The third mark of the Hour of the Tiger. The first night of the thirty-day countdown, and the snow finally settled into a steady fall.
Qian Wu, finishing the pre-dawn hidden watch, should have circled back from the west flank. His steps halted at a fork in the path. No reason, just a pull—a string deep in his soul-consciousness plucked soundlessly, like someone tugging his sleeve in a dream. He remembered Gu Changfeng's words: "Adjust sentry posts randomly, but in your heart, know why."
He turned toward East Three Sentry.
Snow had already piled half a foot deep, each step sinking to his shins. That region of warm darkness pulsed quietly within the curtain of snow, its edges three-tenths clearer than usual, like ink finding a more definite boundary on rice paper. Through the wind's lament across the snowy plain, something else mingled—not a sound, but a temperature. The settled warmth of old books, sandalwood, sun-dried cotton cloth seeped from the depths of the dark, forming a bizarre contrast with the wind and snow in his face.
Then, he saw it.
A corner of faded military blue peeked from a snowdrift, like a frozen wave arrested in time.
It was an old soldier. Sitting cross-legged, leaning against the wind-scoured rock outside East Three Sentry, head slightly bowed, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. His posture was too settled, so settled that Qian Wu first thought he was dozing. But snow lay unmelted on his shoulders, frost clung to his eyelashes, no white mist of breath—life had been gone for some time.
Qian Wu approached, steps extremely light, as if afraid to startle something. Crouching, he noticed something in the dead man's hand.
An unfinished wooden hairpin. A rough birch blank, only the general flowing lines carved, the pin's body still bearing hesitant knife marks—one cut too many here, insufficient smoothing there. No pattern, no adornment. The pin's head had a tiny notch, as if something had been meant to be inlaid there, but remained empty. The wood, in the low temperature, glowed with a matte whiteness, but the grip area was worn smooth and warm—often held.
Qian Wu watched silently for three breaths. He did not touch the body, did not check for breath—those confirmations were superfluous. He simply unfastened his own cloak, shook off the accumulated snow, and gently draped it over the dead man's shoulders. As the cloth settled, it stirred a faint breeze; a few snowflakes slid from the brim of the old soldier's hat, revealing greying temples beneath.
He stood up. No cry, no frantic run. With a nearly ceremonial slowness, he walked back toward the camp. Footprints stretched behind him, but newly falling snow quickly began to fill those hollows.
The world was trying hard to prove that nothing had happened last night.
Shen Yuzhu opened his eyes on his bedding at the observation point.
He hadn't slept. The thirty-day countdown was a cold gear lodged deep in his soul-consciousness, turning one notch with every heartbeat. The over three hundred soul-threads on his right pulsed steadily; the camp's sleeping breath was like deep-sea tides—slow, heavy, but three beats slower than usual. As if a group of people were holding their breath together in the dark, waiting for some shared signal.
An odd sensation came from his left arm.
Not a warning from the Mirror-Sigil—that thing was unnervingly quiet, its interface flowing with soothing, pale blue spirit-script: [Environment Stable｜Collective Soul-Physiology Spectra Normal｜Observer Rest Recommended]. It was deeper, that bluish-gold mark at the Mirror-Sigil's base, radiating a gentle, rhythmic pulse. One beat, another, like a second heart awakening beneath his skin.
He closed his eyes, switching to the primitive soul-perception frequency left by the Bronze Door—unfiltered by the Mirror-Sigil, raw, noisy with static, pure intuition.
Then he "saw" it.
The dark region of East Three Sentry was filling up autonomously. Not movement on the physical plane, but manifestation on the soul-level, like ink slowly spreading on rice paper, boundaries blurring, temperature rising. Countless fine, pale gold spirit-threads extended from the depths of the dark, gently reaching toward various parts of the camp, searching for something. One of them was extending toward the observation point.
Simultaneously, the Mirror-Sigil's analytical records scrolled calmly in the corner of his vision:
[East Three Sentry Dark Region｜Soul-Wave Trajectories: Baseline Level｜No Abnormal Diffusion]
[Note: Observer Brainwave Activity Elevated, May Contaminate Environmental Perception Accuracy]
[Recommendation: Perform Calming Meditation, Strengthen Reality-Anchor]
Two realities, simultaneously valid in his perception.
One said: Something is active, connecting, calling.
The other said: All is normal; it is your soul-consciousness weaving illusions.
