Six hours since that document arrived.
Six hours until they depart.
The snow had stopped.
Not a gradual cease, not a weakening, but an abrupt halt—like a sound that had always existed yet never been heard by anyone, suddenly deciding, at some moment, to no longer sound.
Half-past the Hour of the Rooster. The sky was diluted ink, from west to east, light grey gradually sinking into deep blue. The camp was enveloped in a strange stillness. Not the "stillness of being observed" of the past forty-plus days, nor the "post-definition stagnation" after yesterday's document arrived. It was something deeper—the final, complete co-existence between those about to depart and those about to remain.
No one said "tonight is the last night." No one needed to.
The body knew before the mind.
Qian Wu sat on the well's edge.
That goose-egg stone he had carried for seven years rested on his knee, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing its surface—seven years, the stone had been polished warm and smooth as jade by his touch, yet tonight it seemed half a degree cooler than usual. Not the stone's temperature changing. It was the blood flowing through his palm tonight, slower than usual.
He remembered Shen Yuzhu's words before leaving camp: "I am no longer a bridge. I am the river itself."
He hadn't understood then. Now, looking at the goose-egg stone in his hand, he suddenly understood: a bridge needs two shores, needs people to walk, needs to be seen. But a river doesn't. A river just flows. Shen Yuzhu had left, the Mirror-Sigil no longer glowed, but the well water was still there, the goose-egg stone was still there, his hands were still there.
A river without a mirror flowed even more freely.
He raised the goose-egg stone to his lips, breathed on it, extremely lightly. White mist condensed into thin frost on the stone's surface, then was quickly wiped away by his sleeve. The wiping motion was very slow, very slow, like polishing a ritual object, like smoothing an invisible crease.
He remembered the document Gu Changfeng had conveyed yesterday: "Emotional-Consciousness Extraordinary Domain," "Military Functions Suspended," "Exemplar · Class B," "No Appeal Period Shall Be Granted."
Five phrases, packing their forty-plus days of breathing, sidestepping, waiting, silence—all into one cage.
He felt no anger. He just thought: Symptom, then. Even a symptom has the right to choose how to live.
"Go," he said to the stone.
Not to the stone. To himself.
"Go."
Three hundred li away. Deep in the snow plain.
The chestnut mule trudged through knee-deep fresh snow. Each step sank to the knee, then pulled out with effort, snow spraying, condensing into fine ice crystals in the twilight.
The rider was wrapped in an old, worn white felt robe, hood pulled low, revealing only half a frost-reddened nose bridge and a few strands of hair blown loose by the wind.
Shen Yuzhu stared ahead at the endless white.
His left arm radiated a familiar warmth. Beneath his sleeve, a faint, moon-white glow seeped from deep within his skin—not the Mirror-Sigil's recording, not the Bronze Door's whisper. Just part of his own body temperature.
He closed his eyes.
Through that perception already fused with the camp's soul-vein network, he "saw": Qian Wu sitting by the well, holding the goose-egg stone. Li Si'er in front of the cook tent, checking rations. Bo Zhong pressing against the dark boundary of East Three Sentry.
He opened his eyes.
"Without me, you become even more yourselves," he murmured, a faint, almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Then he continued forward.
In his robe, the half-brass key Chu Hongying had given him was now faintly warm. Not searing—a warm, persistent heat pointing in a certain direction: the direction of the capital.
That "Door" was waiting for him.
Li Si'er inventoried rations in front of the cook tent.
Not tonight's food, but the supplies the six of them would need for tomorrow's journey. Quantity, packaging, moisture-proofing—his hands were steady as he performed these actions, like every supply check for the past fifteen years. The wooden ladle rested beside him, handle pointing east—the signal for "temporarily absent," but tonight, no one needed signals.
His gaze, every so often, drifted toward a certain direction outside the tent.
There, He Sanshi was making his final inspection of the map.
He Sanshi knew Li Si'er was watching him. He didn't look up. He just unfolded the map, folded it, unfolded it again, folded it again—that map he had carried for seven years, edges already frayed, creases smoothed and re-split countless times, now plastered with tiny deerskin patches. Each patch was a correction after getting lost, a realization that "this path doesn't work."
On the seventh unfolding, he finally looked up.
"Si'er."
Li Si'er didn't answer, but his hands stopped moving.
