The third mark of the Hour of the Rabbit. The city gates had just opened.
The moment the seven horses stepped into the gateway—
Shen Yuzhu pressed his left arm. Not pain. A pressure he had never experienced before. Not killing intent, not hostility, but an omnipresent, highly regimented sense of confirmation—as if every inch of his skin was being touched simultaneously by countless invisible threads, each touch asking: Who are you? Where do you come from? Which category should you be filed under?
The residual pulses of the Spirit-Pivot over the capital were no longer the distant gaze of the frontier, but an airtight, icy spiderweb covering every inch of space.
Chu Hongying reined in her horse. She felt a long-unfamiliar suffocation. Not lack of oxygen, but an air thick with the taste of rules. Pedestrians' steps were as precise as if measured, the spacing between each step almost identical. Vendors' calls were uniformly pitched, as if carved from the same mold.
He Sanshi murmured, "Here... no one walks the wrong way."
No one responded.
Because no one knew what to say.
The court was quieter than expected.
Not the quiet of solemnity—it was empty. Too vast a space, too few people. Every step felt like moving across measured distances. As Chu Hongying walked into the great hall, the stone slabs beneath her feet returned an extremely faint echo, step, step, step—like confirming her existence.
The new emperor sat at the highest point. Young, expressionless, his gaze when looking at people unblinking.
On both sides were ministers. The Chancellor stood at the front, refined, sinister, smiling like spring breeze, unsmiling like a deep pool. Behind him were several generals in military attire, their gazes fixed on Chu Hongying since she entered. Further back were civil officials, recording officers, and some whose functions were unclear—they just stood there, like part of the walls.
The recording seat was on the eastern side of the hall. A long table, behind it three Observation Officers sitting, before them open dossiers and brushes and ink. The youngest sat at the very end, head lowered, preparing blank recording paper.
His name was Helian Xiang.
From the moment Chu Hongying stepped into the great hall, he had been counting her steps.
Not intentionally. His duty required recording all observable data—stride length, stride frequency, breathing rhythm, where the gaze lingered. But when he counted to the seventeenth step, he realized he had forgotten to record.
He lowered his head, wrote on the paper: "Entering great hall, steps seventeen, rhythm uniform." After writing, he did not look up.
But he knew, she was still walking.
Chu Hongying walked to the designated position and stopped. Six steps behind her stood Shen Yuzhu, Lu Wanning, He Sanshi, Sun Jiu, Chen Si. They stood in a row, no one speaking.
The new emperor looked at her.
A very long silence.
Helian Xiang's brush hovered above the paper. He was waiting for the first word. The great hall was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat. He suddenly recalled last night's waveform—inhale, depression, exhale. That depression, 0.32 breaths. The breath he was holding right now was exactly 0.32 breaths long.
He didn't realize he was holding it.
Then the new emperor spoke, his voice neither light nor heavy, as if asking about today's weather:
"'An undefinable way of living'—that's what you yourselves call it."
Chu Hongying looked up at that young man.
"We are merely living, Your Majesty."
The new emperor's eyebrow moved half an inch—or perhaps not. No one could tell.
"Living. Good." He leaned forward half an inch. "Then I ask you: Does breathing require my permission?"
The moment this question emerged, Helian Xiang's brush tip paused.
0.1 seconds. So brief he himself didn't notice. But he felt it—in that 0.1 seconds, his heart skipped half a beat. Not fear. Something deeper had been touched. As if someone, with an invisible needle, had pierced the place he had always thought safest.
He remembered the line he had written in his private journal last night: "The pause contains an unfinished quality."
At this moment, that "unfinished" was being borne by a woman's silence in the center of the great hall.
Chu Hongying did not answer immediately.
She was silent for three breaths.
Three breaths. In that time, Helian Xiang's breath completely stopped. He stared at the blank paper before him, at that position waiting to be filled. He didn't know what he was waiting for. But he did not move.
Three breaths. The great hall so quiet you could hear the sound of candles burning.
Then she said:
"Breathing requires no permission. Breathing merely requires—continuing."