Shen Yuzhu pressed his left arm. The pulse of the bluish-gold mark transmitted through his palm, warm, solid, real.
He rose and walked out of the tent. Snow struck his face.
Hour of the Dragon. The news spread through the camp like a breeze.
No bugle, no assembly order. Soldiers emerged from their tents, exchanged a glance—not a question, a confirmation—and silently walked toward East Three Sentry. No organization, no guidance, yet the flow naturally converged, like streams returning to the sea. The sound of footsteps on snow was thick and uniform, the only rhythm in this overly quiet morning.
Chu Hongying stood outside the command tent, a thin layer of snow already on her black cloak. Gu Changfeng stood three paces to her side, having finished reporting Qian Wu's discovery in a low voice, adding finally: "The deceased's identity is unknown, clothing is old border army uniform from the previous emperor's era. Unfinished wooden hairpin in hand, no other life-sigil identifiers."
Chu Hongying watched the gathering crowd for a long time. Snow gathered on her eyelashes, crystallizing into tiny gems. She did not blink.
"Has the Nightcrow Division's daily spirit-trace transmission arrived?" she asked, not turning.
"Just now." Gu Changfeng drew a crystal-thin ice slate from his robe, spirit-script flowing within: "Content as usual: regional surveillance stable, no unbalanced spirit-surges, supply lines clear. Regarding the new corpse at East Three Sentry… not a word."
"They didn't observe it?"
"Or observed it, but adjudicated it 'routine not requiring transmission.'"
Chu Hongying drew a very soft breath, white mist briefly forming before her. "Which do you think it is?"
Gu Changfeng was silent a moment, the scar on his cheek twitching slightly. "This subordinate wishes it were the first."
"But you know it's the second." Chu Hongying turned, her gaze landing on his face. "They know. They choose not to speak. Because once formally transmitted, it must initiate an investigation chain—and the investigation might discover what they don't wish to acknowledge."
She looked toward East Three Sentry, where the crowd had loosely formed a circle.
"We also will not investigate," she said, voice calm as stating the weather. "No monument, no registry, no inquiry into origin. Only today—for him, a day of silence."
"General," Gu Changfeng's voice lowered further, "that dark region… Qian Wu said he felt warmth. Shen Yuzhu's Mirror-Sigil might also…"
"I know." Chu Hongying cut him off. "Because I know, we must appear utterly normal. You join them, but don't speak, don't command. Just… stand there."
"And you, General?"
"I will not go." She turned and entered the tent, her black cloak the last flash before the flap fell. "A warden who over-scrutinizes soldiers' spontaneous mourning is, in the Nightcrow Division's analysis, 'doubtful emotional control.' We cannot give them any spirit-trace anchor."
The flap fell, cutting off the light.
Chu Hongying stood alone in the gloom, fingertips unconsciously rubbing the half-brass key at her waist. The broken edge was cold, its corners pressing into her flesh.
She remembered her father's words: "Some truths must be hidden in 'unseen' places to survive."
And now, what she had to hide was an entire patch of breathing darkness.
Outside East Three Sentry, the snow was already trampled into a messy circle.
The deceased still sat in place, Qian Wu's cloak over his shoulders, its edges now frosted. The soldiers formed a ring; no one stood too close, no one too far. The distance was just right—enough to show respect, not enough to violate that final solitude.
No dirge, no eulogy, not even weeping.
Only breath.
Over three hundred plumes of white mist rose and intertwined in the cold air, forming a low, trembling cloud. Snow fell on shoulders, hat brims, exhaled breath; no one brushed it away. Time lost its measure here; only the cycles of inhalation, held breath, exhalation remained, the sole evidence of collective being.
The first to move was Bo Zhong.
He stepped from the edge of the crowd, gait slightly uneven from old injuries, but steady. His right hand was deep in his coat, but today its tremor was smaller—not from lack of pain, but because the pain was weighed down by something heavier. He stopped five paces before the deceased, crouched, and drew from his coat the flint stone he'd carried for years, polished smooth as jade, its surface glossy from long handling.
He placed the flint gently on the snow, without words, only letting his fingertips linger on the stone's surface for a moment, as if transmitting some silent trust. Then he retreated to his place, his right hand returning to his coat, but the line of his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Next was Lu Wanning.