He Sanshi walked over. His steps were slow, each one planted firmly. He spread the map on the wooden table outside the cook tent, pointing to a tiny ink dot—a spot about eighty li from camp, a very hidden rock crevice, sheltered from wind, with a water source, but the entrance blocked by rubble, extremely hard to find.
"If I don't come back, you need to remember this spot."
He Sanshi's voice was very flat, like stating a route he'd known for a long time.
"If the camp has to evacuate, this is the last retreat."
Li Si'er looked at that ink dot. Three breaths.
Then he reached out, pressed his index finger down on that spot, extremely hard. Pressed for three breaths. Like branding it with body heat, like burning that location from the paper into his bones.
"Remembered."
No "you'll come back." No "don't say that." Just: Remembered.
He Sanshi looked down. On the map, where Li Si'er had pressed, there was a very faint, melted damp print from his body heat. The shape was exactly the outline of his index finger's first joint.
He said nothing. Just folded the map and put it back in his robe, against his heart.
That map, from then on, carried one more layer of warmth.
Three hundred li away.
Shen Yuzhu pressed his left arm. The faint light beneath his sleeve flickered—not a warning, a resonance.
He closed his eyes again.
This time he "saw" more clearly: He Sanshi putting the map into his robe, Li Si'er turning and walking toward the well. And there—on the map, pressed against He Sanshi's heart—a faint, persistent warmth. The exact shape of Li Si'er's fingertip.
Three hundred li away, there are hands waiting. Three hundred li away, there are hands pressing on that paper, pressing as if pressing on a part of themselves.
He opened his eyes. His lashes were thick with frost.
"Seven years," he whispered. "He drew it for seven years."
The hoof beats continued forward.
Hour of the Dog. Night had fully fallen.
The dark region of East Three Sentry pulsed quietly in the twilight. The expansion and contraction of its edges maintained the same synchrony with the camp's three hundred-odd breaths that had held for over forty days.
But tonight, Bo Zhong felt a difference.
He still sat in his usual spot—the wooden stump had grown a thicker frost, but he didn't move. His right hand pressed against the dark boundary, palm against that invisible line, like every previous night.
But the darkness's pulse had changed.
Not faster, not slower—deeper.
Like a river that had always flowed on the surface suddenly discovering, at some bend, an entrance to an underground channel. It didn't hesitate, didn't retreat, just began to seep deeper. The amplitude of the pulse was greater, but the frequency lower; the expansion of the edges was slower, but—
The temperature was higher.
Bo Zhong listened.
Not with his ears. With that soul-vein connected to the darkness, unnamed for forty-seven years, woven inch by inch with every tremor, every pain, every moment he pressed his right hand here—an invisible rope.
Then he heard it—
Not a sound. Resonance.
The camp's three hundred-odd breaths, at this moment, were perfectly in phase with the darkness's pulse.
Not synchrony. Synchrony is temporal coincidence—inhaling at the same second, exhaling at the same second. Being in phase is something deeper: resonance at the essential level. Like two different rivers, flowing in their own channels, yet having identical ripple patterns. Like two different trees, rooting in their own soil, yet dropping leaves at the same angle in the same wind.
He suddenly understood.
This darkness, from the beginning, was never "the Seventh Man," never "the container of collective subconscious," never anything that could be named. The Nightcrow Division's Observation Records had no entry for it, the Spirit-Pivot's analytical frameworks couldn't classify its attributes.
It was the embodiment of the camp's collective breath.
The shape grown by all the unspoken words, unfulfilled tenderness, unforgiven mistakes, unpaid debts—when they could find no other outlet.
And now, this shape was doing one thing:
It was waiting for him.
Bo Zhong's right hand trembled slightly. Not pain, not cold—it was the body reacting before the mind, when you know you're about to lose someone, some warmth, something you always thought would be there forever.
He spoke. His voice was hoarse as sandpaper:
"They're leaving."
The darkness didn't respond.
But the pulse's frequency, extremely, extremely lightly—slowed by one beat.
Not sorrow. Not plea. Acknowledgment.
"I don't know if they'll make it back," he said again.
The darkness slowed another beat.
"But I'll be here."
The third beat slowed.
Not a promise. Not an oath. It was the most instinctive thing a root says to a seed—You drift far away, I grow downward. From now on, we exist in the same land, in different ways.
