I went back at midnight.
Not with gear. Not with a team.
Just the jade fragment in my pocket, my boots on damp stone, and the silence of the mountain like a shroud.
I told no one.
If Dr. Zhou was watching — and I was certain he was — then let him see a scholar chasing insomnia.
Let him think I was checking sensor data, re-photographing glyphs.
But this wasn't research.
This was a test.
I stood before the mural, the headlamp off, the moonlight slicing through the cave mouth in pale silver bars.
I took out the jade.
Held it in my palm.
"Show me something real," I whispered.
Not a vision of war. Not a sky cracking.
Just… truth.
I pressed the fragment against the symbol on the wall.
And the mountain exhaled.
This time, there was no fall.
No shock.
It was like slipping under water — slow, quiet, inevitable.
I stood beneath a willow tree.
Its long branches swept the surface of a still pond, where lotus flowers bloomed in soft pink and white. The air smelled of damp earth and plum blossoms. A breeze moved through the leaves — not loud, but singing, like silk brushing stone.
Nearby, Ziyan sat on a low wooden bench, a scroll open on his lap. But he wasn't reading.
He was watching the woman beside him.
She was small, wrapped in a light blue robe, her hair loose, her face turned toward the sun. A book rested in her hands, but her eyes were closed.
Peaceful.
Fragile.
His wife.
He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. The gesture was tender, but his eyes were dark with something I knew too well:
The fear of losing someone before you're ready.
She stirred. Smiled without opening her eyes.
"You're staring again," she said, voice soft, like wind through reeds.
"I'm memorizing," he replied.
She laughed — a light, clear sound — and leaned into his shoulder.
They didn't speak for a long time. Just sat.
The willow leaves danced.
A dragonfly skimmed the water.
Then, quietly, she said:
"Do you think we'll remember this moment… when we're old?"
He didn't answer at once.
When he did, his voice was low:
"I don't want to remember it.
I want to live it forever."
She opened her eyes. Looked at him.
"You always want too much."
He smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Only from life."
The scene didn't shatter.
It faded — like ink dissolving in water.
And I was back.
On my knees.
Tears on my face.
I hadn't cried in years. Not since my father's funeral.
But this wasn't grief for them.
It was grief for me.
Because I understood now.
Ziyan hadn't tried to break the Wheel out of arrogance.
He'd done it out of love.
The same love that made my mother pour tea for a ghost.
The same love that made my father spend his life chasing forgotten truths.
He hadn't wanted power.
He'd wanted more time.
And the mountain hadn't punished him for defiance.
It had punished him for refusing to let go.
I wiped my face. My palm came away wet.
But the jade in my hand was damp, too — as if weeping.
And then I saw it.
Beneath the mural, almost hidden by shadow, a second inscription — one I'd missed before.
Carved in smaller script, older than the first:
九封镇时,心锁不闭.
"The Nine Seals bind time — but only if the heart remains unchained."
I traced the characters.
My fingers trembled.
Nine Seals.
Not one.
Not here.
Wudang was just the beginning.
And if the seals were breaking…
someone had to mend them.
Not a scholar.
Not a soldier.
A rememberer.
I stood.
Pocketed the jade.
Turned to leave.
But at the cave mouth, I paused.
Between two pines, half-hidden in shadow, stood a figure.
Still. Watching.
Dr. Zhou.
He didn't move. Didn't call out.
Just raised one hand — not in threat, but in something like acknowledgment.
Then he turned and vanished into the trees.
I didn't follow.
Didn't shout.
Because in that moment, I realized:
He wasn't here to stop me.
He was here to see
if I was the one.
And as I walked back to camp, the jade warm against my thigh,
I whispered the only answer I had:
"I don't know.
But I'm not stopping."
The wind stilled.
The stars blinked.
And far below,
the mountain
nodded.