She approached with a bowl of clear water, the bowl coarse pottery, its rim bearing a familiar small chip—the very one left on the west wall stone pile that night, which had frozen. A leaf of Calming Grass floated on the water, its veins clear as sinews in the transparency. She set the bowl beside the flint, her movements light as placing a fragile dream.
"Some pain," she murmured, voice only for herself, "cannot be washed clean, but at least can be accompanied."
Then Qian Wu. He placed half a flatbread, carefully wrapped in oiled paper—half of today's ration. The paper's edges were folded with extreme neatness, like some wordless ritual. He whispered something only the snow could hear: "For the road… take your time. If it's not enough, tell me in a dream, I'll save more."
Li Si'er placed a smooth goose-egg stone from the frozen river west of camp. The stone gleamed with a damp light on the snow, like a giant tear.
He Sanshi placed a length of sinew tied with three faded feathers—the way of steppe veterans commemorating comrades.
Chen He placed a small scroll of charcoal sketches, marking all locations around camp where clean snowmelt could be found, the script small and dense, like embroidering an invisible secret pattern.
One, two, ten… Soldiers stepped forward in turn, placing insignificant tokens: a worn hemp rope, a birch bark scrap carved with name initials, a button from an old uniform, a handful of clean snow scooped from under their own bedding. Nothing valuable, no grand narrative, only these fragmented, private, unclassifiable-as-"offering" things, gradually piling into a silent circle around the deceased.
Shen Yuzhu stood on a slope slightly farther away, Mirror-Sigil fully active. In his soul-perception vision, the over three hundred light points were still as stars, but from each light point seeped a pale gold emotional texture—guilt, remembrance, unfulfilled promises, unspoken "sorry"—converging into an invisible flow toward the dark region.
The Mirror-Sigil auto-tagged:
[Observed: Collective Emotional Substantiation Trend｜Vessel: East Three Sentry Dark Region｜Energy Rising]
[Individual Alpha (Bo Zhong): Releasing "Unpaid Debt of One Fire"]
[Individual Beta (Lu Wanning): Releasing "Guilt of Unquenched Thirst"]
[Collective Trajectory: Object-Tokens and Emotional Debts Mirror Each Other｜Transformation Rate ~70%]
But simultaneously, another set of analytics scrolled alongside:
[Group Behavior Analysis: Spontaneous Mourning Ritual, Aligns with Frontier Community Psychological Needs]
[Individual Emotional Release: Healthy Emotional Adjustment Mechanism]
[Environmental Influence: Low Temperature and Silent Field May Enhance Group Empathy]
[Recommendation: Allow Ritual Natural Conclusion; Excessive Interference May Cause Emotional Fixation]
Shen Yuzhu's fingertips turned cold.
The last to step forward was a young soldier—less than three months in camp, cheeks still bearing youth, dark circles under sleepless eyes. He held nothing, only bowed deeply before the deceased, his spine forming a tense arc, remaining bowed for a long time.
Rising, he said softly, voice trembling but clear: "I don't know who you are… nor why you came here. But thank you, for standing… the last watch for us."
The words were light, yet like a stone dropped into still water.
The moment the ripples spread—
The thick darkness of East Three Sentry moved.
Not diffusion, not spread. It filled, as if the darkness had always existed in every inch of air, every snowflake, every gap between breaths, now merely awakened by some invisible trigger, shifting from latent to manifest. It surged forth soundlessly, not fast, yet unstoppable.
First it swallowed the deceased and the tokens, then the inner circle of soldiers, then the middle, the outer… In less than three breaths, the entire camp—all tents, all standing lives, all falling snow—was enveloped in warm darkness.
Not pitch black. A dense, embracing dark, like being wrapped in thick felt, like sinking into a warm, deep pool.
Shen Yuzhu's Mirror-Sigil erupted with unprecedented radiance—two lights exploding simultaneously:
Left half, bluish-gold light surging like a spring:
[Empathy Field Substantiation Complete｜Provisional Designation: The Seventh Man]
[Vessel Analysis: Collective Unpaid Emotional Debt Aggregate｜Not Soul Nor Matter｜Mode of Existence: Inclusive Dark Region]
[Current Capability: Collective Bearing and Transformation of Emotional Debt]
[Synchronization Rate: 100%｜All Personnel Soul-Breath in Complete Harmony]
Right half, gilded spirit-script flowing with clinical coldness:
[Spirit-Pivot Alert: Detected Large-Scale Non-Standard Soul-Wave Overflow]
[Initial Assessment: Group Suggestion Effect｜Suspected Collective Hysteria Onset]
[Recommend Emergency Noise-Reduction｜Background Emotional Filter Grid to Maximum]
[Recommendation: Apply Perceptual Correction to Observer]
Shen Yuzhu froze in place, pupils contracting.