Helian Xiang's brush trembled slightly on the paper.
He looked down, seeing the line he had just written—"Breathing merely requires—continuing." The strokes were shakier than usual by one degree. That tremor, at this moment, on the paper, had become part of the record.
He didn't know how to classify that tremor.
He only knew it was there.
The new emperor looked at Chu Hongying.
Three breaths. Five breaths. Seven breaths.
No one spoke. No one moved. Even the wind outside the window stopped.
Then the new emperor moved—he didn't look at Chu Hongying, but turned toward the recording seat.
"Observation Officer."
All eyes, following his gaze, fell upon a young man.
Helian Xiang's brush stopped on the paper.
He did not look up. But he knew, everyone was looking at him. Those gazes were like countless invisible threads, falling upon him simultaneously. He suddenly understood the feeling Chu Hongying had when entering the city gate—the feeling of being confirmed. The feeling of being filed into some category.
The new emperor said:
"Record."
Two words.
Not a command. It was the moment a condition was activated.
Helian Xiang's brush, on the paper, paused for 0.1 seconds.
In that 0.1 seconds, a thought flashed through his mind—this pause of mine, who will record it?
Then he continued writing these two words—"Record."
The brush tip scraped across the paper, the sound very soft. But he heard it. For the first time, he heard the sound of his own brush scraping across paper. That sound was like an extremely fine thread, nailing him to this position, nailing him to this moment.
He did not look up. But he knew, from this moment on, he himself would also be recorded. Only he didn't yet know by whom, or in what form.
And his breath, after writing those two words, slowed by 0.1 beats—he didn't notice.
The court adjourned.
No one said "seven days." But everyone knew, from now on, they would be watched.
Walking out of the great hall, the sunlight was blinding. Helian Xiang walked at the very end, holding that record in his hand. He glanced down at it—Chu Hongying's answer, "Breathing merely requires—continuing," those seven characters were heavier than any he usually wrote. Not heavier ink, but the force when writing was different.
He didn't look again. Just placed the record in his robe, against his heart.
That position was where the Northern people kept their maps.
He didn't know why he thought of that.
Back at the inn, the room had been "organized."
Not ransacked, but too neat.
Sun Jiu's knee pad, which had been at his bedside, had been moved to the table, placed side by side with Chen Si's bandages. He walked over, picked up the knee pad, looked at it—that position, he had slept for seven nights, his body remembered. He placed the knee pad back at his bedside, said nothing.
He Sanshi's map had been unfolded and refolded. He picked it up, looked at the new creases—different from the original. He said nothing, just refolded it once, back to its original form. Those creases, he had followed for seven years, his fingers remembered.
Lu Wanning's medicine kit had been opened, the styptic powder moved half an inch from its original position. She rearranged the kit, back to the original order—the order of each packet was set the night before she left, no one had told her why it should be that way, but she remembered.
After arranging, her hand pressed outside her pocket—that note was still there. The young medical officer's handwriting, she had already memorized. But tonight at midnight, she would not go.
Not not going. It was that the time to go had not yet come.
She put away the medicine kit, said nothing.
No one spoke.
Chu Hongying stood by the window, not turning back. But she knew what everyone was doing.
Shen Yuzhu pressed his left arm. The Mirror-Sigil wasn't warm. But it had sensed it—when someone came in earlier, it was there.
He Sanshi put away the map, glanced at the others—no one looked at him. But he knew, they knew he was looking.
He didn't say "continue."
But breathing had already begun.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, there were six invisible people.
Sun Jiu's knee still hurt. Chen Si's hand was still healing. Lu Wanning was still waiting for that midnight that had not yet come. He Sanshi's map was still in his robe. Shen Yuzhu's brass key was still cool. Chu Hongying stood by the window, not turning back.
No one spoke.
But breathing was in the same rhythm.
Deep night.
A note slipped in under the door.
No salutation, no signature, only one line:
"Seven days are not a deadline. Seven days are observation conditions. If you wish to know how the observer is observed, midnight, the southeastern turret."
Shen Yuzhu read it, then held the note to the candle flame.