He said nothing more. Just pressed his right hand tighter.
The darkness's warmth, through his trembling fingertips, climbed up along his blood vessels, through his wrist, past his elbow, reaching his shoulder, finally—stopping at the place over his heart.
Not warmth. Something deeper:
The feeling of being remembered.
He remembered that word from the document: "Emotional-Consciousness Extraordinary Domain."
Five words. Packing all his forty-seven years of pain, tremors, "being needed"—into one cage.
He said to the darkness: "They call this a symptom."
The darkness slowed another beat.
"Symptom, then," he said. "A symptom also needs to learn how to wait."
The darkness slowed another beat.
This beat was longer than the last—
Like a root asking: Waiting for someone—how long?
He didn't answer.
Because roots never ask that question.
Three hundred li away.
Shen Yuzhu's horse stopped.
Not because he reined it in. The horse stopped on its own—that chestnut mule that had followed him for three days suddenly pricked up its ears, let out a very soft whinny toward the direction they had come from.
He pressed his left arm.
Beneath his sleeve, the moon-white glow lit up on its own, warmer and more persistent than ever.
He closed his eyes.
This time he "saw" not images, but temperature—Bo Zhong's hand pressing against the dark boundary, the body heat flowing from his fingertips into the darkness, and the older, vaster warmth flowing back from the depths of the darkness.
He opened his eyes.
A drop of water slid from the corner of his eye.
This time, he did not deny it.
"Uncle Zhong," he whispered. "You're not a symptom. You're the root."
The hoof beats continued forward.
Hour of the Pig. A thread of moonlight leaked through a rift in the clouds, extremely faint, like someone striking a damp match along the rim of an inkstone.
Zhao Tieshan crouched at the edge of the drill ground, three things laid before him.
A long spear. Followed him for twelve years, the shaft worn into a shallow depression by his palm, the depression's shape exactly the contour of his grip. The sound of the spear-tip cutting air, every time he thrust—that was the sound he had heard most over twelve years.
A piece of deerskin. Originally meant to mend his own torn gloves. The gloves had been torn for three months, he'd never been willing to use this leather—always thinking "wait a little longer, until it gets colder." Colder had come, but he suddenly realized he wasn't cold anymore.
A small bag of salt. Saved for three months, originally for winter. Salt was one of the camp's most precious supplies; every month he saved a tiny pinch from his ration, hiding it in a pottery jar under his bedding. Three months, accumulated into this small bag.
Chen Si walked past, stopped.
"Brother Zhao, this is—"
"For them." Zhao Tieshan didn't look up. "The spear for Sun Jiu, his is too old, the shaft has a crack, I saw it the day before yesterday. The deerskin for Doctor Lu, her gloves are torn, I saw it days ago, she hasn't had time to mend them. The salt—"
He paused.
"The salt for everyone. For the road."
Chen Si crouched, looked at these three things. Three breaths.
Then he asked: "And you? What about yourself?"
Zhao Tieshan looked up. Moonlight fell on his face, illuminating that face weathered by wind and snow for twelve years, rough as sandpaper. No expression, only a deep, almost wooden calm.
"Myself?"
He held out his hands.
Palms open, facing up. Covered in calluses, covered in tiny scars—frostbite scars, cut scars, calluses worn into the skin by the spear shaft, grown together with it.
But when he raised them before Chen Si, those hands were steady, without a trace of tremor.
"Twelve years, these hands only learned two things: thrusting a spear, and—"
He thought for a moment, couldn't find the right word.
"And living."
He lowered his head, looked at his hands.
"The spear stays, they'll need it on the road. The deerskin for Doctor Lu, her hands are worth more than mine. The salt, for everyone. Myself—"
He looked at his hands again.
"Myself, these hands are enough."
What he didn't say was: These hands, in twelve years, learned only one thing—living. But isn't living another kind of weapon?
Chen Si said nothing.
He just took from his robe that stub of charcoal pencil—the one he had placed in the Object Hill at noon, then quietly taken back—and gently laid it beside Zhao Tieshan's salt bag.
"This charcoal, I don't need it anymore."
Zhao Tieshan looked at the charcoal stub. Very short, less than three inches. The edges were charred, the tip sharpened very fine, whittled bit by bit with a small knife.