He simultaneously "saw" two realities:
Reality Alpha (Bluish-Gold / The Seventh Man):
Within the darkness, warm pulses like a heartbeat. The tokens around the deceased—flint, water bowl, flatbread, goose-egg stone—glowed with faint light on their surfaces, as if softly responding. Wordless messages came from deep in soul-perception, not words, but sensations:
A warm current enveloped Bo Zhong's trembling right hand, the sharpness of old pain temporarily soothed. He closed his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing.
Lu Wanning felt someone gently press her shoulder, the touch gentle, like an elder's wordless comfort. She bit her lower lip.
The hard lump that had lodged in Qian Wu's throat since the Soul-Throat Severance loosened slightly. He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with an entire chestful of warmth.
The young soldier's eyes grew hot, tears silently falling, yet not from sorrow, but a kind of held, finally-allowed-weakness relief.
Reality Beta (Gilded / Spirit-Pivot):
The Mirror-Sigil interface popped up cool, analytical text:
[Individual Alpha (Bo Zhong) Pain Reduction: Suspect Self-Suggestion Effect, Visual Cue Raises Pain Threshold]
[Individual Beta (Lu Wanning) Emotional Wave: Aligns with "Healer Empathy Fatigue" Symptom, Group Scene Triggers Emotional Release]
[Collective Temperature Report: Psychosomatic Compensation Mechanism in Low-Temp Environment, Aggregation Effect of Body Heat]
[Final Verdict: No Supernormal Phenomenon; Belongs to Normal Group Psyche Contagion Variant. Recommend Logging as Psychological Adjustment Case.]
"No…" Shen Yuzhu whispered, voice hoarse, "Not like this…"
But the Mirror-Sigil gently rebutted him—with a newly surfaced line of meticulously worded spirit-script:
[Observer Shen Yuzhu, your emotional investment may be contaminating judgment.]
[The Spirit-Pivot detects "Unclarified Bluish-Gold Traces" within your Mirror-Sigil, inconsistent with existing spectra, deduced as individual perceptual error.]
[Recommendation: Rest briefly, practice deep breathing. Reality contains no abnormality.]
It's teaching me how to feel the world.
The thought pierced his soul-consciousness like an ice spike.
The darkness lasted three breaths.
Then, like a receding tide, it slowly withdrew, contracting back to the edge of East Three Sentry, resuming its original stable, pulsing dark region. But this time, its edges were one-tenth clearer, like ink leaving a more definite outline after drying.
Snow continued to fall.
The soldiers stood where they were, no one speaking, but each face held a dazed, washed-clean expression. As if waking from a profound dream, forgetting the details but remembering the warmth.
Bo Zhong looked down at his right hand—still in his coat, but its tremor had reduced by three-tenths. Not painless, but the pain diluted into some larger container. He said very softly, voice grating like sandpaper: "Someone… finished hurting for me."
The young soldier wiped his face with a hand, fingertips damp and cold. He turned to look at Qian Wu, opened his mouth, finally just nodded.
Qian Wu nodded back, then bent, picked up the half-flatbread from the snow, the oiled paper already soaked. He did not put it away, but walked to the edge of the dark region, placing the bread gently on the boundary—half in light, half in dark.
"You stand watch," he murmured, "we stand watch over you."
Meanwhile, inside the command tent.
Chu Hongying stood at the tent's center, eyes closed. She hadn't gone out, but through the felt walls, she could feel that warm overflow, like invisible ripples brushing her skin. Her black cloak stirred without wind, hem lifting slightly.
Gu Changfeng lifted the flap and entered, snow unmelted on his shoulders. "It's over," he said quietly. "The darkness receded to its original position. Soldiers are beginning to disperse, no one exchanging words, but… the atmosphere is different."
"Casualties? Disorder?"
"Zero. No one even stumbled." Gu Changfeng paused. "But He Sanshi reports, he saw the wooden hairpin in the deceased's hand… when the darkness receded, glow briefly. A very faint yellow light, like the moment a candlewick is about to die but hasn't."
