The temporary camp on the edge of the Xinjiang desert was permeated with an unusual atmosphere of solemnity and relief intertwined. The excavation of Huo Xiao's tomb was declared complete under the highest level of confidentiality agreements. Massive amounts of backfill soil were carefully spread over the chamber, the once-open entrance permanently sealed, as if a giant hand had gently closed the door to the past and its space-time tempests. The dunes resumed their primordial form of rolling waves, with only a few special marker stones silently indicating that beneath this yellow sand slept a re-interpreted tragic epic.
Qin Yuan, Su Wan, Chen Feng, Xiao Liu, and Xiao Wang stood at the camp's edge, looking towards the newly "smoothed" land. Zhang Da Li stood beside them, the rugged man also silent, his expression complex.
"The report is out," Professor Wang said, approaching with a thick folder stamped TOP SECRET, his voice low but tinged with excitement. "After the highest level joint review and verification, your five's experience of that 'space-time displacement event' and the physical evidence brought back have been permanently archived in the National History Archives' special collection room, codename 'Desert Loyal Soul.' Officially classified as an 'extreme geomagnetic environment and special artifact unknown energy field superposition event triggering phenomena beyond current cognition.' The details of your experience will remain state secrets."
He looked at Su Wan. "As for that blood-crystal fragment... the expert team confirmed the strange energy it contained dissipated completely after triggering the return. It's like a key that exhausted its energy, completing its mission of connecting two space-times. It is the final material evidence of General Huo's immense will at life's end and his intense bond with that moment. Its operating principle may forever remain a mystery."
It was time to withdraw. The off-road convoy kicked up clouds of dust on the Gobi gravel plain. Qin Yuan requested the convoy make a brief stop near the tomb site.
The setting sun, like a huge molten gold fireball, slowly sank towards the desert horizon. It dyed the endless sea of sand into a vast, tragic, yet incredibly magnificent golden-red. The crest of every dune flowed with lava-like light, as if the earth were burning, or the blood from the battle centuries ago had solidified. The wind, tirelessly sweeping across the Gobi's rugged rocks and sparse camel thorns, emitted sounds that were at times moaning, at times whistling. To the five, this wind was no longer merely a natural sound. It sometimes transformed into the fierce clashing of weapons and armor on the battlefield, sometimes like the low groans of wounded soldiers, finally, all resolving into a long, desolate sigh traversing the long tunnel of time.
The five silently got out and walked to the site marked by the positioning marker stones. The sand was smooth, as if nothing had ever happened.
Qin Yuan stood straight, like a sturdy poplar in the desert. He adjusted his collar and, facing the dune, slowly, with utmost solemnity, saluted with a standard military salute. His movements were firm and powerful, his eyes as sharp as ever, yet precipitated with an unprecedented respect and desolation.
"General Huo Xiao," his voice was not loud, but each word cut clearly through the wind, "Your loyalty, your bravery, your injustice, the blood of you and your comrades, and also... that unspoken affection, we saw it, and we brought it back. History may have been covered in dust, but the truth will eventually pierce the fog like this desert sunset. Your unfinished guardianship—these mountains and rivers remember it for you. Rest in peace, General!"
Chen Feng crouched, grabbed a handful of warm sand, and rubbed it finely between his fingers. The grains slipped through his fingers, glittering faintly in the sunset. "Every grain of sand here," he said quietly, "may be soaked in blood and fire, witnessed loyalty and betrayal, carried calls across time. They are the silent recorders." He gently let the sand fall back to the ground.
Xiao Liu and Xiao Wang stood side by side, bowing deeply and reverently three times towards the site. No words, only slightly reddened eyes and tightly pressed lips.
Su Wan walked slowly to the front of the site and crouched. The golden sunset light outlined her serene profile. She opened her palm. In it lay the now-lusterless, turned warm and dull blood-crystal fragment. She used her fingers to carefully dig a small hole in the warm sand. Her movements were gentle, as if handling fragile treasure. She placed the blood-crystal fragment gently at the bottom of the hole, then carefully covered and smoothed it over with sand.