"I can't read," he said.
"You don't need to read," Chen Si said. "Draw what you want. Draw the first thing you see when you open your eyes every morning. Draw the things you suddenly remember when you can't sleep at night—"
He didn't finish. Because he didn't know what "those things" were either.
But he knew Zhao Tieshan would understand.
Zhao Tieshan was silent for a long time.
Then he reached out, took the charcoal stub—into his palm.
The shaft was cold, but his hand was warm. In that moment when cold met warmth, he suddenly remembered many years ago, when he was still a new recruit, the first time he held a spear.
The same feeling. Cold. Strange. Not knowing what to do with it.
Later, he knew.
Later, the spear became part of his body.
He didn't know if this charcoal stub would also become part of his body.
But he knew: Hands that can draw, and hands that can thrust a spear—it turns out they can be the same hands.
He said nothing. Just put the charcoal stub into his robe, against his heart.
Like the spear.
Lu Wanning packed inside the medical tent.
Not packing what to take. Packing what to leave behind.
The third shelf of the medicine cabinet, that jar of Calming Grass, only half full. She moved it to the outermost position—easy for the new assistant to find. The binding method for Hemostatic Vine, she drew a diagram and posted it inside the cabinet door. The diagram was very detailed: the winding of each circle, the tightness of each knot, all clearly marked with arrows.
The sealing method for the Borneol jar, she drew three circles on the jar with charcoal—one for "open," one for "closed," one for "check daily."
Finally, she took the Shadow Medical Canon from her robe.
How long had this scroll followed her? She couldn't remember. From the first time she entered the medical tent, the first time she faced wounds "unrecorded in the classics," the first time she discovered some illnesses weren't in books, only in people's eyes—this scroll began to be filled, page by page.
Not formal case records. Not treatises for posterity. Just traces she jotted down whenever she was confused, whenever she tried something new, whenever she discovered "so this is possible."
Now she turned to the last page.
That page had been blank originally.
She lifted the brush. The tip hovered above the paper for a long time.
A drop of ink fell on the corner of the page, spreading into a tiny round dot. She looked at that dot for three breaths.
Then she wrote:
If you read this, and I am not here—
Do not look for me.
The prescription you need is not in this scroll.
It is in the eyes of those you see every day.
—Wanning
She closed the book. The leather cover had been warmed smooth by her touch, corners worn round, like a stone scoured too long by a river.
She placed it on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. That spot, she would see every time she took medicine.
Then she turned, walked out of the tent.
Did not look back.
Three hundred li away.
Shen Yuzhu suddenly pressed his left arm.
Not pain. A feeling of being held—like someone, somewhere he couldn't see, had paved all the roads for him.
He "saw" the scroll Lu Wanning had left behind. Saw the charcoal stub in Zhao Tieshan's robe. Saw Chen Si's bandaged right hand, slowly, degree by degree, recovering its ability to bend.
He opened his eyes.
"You're all there," he whispered. "You're all waiting for me to come back."
The hoof beats continued forward.
Ahead, the capital was three hundred li away. Behind, the camp was three hundred li away.
He was in between.
Bridge, and river.
Gu Changfeng stood inside the camp gate.
His waist was empty. In his scabbard, no blade.
There was a blackwood hairpin.
Chu Hongying had given it to him this morning. When she handed it over, she said nothing. Just pulled it from her hair and placed it in his palm.
He didn't ask "what does this mean." Didn't ask "why me." He just took it, slid it into the scabbard, and had been standing here ever since.
From then until now, eight hours.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't sat. Hadn't entered the tent to rest. Just stood here, like a wooden stake hammered into frozen ground, waiting for something he himself couldn't name.
Now he looked down at the hairpin in his scabbard.
Blackwood. Unadorned. Simple as a piece of raw material that could be carved into any shape. The head slightly thicker, the end gradually tapering, a very shallow, almost invisible curve along the shaft—that was the arc shaped by years of her wearing it, by body heat and time together.
He remembered the moment she snapped the brass key. Remembered her saying: "Some doors don't need to be opened."
He remembered her standing inside the command tent, back to the entrance, saying: "We go so that the capital may see—there is a way of living that does not require their permission."
He remembered the final line of that document: "No appeal period shall be granted."