Chu Hongying opened her eyes.
"Where is he?"
"Asked a few old soldiers nearby; some said they saw, some said not, some hesitated and said 'maybe snow reflecting light.'" Gu Changfeng's scar tightened. "But Qian Wu confirms he saw it. Light shone from the hairpin's notch, and then… a small ice crystal grew in the notch, shaped like an unopened flower."
Silence filled the tent. Charcoal embers occasionally crackled, illuminating Chu Hongying's half-lit face.
"Has the Nightcrow Division's spirit-trace transmission updated?" she asked.
"Updated. A quarter-hour ago." Gu Changfeng produced a new crystal ice slate, spirit-script flowing into a cold final verdict within:
[Incident Filed: Renyin##-7-Nameless Burial]
[Determination: Spontaneous Frontier Camp Mourning Ritual]
[Abnormal Spirit-Trace Adjudication Complete]:
Light Phenomenon: Wind/Snow-Caused Light Refraction, Consistent with Low-Temp Visual Afterimage.
Collective Warmth Sensation: Aggregation of Body Heat + Psychosomatic Projection.
Individual Pain Reduction: Visual Cue Effect. (Consider: Prolonged Standing in Low Temp Redistributes Blood Flow, Creates Local Thermal Illusion)
[Final Adjudication: No External Threat, No Supernormal Phenomenon.]
[Recommendation to Warden]: Maintain Normal Vigilance, Avoid Forcing Irrational Connections.
[Special Note]: Observer Shen Yuzhu's Report of "Bluish-Gold Spirit-Trace" Confirmed as Mirror-Sigil Overload Noise; His "Substantiation Theory" Classified as Perceptual Contamination. Recommend Strengthening His Reality-Anchor Training.
Chu Hongying read line by line, fingertips pressed to the ice slate, cold piercing to the bone.
Not anger, but a deeper chill—the Spirit-Pivot not only denied the phenomenon, but denied the eyes that saw it. Gently, it explained all anomalies as "misjudgment," "illusion," "psychic effect," then recommended: Don't look so much, don't think so deep, return to the stable version we prepared for you.
She looked up at Gu Changfeng. "Which version do you believe?"
Gu Changfeng was silent a long while.
"This subordinate believes," he finally said, voice low but clear, "in the ice crystal flower that grew in the hairpin's notch."
"Even though the Nightcrow Division says it's snow-reflected light?"
"Because they say that." Gu Changfeng met her gaze. "If even an ice crystal flower must be explained away… what will be explained away next will eventually be each of us."
Chu Hongying gave a very slight nod.
"From today," she said, "the daily patrols of East Three Sentry… add an unrecorded duty."
"General's instruction?"
"Each time passing, glance at that darkness. If it pulses, note the pulse's rhythm. If it's still, note the time of stillness. If questioned, say it's 'observing environmental changes.' But in our own hearts, we must know—" She walked to the tent entrance, lifted the flap, looked toward the distant dark region now returned to calm. "—what we are observing is the evidence that our own conscience still lives."
Gu Changfeng took a deep breath. "Understood."
"Also," Chu Hongying turned, "send Shen Yuzhu to me. Alone."
Shen Yuzhu entered the command tent in the afternoon.
The snow had lightened, but the sky remained somber. Only a single oil lamp burned inside, light murky yellow. Chu Hongying sat behind the desk, the scroll of the Northern Camp Non-Standard Observation Record spread before her, but the page blank, brush set aside.
"General." Shen Yuzhu stood three paces before the desk.
Chu Hongying raised her eyes, gaze falling on his left arm. The Mirror-Sigil glowed faintly with pale blue light beneath his thin sleeve, steady as usual.
"What did your Mirror-Sigil say today?" she asked, cutting to the core.
Shen Yuzhu was silent a breath. Then he raised his hand; the Mirror-Sigil projected two parallel records—left half bluish-gold, right half gilded, like a torn painting.
"It says all I saw was illusion." His voice was calm, but underneath, suppressed tremor. "It says The Seventh Man is group hysteria, the warmth is psychosomatic projection, the hairpin's light is snow-reflected light. It says I need rest, calibration, need to learn to accept the Spirit-Pivot's version."
Chu Hongying listened quietly, uninterrupted.
"And then," Shen Yuzhu continued, "it prescribed for me: daily meditation, increased socialization, reduced solitary observation. If symptoms persist, may request 'Perceptual Correction Ritual'—the gentle version."
