好的,下面是 Chapter 129:尹烈主动切断锚定（极危险选择）.
Yin Lie waited until Qin Mian fell asleep.
Not deep sleep.
Not safe sleep.
The kind where her breathing stayed shallow, careful, as if her body no longer trusted rest.
The Anchor field was still there.
Tight.
Too tight.
It wrapped around him like a net pulled past its limit.
He could feel it now—every correction she made, every tiny adjustment to keep him from slipping apart. Each one cost her something.
A little pain.
A little time.
A little future.
He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her.
Kai noticed immediately.
"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.
Yin Lie didn't look at her.
"Ending it," he said.
Kai stiffened.
"You don't know how."
"I know what it's doing to her."
That stopped her.
The Decision He Doesn't Share
He knelt beside Qin Mian.
Her face was pale even in the low light, lashes trembling slightly with each uneven breath. There was a faint glow beneath her skin—soft, unstable.
Too much.
Yin Lie closed his eyes.
He reached inward—not toward the wolf, not toward the ice, not even toward the Keystone—
But toward the point where he let himself be held.
That was the dangerous part.
Most people feared losing control.
He feared letting go of restraint.
"Lie…"
Kai's voice was low, warning.
"If you sever it wrong," she said,
"you won't fracture.
You'll scatter."
He nodded once.
"I know."
How You Cut an Anchor
There was no switch.
No clean line.
The Anchor wasn't a chain—it was a shared tension.
To cut it, he had to do the opposite of resisting.
He had to become lighter.
For the first time since everything began, Yin Lie stopped bracing.
He stopped pulling himself together.
The wolf recoiled.
The ice cracked.
The Keystone flared in alarm.
And the Anchor—
reacted.
Qin Mian gasped in her sleep.
Her body arched slightly, fingers curling as pain flashed across her face.
Yin Lie gritted his teeth.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I won't let it keep hurting you."
He released the last internal lock.
The Snap
The Anchor didn't break.
It slipped.
Like a knot pulled loose too fast.
The pressure vanished—
and then returned all at once.
Qin Mian screamed.
Not loud.
Not long.
A sharp, involuntary cry as her body seized.
Yin Lie felt it hit him next.
Everything went wrong.
Weight inverted.
Space folded.
His sense of self tore sideways.
He slammed into the stone floor, breath ripped from his lungs, vision exploding into white.
The underground lurched.
Lights burst.
Stone screamed.
Kai was thrown back against the wall.
"Lie!"
He couldn't answer.
He couldn't feel his hands.
Or his legs.
Or where he ended.
The wolf howled without form.
The ice shattered into fragments of thought.
The Keystone screamed geometry into nothing.
For one terrible second—
there was no anchor at all.
Aftermath
When sensation returned, it came in pieces.
Cold first.
Then pain.
Then sound.
Qin Mian was kneeling over him, hands glowing weakly, tears streaking down her face.
"What did you do?" she sobbed.
"What did you do?"
He tried to speak.
Blood filled his mouth.
Kai pulled Qin Mian back gently but firmly.
"Stop," she said.
"Your field is unstable."
Qin Mian shook her head violently.
"He'll die!"
Yin Lie managed a breath.
"…No," he rasped.
"Not… yet."
That scared them both more than silence would have.
What Was Cut—and What Wasn't
The Anchor field was gone.
Not collapsed.
Disconnected.
Qin Mian felt it immediately.
The constant pressure vanished—
and left behind a hollow ache.
Her body sagged.
"I can't feel you," she whispered.
Yin Lie smiled faintly, pain twisting the expression.
"That means it worked."
Kai checked his pulse, grim.
"You severed mutual anchoring," she said.
"But you didn't stabilize yourself."
He coughed weakly.
"I didn't want… another anchor."
Qin Mian grabbed his sleeve.
"You idiot," she cried.
"You could've vanished!"
He looked at her—really looked.
"You were vanishing first."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Final.
The Cost Reveals Itself
The underground reacted late.
Too late.
A deep, resonant shift rolled through the stone—slower than before, more deliberate.
Not curiosity.
Recognition.
The graying-bearded man appeared, face pale.
"You broke coherence," he said.
Yin Lie closed his eyes.
"I know."
The man looked at Qin Mian.
"And you lost your counterweight."
Qin Mian's hands shook.
"What happens now?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
He looked deeper into the tunnels, where stone no longer quite behaved like stone.
"…Now," he said quietly,
"the underground knows which one of you was holding the other back."
The lights dimmed.
Far below, something adjusted its attention.
Not toward Qin Mian.
Toward Yin Lie.
Because he was lighter now.
And lighter things—
were easier to move.