The paper curled, yellowed, blackened, finally turning to ash.
The ash fell on the windowsill, scattered by the night wind.
He pressed his left arm.
The Mirror-Sigil warmed for an instant.
Not hot. It was—a string, far away, had been plucked.
He didn't know where that string was.
Only knew it existed.
Hour of the Pig.
Seven people sat in the same room. No one spoke.
The rhythm of breathing was now completely synchronized.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, there were six invisible people. And the half beat added tonight—that was for the three breaths of silence in the court. For the 0.1-second pause of Helian Xiang's brush tip. For the cold under Bo Zhong's palm that shallowed by one degree. For all the things that happened without being recorded—and were still real.
Outside the window, the capital's myriad lights. Beneath every lamp, a defined soul.
Chu Hongying did not turn back, her voice very soft:
"Tomorrow, they will watch us breathe."
No one responded.
But the rhythm of breathing did not change.
The same moment. Nightcrow Division, seventeenth level underground.
Helian Xiang sat in the pivot chamber. Around him, twelve ice mirrors, on their surfaces flowing today's observation data. He called up the Northern waveform—inhale, depression, exhale. Inhale, depression, exhale.
He magnified that depression.
0.32 breaths.
He called up the City West soldiers' waveform—inhale, straight line, exhale.
Two waveforms side by side. Identical rhythm, yet forever misaligned at the depression.
He looked at them for a very long time.
Then he made a motion—overlaying the two waveforms.
Not a system command. Just his own idea. He wanted to know, if he laid them on top of each other, what would happen.
On the ice mirror, the two curves slowly began to approach—
The Northern depression 0.32 breaths. The City West straight line 0 breaths.
At the moment of overlay, he saw—
The edge of the 0.32 depression, at the position of the 0 straight line, at some point, miraculously aligned for an instant. Not numerical alignment, but the blurred trace of the edge, and that sharp straight line, in some unmeasurable dimension, touched for a moment.
Then separated.
He stared at that point for a very long time.
Then he called up another waveform—his own breathing record.
In the corner of the ice mirror, that waveform hung quietly. He had never seriously looked at it before. Now he pulled it out, placed it side by side with the Northern waveform.
His own waveform—inhale, depression 0.1 breaths, exhale.
That depression was deeper than he thought. Warmer than he thought.
He didn't know when it had started. He only knew it was there.
He overlaid all three waveforms simultaneously—
Northern 0.32. City West 0. His own 0.1.
At the moment of overlay, he saw:
The blurred edge of the Northern depression, and the blurred edge of his own depression, at some moment, their trajectories perfectly coincided. Like two different rivers, flowing in their own channels for too long, finally at some invisible underground depth, discovering they came from the same source.
Then separated.
They separated. But he knew—that moment of confluence had changed something. The rivers would flow separately again, but they would never forget they shared a source.
He stared at the ice mirror, not moving for a long time.
His breath slowed by 0.1 beats—he didn't notice.
But he saw.
That 0.1-beat depression, at this moment, was quietly facing the Northern 0.32 depression across the entire data flow of the Nightcrow Division, distant yet confronting.
He wrote in his report:
"Seventh day observation complete. Depression value 0.32. Suggestion: Initiate seven-day continuous observation, record change trajectory."
After writing, he pressed send.
Then he looked down at the waveform in the corner of the ice mirror—his own waveform.
He did not file it into any dossier.
He just let it remain there.
Outside the window, the moon shone as usual.
He didn't know—at the same moment, the ice crystal flower in the North, its seventh petal had become clearer by one degree.
He didn't know—at the capital's inn, seven breaths were pausing in the same empty space, leaving that half-beat length for each other.
He just sat before the ice mirror.
His hand pressed at the mirror's edge. That spot, this morning, was cool. Now, warm by one degree.
He did not move it away.
He didn't know why. He only knew that moving it felt wrong.
Midnight.
The North. East Three Sentry.
Bo Zhong pressed against the dark boundary. Right palm against that invisible line. From the night they left camp until now, he had not moved it.
The pulse was steady.