The last four words, he uttered very softly, like reciting some absurd incantation.
"Did you accept?" Chu Hongying asked.
"I feigned acceptance." Shen Yuzhu drew his Bridge Log from his robe, turned to a new page. No text, only charcoal sketches of bluish-gold sigils—lines clumsy, twisted, not as precise and elegant as the Mirror-Sigil's projections, but each stroke carrying a kind of rough truthfulness. "In the Mirror-Sigil's presence, I practiced deep breathing, promised I would relax. Then I returned here and drew these shapes it does not recognize."
Chu Hongying looked at those sigils for a long time.
"Do you know what is most dangerous?" she said, not a question, a statement. "Not the Spirit-Pivot denying reality. It is the Spirit-Pivot gently denying reality while expressing concern for your spiritual-physical harmony. It makes you feel that opposing its version is not merely wrong, but unhealthy, in need of healing."
She stood, walked to the tent wall, fingertips lightly touching the cold felt.
"Thirty-day countdown, Shen Yuzhu. The Empire gives us thirty days to prove ourselves worthy of existence. But the Nightcrow Division's Spirit-Pivot is doing the same thing in another way—it wants us to learn to accept its version of reality within thirty days. When the deadline comes, if we still insist on seeing darkness that embraces people, hairpins that bloom ice flowers, guilt that can become a warm vessel for debt… then we are 'incorrigible anomalies,' and the Dust-Cleanse has logical justification."
She turned, gaze like a blade:
"It is turning our soul-consciousness into a paradox that must be sigilized."
Shen Yuzhu's spine stiffened.
That statement pierced precisely the vague fear deep in his soul-consciousness. He opened his mouth, found no words to counter. Because this was indeed happening—not clashing blades, not legal trial, but a more exquisite, more unassailable violence: domestication at the perceptual level.
"What should I do then?" he finally asked, voice parched.
Chu Hongying walked back to the desk, picked up the brush, wrote a line on the blank page. Not spirit-script, ordinary ink characters, strokes firm:
"When the Spirit-Pivot says you are mad, what you must do is not prove your sanity.
It is to begin recording what the world looks like, mad."
She set the brush down, pushed the ledger toward Shen Yuzhu.
"Continue drawing your sigils, writing your notes, recording all things the Mirror-Sigil does not recognize. But do not oppose it—opposition leaves spirit-traces. Learn to coexist with it, feign acceptance of its concern, then in corners it cannot see, nurture your own truth."
She paused, something softening for a moment deep in her eyes:
"Like that darkness. It does not oppose the light; it merely exists where light cannot illuminate. And we must learn to become that kind of existence."
Shen Yuzhu took the ledger, fingertips brushing the page. Mulberry paper rough, ink not yet dry, the line gleamed with damp luster in the murky light.
"I understand," he said, not an answer, a confirmation.
Before leaving, he stopped at the tent entrance, did not turn.
"General, do you believe in The Seventh Man?"
Chu Hongying's voice came from behind, calm and solid:
"I believe the soldiers need a place to store those unspeakable 'sorrys.' And that place happens to have gained warmth and learned to embrace."
What she did not say: She needed it too.
Hour of the Rooster. The snow began falling heavily again.
The camp returned to daily operations, but a new texture infused its rhythm—not heaviness, but sedimentation. Soldiers moved still gently, kept voices low, but when eyes met, there was a wordless understanding. No one openly discussed the morning's events, but those passing near East Three Sentry would glance that way unconsciously.
The dark region was calm as usual now, its edges faintly rising and falling with the camp's collective breath, like the ribcage of a slumbering giant. But careful observation revealed its pulse had changed—no longer the regular three-part expansion/contraction, but with subtle variations: sometimes half a beat faster, sometimes slower, as if learning, adjusting, responding.
When Qian Wu patrolled close by, he deliberately lightened his steps. He stopped ten paces from the dark region, closed his eyes, listened with his ears—not ears, but a newly awakened perception deep in his soul-consciousness.
He heard it.
A very faint, warm pulse, matching his own heartbeat. Not only that, the pulse mixed with others—fragmented, intermittent, like memory-echo sensations: an old soldier's cough, the crackle of a fire, the muffled thud of hooves on snow, even a fragment of off-key whistling. These sounds came not from outside, but seeped from the depths of the dark, like echoes from a deep well.