"You belong here," her voice was soft, as if speaking to the sand, or across time to a certain heroic soul. "Go back to his side. Your mission is complete. You showed us the truth, and brought us home. Now, please guard this place forever, guard him, guard this land he watered with his life and blood."
She stood up, her gaze towards the blood-red remnants of the sun in the distance, as if piercing the veil of time. "A Yi Sha... thank you. That final glance back, I saw it. Your sorrow, your resolve, your guardianship... we remember it too."
The wind tousled her hair, brushing against the ancient compass pendant around her neck. This time, the compass needle, in the sunset's afterglow, pointed steadily due north—the direction of home.
Zhang Da Li stepped forward, clapped Qin Yuan firmly on the shoulder, then faced the site and clasped his fist in a salute, everything said without words.
The convoy started again, leaving this land that bore so much weight and miracle. In the rearview mirror, the tomb site grew smaller and smaller, finally merging into that vast golden-red, leaving only the rolling contours of the dunes, etching eternal curves against the sky.
Months later, in the capital. A special exhibition hall titled "Ming Dynasty Western Frontier Defense" quietly opened at the National History Museum. In the central display case of the hall, under soft lighting, a few exhibits rested quietly:
• The cracked bronze coiled dragon-patterned star chart mirror: Label noted "Ming Dynasty, function unknown, possibly related to astrological rituals."
• The slab inscribed with mysterious symbols and stars: Label noted "Found with the mirror, possibly a matching item."
• A restored, gleaming Ming-style long knife: The socket for the dark red gemstone on the pommel was empty, inviting speculation. Label noted "General Huo Xiao's Combat Knife (reproduction)."
• A small, turquoise-inlaid dagger remnant: Label noted "Ming Dynasty, Western Regions style, origin unknown, found in Huo Xiao's tomb."
Before the display case, crowds flowed. People marveled at the artifacts' craftsmanship, guessing the stories behind them. Only those who lingered longest might, from those cracks, symbols, empty socket, and foreign-style dagger, sense a trace of pathos and mystery transcending time and space.
Qin Yuan stood among the crowd, looking at the knife with the empty socket, as if hearing again the battlefield roars and the sharp sound of cutting air. He turned and left, his steps firm towards a new archaeological project, a heavy sense of mission added to his heart.
Chen Feng's office was piled with papers and data. He was challenging a completely new interdisciplinary field—"Research on the Correlation between Geological-Magnetic Field Anomalies in Extreme Environments and Historical Information." A photo of the lusterless blood-crystal fragment was pasted on his desk.
Su Wan's desk was spread with the manuscript of a hefty monograph, tentatively titled "Echoes in the Sand Sea: Glimpses of Ming Western Frontier Defense, Tribal Interaction, and Individual Fates." In one chapter, she detailed tribal legends circulating near Huangsha Post: a veiled woman shooting an arrow at the enemy chieftain in times of crisis, leading pursuers away, her description and token (turquoise dagger) astonishingly matching the archaeological finds. She wrote: "...When words vanish, artifacts are damaged, the mutual verification of oral memory and physical remains becomes the faint light illuminating the dark corners of history. That woman's nameless sacrifice and the General's unyielding loyal soul are like lone smoke and steadfast rock in the deep desert, in the long wind of time, speaking of guardianship and affection transcending ethnicity."
The compass around her neck gleamed warmly under the desk lamp, its needle pointing steadily north.
The wind still blows year after year across that vast desert edge in Xinjiang. It carves the dunes, wears down the rocks, and hums songs none can understand. In those songs are the beacon's wolf smoke, the General's roar, the soldier's lament, the tribal woman's whisper, and also the five lost travelers' footsteps returning home.
The sea of sand is silent, the long song unceasing. The hero's loyal spirit and the encounter across time have long since turned into the deepest veins of this land, speaking, between every sunrise and sunset, every wind rise and sand drift, the eternal story of loyalty, courage, sacrifice, and memory.