Inhale—empty space—exhale. Inhale—empty space—exhale.
The ice crystal flower in the moonlight. Six petals fully formed, facets sharp, refracting the moonlight—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo.
The seventh petal—still a blurred outline.
But that outline was clearer than this morning by one degree.
Symmetrical arcs, taking shape. The edges had a warm blur, like the trace of breath.
He did not look down.
But he knew—that flower would bloom when it should bloom. And he knew, without knowing how, that tonight, something had touched it. Something from far away. Something that traveled without moving.
The cold under his palm had shallowed by one degree. That was enough.
He did not look down.
But he knew—in the empty space, there were seven people in the capital.
They were breathing the same rhythm.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, besides those six invisible people, now there was the length of half a beat added.
That half beat was for tonight.
The capital. The inn.
Seven breaths were still in the same rhythm.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, there were six invisible people. And that half beat.
Shen Yuzhu opened his eyes.
Outside the window, moonlight leaked through the rifts in the clouds. The southeastern corner of the imperial city, the silhouette of the Astrology Tower faintly visible against the moonlight.
He pressed the brass key in his robe. Cool. As cool as any ordinary piece of brass.
But he remembered the warmth of that instant this afternoon—if it truly was warmth.
He didn't know what it was.
He just remembered it.
The way to remember was simple: let his breath pause a little longer at that half-beat position.
Not now. From now on.
Chu Hongying's voice, very soft, came from the window:
"Can't sleep?"
Shen Yuzhu did not turn back:
"Mm."
"What are you thinking about?"
Shen Yuzhu was silent for a moment.
"Thinking... some things happen, but you don't know if they count as happening."
Chu Hongying did not respond.
Outside the window, the moon shone as usual.
She spoke:
"They count."
Two words.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just "they count."
But Shen Yuzhu knew, these two words meant: she had seen that half beat. She had seen the 0.1-second pause of Helian Xiang's brush tip. She had seen all the things that couldn't be recorded, yet truly happened.
She didn't ask. She just let them count.
He closed his eyes.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, besides those six people, besides that half beat, now there was another layer of warmth added.
It was the warmth of being seen.
The end of midnight approached.
In the pivot chamber of the Nightcrow Division, the ice mirror automatically archived.
On the screen, three waveforms side by side—
Northern depression 0.32 breaths. City West straight line 0 breaths. In the corner, another waveform depression 0.1 breaths.
No one looked at that corner waveform.
But it was there.
The North. East Three Sentry.
Bo Zhong still pressed against the dark boundary.
The ice crystal flower's seventh petal, its outline clearer by one degree. The blur at its edges was the same texture as all the things seen tonight yet unable to be recorded.
He did not look down.
But he knew—that flower would bloom when it should bloom.
The capital. The inn.
Seven breaths were still in the same rhythm.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, there were six invisible people. There was the half beat added tonight. There were the 0.1 seconds of Helian Xiang's brush tip. There were the three breaths of silence in the court. There was the cold under Bo Zhong's palm that shallowed by one degree. There were all the things "being observed yet still choosing to continue breathing."
Outside the window, the moon shone as usual.
Breathing as usual.
The ice mirror automatically archived.
Archive filename: "Exemplar · Class B · Seventh Day Observation Record."
But deep in the file, a string of unclassifiable code was slowly growing.
That was the answer to the empty space.
That was the space for the half beat.
That was the position reserved for all the things that couldn't be recorded, yet truly happened—
Outside the window, the moon shone as usual.
But the moon knew, tonight—
Seven breaths, in the same empty space, left the length of half a beat for each other.
Twelve ice mirrors, in corners no one watched, recorded a waveform with a 0.1-beat depression.
One ice crystal flower, in depths unseen, had deepened another inch downward.
Root and seed.
Observation and observed.
Definition and unclassifiable.
In the same night, in different ways—
Continuing to breathe.
And somewhere in the darkness, between the ice mirror and the flower, between the half beat and the breath that held it—the question itself continued to grow.
Not waiting for an answer.
Just growing.
[CHAPTER 160 END]