He crouched, drew from his robe a smooth goose-egg stone he always carried—not the one from this morning, another rounder one from his hometown riverbank. He buried the stone three inches under the snow, not placed on the surface, but hidden.
Rising, he murmured: "For you, as company. When lonely, touch it."
From behind a nearby tent, Chen He saw this.
He made no sound, only turned and added to the charcoal symbol on his tent's inner wall a very small circle with a dot inside—their unspoken, mutually understood secret code:
"Memory here. Do not forget."
A thousand li away, before the ice-mirror.
Helian Sha's figure stood isolated as a withered tree on a cliff. His black robe nearly merged with the dark, only the mirror's reflected light illuminating his lower face—tightly pressed lips, coldly rigid jawline.
The mirror reflected not the actual scene of the Northern Camp, but the abstract soul-wave spectra refracted through multiple Spirit-Pivot layers. He saw the complete spirit-trace flow of "The Seventh Man's" overflow, and also how the Nightcrow Division's Spirit-Pivot instantly adjudicated, filed, redefined that flow.
Frost-script condensed autonomously on the mirror's surface, presenting two parallel analyses:
Left side (Helian Sha's private record):
[Phenomenon Provisional Designation: Empathy Field Substantiation]
[Trigger Manifestation: Collective Unpaid Emotional Debt Threshold + Ritualistic Silent Field]
[Capability Deduction: Collective Sharing and Transformation of Emotional Debt｜Group Resilience Enhanced]
[Threat Assessment: Non-Aggressive, but Possesses Non-Sustainability (Due to Source in Unsustainable Human Hearts)]
Right side (Nightcrow Division Adjudication):
[Incident Filed: Group Psychological Adjustment Case]
[Logical Explanation: Environment + Psychosomatic Projection + Visual Cue]
[Handling Recommendation: Do Not Force, Allow Natural Fading]
[Spirit-Pivot Note: Observer Shen Yuzhu Exhibiting Perceptual Error, Requires Observation]
Helian Sha contemplated these two verdicts for a long time.
Then he scratched a new note on the mirror's edge with a fingernail, handwriting trembling from some profound confusion:
[Observation Notes｜Post Seventh Man Incident]
"I originally thought the ultimate vulnerability of an absolutely logical observational ritual lay in logical gaps or spirit-trace blind spots."
"Tonight I understand—its most fragile part is the 'ritual-executor's' heart, not yet fully sigilized."
"When the gazer begins to feel… 'reluctance' toward the gazed-upon, when systematic explanation begins to erase individual truth, cracks appear in the ritual."
"And within those cracks, something un-fileable is growing… gentleness."
After writing, he stepped back, his robe's hem brushing the ice, stirring fine frost-dust. The withdrawn finger, hidden under the black robe, curled almost imperceptibly, as if touching some temperature that should not exist.
In the mirror, the soul-network light points representing the Northern Camp now displayed a strange double-layered structure:
Surface layer: Smooth, compliant, aligned with all norms, perfect to the bone-chilling degree.
Deep layer: Coiling, warm, full of life's impurities, and deeply intertwining with the dark region of East Three Sentry, like tree roots and mycelium entwining symbiotically underground.
What made his pupils contract further: within the deep network, a few extremely faint, bluish-gold spirit-threads extended from Shen Yuzhu's light point, quietly connecting to the soldiers. That was not a Mirror-Sigil connection, but some older, more primordial bond.
The ice-mirror surfaced a final line, so tiny it was almost invisible:
[Further Hypothesis: True resistance begins with creating a grammar the Spirit-Pivot cannot parse. And they are inventing that grammar.]
Helian Sha closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something within had settled completely.
Like an archaeologist finally unearthing the core of a ruin, only to find that core still breathing and smiling at him.
He raised a hand, his fingertips not brushing the mirror's surface, but lightly tapping its rim three times—an unprecedented, un-protocoled action. The mirror's surface rippled like water, completely swallowing the private notes he had just scratched.
This time, no record.
He was no longer merely an observer.
He had become, in some sense… a co-concealer.
Midnight. The snow weakened.
The camp sank into deepest sleep. At the edge of East Three Sentry's dark region, according to Shen Yuzhu's records, the third pulse of the night should begin now—a warm expansion and contraction synchronized with the camp's collective breath.