No appeal period—then use the way of not appealing to let her know: The shore will always be here.
Footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn. He knew who it was.
Chu Hongying walked to his side, stood still.
The two stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the endless darkness beyond the camp gate.
After a long time, she spoke:
"Changfeng. Do you think we have to go?"
Gu Changfeng was silent for three breaths.
"That document's final line said 'No appeal period shall be granted.'"
"..."
"If we don't go, we won't even qualify as a 'symptom.' They'll erase us from every record, like these three hundred-plus people never existed."
Chu Hongying said nothing.
"And if we go?" Gu Changfeng asked.
Chu Hongying looked up at the distance.
"If we go, at least they can see—see that there is a way of living that does not require their permission. Even if we're erased in the end, at least before we're erased, we lived."
Gu Changfeng said nothing more.
He just reached out, touched the hairpin in his scabbard.
Chu Hongying saw that movement. She didn't turn.
But the corner of her mouth, extremely, extremely lightly—lifted.
Midnight.
The camp sank into the deepest darkness.
Not because there were no lights—lamps still glimmered sporadically in the tents, here and there, like warm stars scattered on the snow plain. Because the darkness spreading from East Three Sentry now covered the entire camp.
Not swallowing. Not invading. Covering.
Like a warm, invisible blanket, descending from the sky, gently covering every tent, every path, every breathing person.
Soldiers emerged from their tents.
Not woken. Invited—by a darkness they had never experienced before, warm as body temperature.
No one spoke. No one asked "what's happening." No one needed an explanation.
They just walked over. From the well, from the cook tent, from the drill ground, from the wounded tent, from every spot they had stood, sat, crouched, breathed these past forty-plus days—walked over.
Walked to the camp center.
Then—looked up.
The sky had no stars.
Only that darkness, covering everything.
But in that darkness, now emerging—
Light points.
Not stars. Not the "spirit-trace light points" recorded by the Nightcrow Division's Spirit-Pivot. Not anything that could be classified, analyzed, or entered into observation records.
It was them.
Over three hundred light points, slowly emerging in the darkness, flickering on and off, like three hundred hearts breathing simultaneously.
The colors of the light points were all different—
Qian Wu's was a steady deep blue, like the deepest well water.
Li Si'er's was an alert pale gold, like dry tinder ready to ignite.
Zhao Tieshan's was a warm ochre yellow, like wrought iron hammered countless times.
He Sanshi's was a weathered iron grey, like a blade worn but never discarded.
Bo Zhong's was a trembling pale white, like a string that might break at any moment, yet never had.
Lu Wanning's was the green of medicinal herbs, like the first shoots in early spring.
Gu Changfeng's was an unfinished dark red, like a flame forever suspended in air.
Sun Jiu's was—
Chen Si's was—
Zhang San's was—
Each one a color only they themselves could recognize.
And those six light points about to journey far—Chu Hongying's, Lu Wanning's, He Sanshi's, Sun Jiu's, Chen Si's, and the one three hundred li away, still traveling—were brighter than the others by one degree.
Not showing off. Not marking. Just—
Light knowing it was about to travel far.
The darkness covered them. Its pulse was steady—steady as it had been for forty days. But those who had known it, who had pressed their palms against its boundary night after night, might have noticed: between one beat and the next, there was now a space just wide enough for six absent breaths to pass through.
The darkness had begun to learn absence.
Chu Hongying stood at the very front of the crowd.
She didn't look back at those six light points. She just looked at the sky, at those light points emerging from the darkness, belonging to each person.
She knew what this was.
Not a spiritual manifestation. Not an observation. Not anything that could be recorded, archived, or analyzed.
This was the empathic field—not the cold entry in Shen Yuzhu's Mirror-Sigil, "Empathic Field: Domain Where Collective Soul-Ripple Exchange Density Exceeds Norm," not the technical jargon in the Nightcrow Division's Observation Records, "Exemplar B-Seven Collective Heart-Covenant Life-Pattern Aberrant State."
It was its true, living form.
Over forty days of silence, sidestepping to make way, mending boot soles, pouring porridge back into the pot, the lowered sword hilts, the pawned tokens, the snapped brass key—all that unnamed, unrecorded, unseen-by-any-system "existence"—at this moment, had grown its own shape.
And that shape was called:
We breathe together.
