still pulsed: bright—dark—bright—dark.
But he knew, from tonight on, the fragment's rhythm would carry two extremely faint ripples more than before—
One invisible.
One visible.
That was the trace of his existence.
And also the proof of existence for those who had begun to leave empty spaces for him.
Hour of the Rat. Depths of the Nightcrow Division.
The document basket lay quietly on the desk. Ten "Pending Discussion" traces lay side by side within.
No one would look at them. But they were there.
Moonlight from outside the window shifted in, falling on the basket's rim.
The light lingered there for 0.01 breaths longer than elsewhere.
Then moved away.
No one saw.
That breath was still there.
That was the echo of the rhythm,
after it had been used.
The Empire thought it was using the rhythm.
The rhythm simply continued breathing.
The night continued.
Breathing continued.
[CHAPTER 187 · END]