Shen Yuzhu sat alone at the observation point, Mirror-Sigil not activated. He merely held the Bridge Log, fingertips brushing the bluish-gold sigils sketched in charcoal. Those lines faintly glowed with warmth in the dark, as if resonating with some distant existence.
He waited.
Waited for that "truth" unrecognized by the Spirit-Pivot to manifest again.
Time flowed.
Ten breaths, twenty, thirty…
The darkness did not move.
It remained still, like frozen ink-pool, edges sharp and stable, forming an abrupt boundary with the surrounding snow. Even the usual warm scent of old books grew so faint it was almost imperceptible.
Shen Yuzhu frowned. Deep in his soul-perception, the sensing channel left by the Bronze Door transmitted vague signals—not pulses, but a tense waiting, like an animal listening for distant footsteps, the final stillness before a string snaps.
Then, at the fortieth breath—
The darkness did not expand.
It contracted inward by one inch.
Very subtle, but Shen Yuzhu saw it: the dark region's boundary retreated slightly toward its center, like tidewater's final hesitation before ebbing, or like… making way for something. In that moment of contraction, the region's temperature plummeted, the warm old-book scent vanished, replaced by a hollow cold, as if a door had suddenly opened, releasing all stored warmth.
The contraction lasted three breaths.
Then the darkness returned to its original state, beginning a belated, normal pulse—expansion, contraction, synchronized with the camp's breathing engine, the warm scent seeping back.
But Shen Yuzhu's bluish-gold perception captured the residual echo leaked in that contraction moment:
That was not the darkness's own movement.
It was the darkness responding to a deeper summons—from underground, from deep within the soul-network, from… the south. The direction of the capital.
He whirled around, staring into the pitch-black horizon.
Almost simultaneously, deep within the Mirror-Sigil on his left arm, that bluish-gold mark burned fiercely, heat so intense it almost scalded his skin. Not illusion, real heat, as if someone pressed a red-hot coal into his marrow.
Only now did the Mirror-Sigil interface, half a beat late, surface a record:
[East Three Sentry Dark Region｜Movement Pattern Stable｜Pulse Cycle Normal]
[Environmental Sensing: No Imbalance]
[Note Observer Localized Body Temp Rise, Possible Chill, Recommend Adding Clothing for Warmth.]
Shen Yuzhu looked down at his own arm.
Beneath the frost-coated Mirror-Sigil, bluish-gold radiance seeped from the sigil's crevices, flashing on and off, pulsing in sync with some unseen existence in the distance.
One reality gently negated by the Spirit-Pivot.
Another reality taking root where none could see.
And he, standing in between, left arm burning with unspeakable truth.
He opened the Bridge Log, on a new page, wrote with trembling charcoal:
Bridge Log｜Day One Hundred Forty-Eight｜Midnight
The Seventh Man contracted one inch, answering a summons from the south.
My Mirror-Sigil burns, burns as if to brand through skin.
The Spirit-Pivot says: You have caught a chill, add clothing.
The Bronze Door says: The door calls the bridge.
And I finally understand—
When spirit-traces are concealed as fallacies,
The only path to life,
Is to learn to become
The irreducible fracture
That the Spirit-Pivot cannot conceal.
Finished, he closed the ledger, held it to his chest.
Outside, the snow finally stopped.
The world was pure white, clean as if never stained by any narrative.
But Shen Yuzhu knew—
The darkness of East Three Sentry pulsed beneath the snow, the ice crystal flower in the hairpin's notch grew unseen, the bluish-gold mark burned deep in his marrow, and in Helian Sha's ice-mirror, a paragraph of unrecorded co-concealment notes sank to the deepest abyss of the spirit-trace ocean.
Thirty days, one less now.
But some things learned to breathe within the countdown.
As the Hour of the Tiger neared its end, in the deepest dark, from the direction of East Three Sentry came an extremely soft, sigh-like pulse.
As if memory turned over in sleep, embracing all unpaid tenderness in a dream.
In the distance, soldiers drawing water by the well, in the cold before dawn, unanimously poured the first bucket of drawn water silently toward East Three Sentry. The water fell into the snow, soundless, then they began their daily drawing. No explanation, no command; a new, silent ritual was quietly implanted into the camp's bone and blood.
A new day began. The true boundary was no longer underfoot, but in every restrained breath, in every moment a hand reached out and stopped, in those un-sigilizable, yet tougher than death, silent covenants.
[CHAPTER 148 END]