Bo Zhong lifted his right hand from the dark boundary.
He stood up.
The old injury in his knee burned. The tremor in his right hand spread. For forty days, he had hidden that tremor—pressed it against his chest, wrapped it in his coat, let the camp mistake it for a signal, a warning, something useful. But tonight, he did not hide it.
He let it tremble.
He let them see.
He walked toward the crowd. His steps were very slow. Each step felt like crushing his own bones. But he didn't stop. The tremor in his right hand was visible now—to everyone, for the first time.
One step. Two steps. Three.
Where he passed, the darkness automatically receded on both sides—not making way, but holding, like a river holding a stone sinking into its riverbed.
He walked to Chu Hongying's side, stood still.
When he stopped, his right hand—the one that had pressed against the darkness for forty nights, the one that had carried the camp's pain in its tremors—hung at his side, still trembling. But he did not raise it. Did not hide it. For the first time in forty days, he let the camp see his tremor without mistaking it for a signal.
It was just his hand.
It was just him.
Juxtaposition.
That layer of darkness—now covering the entire camp, warm, pulsing—in the moment he stood firm, expanded very, very slightly by half an inch.
Not invasion. Acceptance.
Gu Changfeng walked over from inside the camp gate.
The hairpin was still in his scabbard. The tip pointed outward—toward the direction they were about to leave.
He stood on Chu Hongying's other side.
The darkness expanded another half inch.
Qian Wu walked over from the well. That goose-egg stone was held in his palm, the stone's temperature now identical to his palm's warmth.
Li Si'er walked over from the cook tent. That wooden ladle he had used for three years, he had placed beside the Object Hill—no need to take it back.
Zhao Tieshan walked over from the edge of the drill ground. Those three things—spear, deerskin, salt bag—were already in their proper places. But in his robe, against his heart, a charcoal stub waited.
Chen Si stood up, holding the tent frame. His right hand was bandaged, but he didn't use his left for support, he stood steady on his own. The bandaged hand hung at his side, swollen, healing—a thing that was, slowly, becoming whole.
Sun Jiu stood up from beside the Object Hill. His knees, which had knelt all night, still ached, but he stood very straight. The ache was his. The standing was his.
One by one.
Over three hundred people formed a circle.
Not commanded. Not ritual. Just each person, with their own feet, walked to where they should be.
The darkness covered them. Light points emerged above them, flickered, intertwined.
And between the pulses of that covering darkness—a space now held, for six who were not there.
Then—
The darkness began to breathe.
Not a metaphor.
A real, collective, audible breath.
Inhale—over three hundred chests expanded simultaneously. Air rushed into lungs, cold, clear, fresh as a first breath.
Exhale—over three hundred chests contracted simultaneously. White mist streamed from over three hundred mouths at the same time, condensing, rising, mingling in the darkness, becoming another layer of warm cloud above them.
Same frequency. Same amplitude. Same temperature.
The empathic field had learned to breathe.
The world took over forty days to learn to walk.
Breathing took only one night.
Because walking needs direction, and breathing—
Only needs to be.
Chu Hongying lowered her head.
She didn't weep. Her tear ducts had long dried up—from the moment her father placed the brass key in her hand when she was fifteen, saying "from now on, you are a general," she had never wept again.
But she felt a warmth she had never experienced.
Rising from the soles of her feet. Along her leg bones, past her knees, reaching her heart. Not sorrow, not joy, not any emotion that could be named. Something more primal—this land, in its own way, was remembering them.
She spoke.
Her voice was not loud. But in the gap between these collective breaths, in the moment over three hundred people simultaneously held their breath, every word was clear as carving:
"Over forty days ago, I asked a question."
No one responded. But everyone listened.
"'A world where even breathing is scrutinized—is it still worth fighting for?'"
The breathing continued. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The darkness pulsed, the light points flickered, over three hundred chests rose and fell in the same rhythm.
"Over forty days later, I know the answer."
She looked up.
"No."
Not an impassioned verdict. Not a tragic awakening. Just a statement. Like stating snow is cold, fire is hot, breathing is the sound made by those who are alive.
"Because we were never fighting 'for the world.'"
She looked at the flickering light points above. At each person's color, each person's temperature, the traces of each person walking from their own place to form this circle.
"We fight, because we already—"
She didn't finish.
Not because she didn't know how. Because—
She suddenly realized: She didn't need to finish.
They all knew what came after "already."
They didn't need to say it.
The breathing said it for them.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Behind her, Gu Changfeng's fingers, on the edge of the empty saddle, tightened extremely, extremely lightly once.
That saddle—he had spread his own cloak over it at midnight, the thick one, the one his wife had sent last year through someone. Smoothed the folds, tucked the edges. "So it won't be cold when he mounts," he had murmured to no one. No one had asked him to. No one needed to.
Now, on that empty saddle, Gu Changfeng's body warmth still lingered. And on its edge, a new indentation—the place where his finger had tightened.
It would soon cool. But at this moment, it remembered.
Three hundred li away.
Shen Yuzhu's horse stopped.
Not because he reined it in. That chestnut mule suddenly let out a very soft whinny toward the direction they had come from.
He pressed his left arm.
Beneath his sleeve, the moon-white glow lit up on its own, brighter and warmer than ever.
He closed his eyes.
Then he "saw" it—
That darkness. Those light points. That circle. That breath.
Over three hundred people, in the same instant, breathing simultaneously.
He "felt" Bo Zhong's hand—trembling, unhidden—pressing nothing, just hanging at his side. Felt the goose-egg stone in Qian Wu's palm. Felt the charcoal stub in Zhao Tieshan's robe. Felt the scroll on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. Felt the hairpin in Gu Changfeng's scabbard. Felt Chu Hongying standing at the front of the crowd, not weeping, but light in her eyes.
And there—on He Sanshi's chest, pressed against his heart—that spot on the map, still warm. The exact shape of Li Si'er's fingertip.
Three hundred li away, there are hands waiting. Three hundred li away, there are hands pressing on that paper, pressing as if pressing on a part of themselves.
He opened his eyes.
A drop of water slid from the corner of his eye.
This time, he did not deny it.
"Wait for me," he whispered.
His voice was very soft, soft enough to be scattered by the wind as soon as it left his lips.
But he knew—
They heard.
The hoof beats continued forward.
He no longer needed to ask where.
Half-past the Hour of the Tiger. The deepest darkness before dawn.
Six horses stood inside the camp gate.
Chestnut, brown, piebald—not warhorses, just whatever mounts the camp had. The saddles had been adjusted overnight by Gu Changfeng, the girths tightened three times to ensure they wouldn't loosen on the road.
The sixth horse carried no rider.
But its saddle was warm. Gu Changfeng's cloak still lay across it, the folds undisturbed. And on its edge, a faint indentation—the place where his finger had tightened during Chu Hongying's words, now cooling, but still there.
The cloak would stay. No one would take it back.
The riders were ready.
Chu Hongying held the reins. Her black cloak hung down, covering the horse's rump. She wore no helmet, her hair simply tied back, like an ordinary traveler about to depart.
Lu Wanning on her right. The medicine box tied behind the saddle, the lid fastened tight. She didn't look back at the medical tent. The scroll was on the top shelf. It would be seen.
He Sanshi on her left. The map in his robe, against his heart. That map held seven years of traces, the damp print from Li Si'er's index finger—still warm—and the final point he had added with charcoal tonight, during his last confirmation.
Sun Jiu behind her. That blade at his waist—not the one pawned at the hill's foot, another one, its edge still keen. His left knee still ached faintly, but he didn't rub it. The ache was his. He would carry it.
Chen Si at the rear. His right hand was bandaged, but he gripped the reins with his left. The ring finger was still swollen, but the angle he could bend today was two degrees more than yesterday. The hand was healing. The hand was his.
And one empty horse. With a warm saddle. And a cloak. And a memory.
No one saw them off.
Not because they didn't want to. Because—
There was no need.
Qian Wu still sat by the well. He didn't stand. He just held the goose-egg stone, looking toward the camp gate.
Li Si'er still stood in front of the cook tent. He didn't wave. He just held the wooden ladle he had used for three years—in the end, he had taken it back from beside the Object Hill.
Zhao Tieshan still crouched at the edge of the drill ground. Before him lay those three things—spear, deerskin, salt bag. He didn't shout "wait, take these." He knew they would see. In his robe, against his heart, a charcoal stub waited to learn what it would draw.
Chen Si's bedding was empty, but the tent flap wasn't lowered. That was the signal: Person gone, place still there.
Sun Jiu's knee-print remained beside the Object Hill—he was here now, yet the print was still there. Like a mark that would never disappear.
Bo Zhong still sat at the edge of East Three Sentry. His right hand pressed against the dark boundary.
The darkness still pulsed.
Frequency steady. In phase with the camp's three hundred-odd breaths.
But between each pulse—that space, just wide enough for six absent breaths to pass through—was still there.
The darkness had learned absence.
It would not unlearn.
Gu Changfeng stood inside the camp gate.
The hairpin in his scabbard, at this moment, was touched by the faintest dawn light. The light slid along the shaft, from the thicker end to the thinner, finally disappearing at the tip.
He didn't speak.
Chu Hongying didn't turn.
But she spoke. Her voice very soft, soft enough for only Gu Changfeng to hear:
"Keep the hairpin for me."
Gu Changfeng's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Wait for you to come back."
This time, he finished the sentence.
Chu Hongying didn't respond.
But the knuckles gripping the reins, extremely, extremely lightly—relaxed by half an inch.
The horse's hoof took the first step.
The muffled sound of frozen earth crushed, in the silence, clear as a heartbeat.
Second step. Third.
Six horses—five with riders, one carrying only warmth—six figures, slowly merging into the deepest darkness before dawn.
No one looked back. No one shouted "goodbye."
But behind them—
Over three hundred people inhaled as one.
That was not farewell.
It was practice.
And the darkness of East Three Sentry, after those six figures had completely disappeared, extremely, extremely lightly—advanced half an inch forward.
Not chasing. Not pleading.
Remembering the direction they left.
One hour before dawn. The sky was faintly light.
The six horses had vanished into the deepest darkness before dawn.
Gu Changfeng still stood where he was.
He looked down at the scabbard.
The hairpin was still there. The tip pointed outward—toward the direction they had left.
He didn't turn away.
Just let the tip keep pointing in that direction.
Until the sky was fully light.
The camp resumed its daily rhythm.
The well windlass began to turn, its creak echoing lonely in the dawn light. Cooking smoke began to rise, some straight, some slanted, weaving into a vivid, breathing totem. Soldiers began to move, work, pass each other, their steps naturally curving around certain spots, their gazes instinctively avoiding certain directions.
Everything as usual.
As if no one had left.
But at the edge of the darkness of East Three Sentry, the spot where Bo Zhong had pressed all night—
Now, extremely fine ice crystals, almost invisible to the naked eye, were slowly growing.
Not frost. Frost is flat, covering, falling from above.
Not snow. Snow is soft, accumulating, blown by wind.
Crystals.
Transparent. Faceted. Each face refracting the morning light at a different angle. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—seven colors flowing across the transparent facets, like living light, trapped in frozen water.
No one saw them.
Even Bo Zhong didn't. He just pressed against the darkness, feeling the temperature seeping from his fingertips into it, the directions being remembered.
But they were growing.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
Each one, a white line never drawn.
Each facet, refracting a kind of light never defined.
They were what the darkness, in learning absence, had learned to grow.
White lines were for drawing boundaries.
Ice crystals are not.
Ice crystals are just—
The shape that unspoken warmth, in extreme cold, finds for itself.
Three hundred li away. Deep in the snow plain.
The chestnut mule continued forward through knee-deep fresh snow.
The rider opened his eyes.
He pressed his left arm. Beneath his sleeve, the moon-white glow had faded—not extinguished, but merged into his body temperature, become part of him.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Icy air stabbed his lungs, bringing clear pain.
Then he opened his eyes and continued forward.
Hoof beats left fresh tracks in the snow.
Behind him, the camp was already a distant, blurred point of light. That covering darkness, long invisible.
But he knew—
This was not departure.
This was root and seed, in different forms, breathing together.
Ahead, the capital was three hundred li away.
That "Door" was waiting for him.
That document called them a "symptom," an "Exemplar," an "Emotional-Consciousness Extraordinary Domain." Said they had "no appeal period," said they would be "suspended," "archived," "erased."
But they didn't know—
Blank is the hardest shape to govern.
[Final Mirror-Sigil Record | Two Hours After Departure]
They departed.
No farewell.
The space remained for six breaths.
[CHAPTER 154 END]