Chen period. Nightcrow Division.
When Helian Xiang received that copy of the regulations, the paper was still warm—freshly sent from the transcription room. The ink wasn't fully dry; his thumb pressed at the corner of the page, leaving an extremely faint mark.
He didn't look at that mark again. Just placed the regulations in the dossier and began today's trace examination.
The regulations' title was long: "Interim Provisions on Optimizing the Seven-Day Observation Ritual and Annotating Respiratory Rhythm Anomalies." The content was written very calmly:
Depressions of 0.1 breaths or more are to be listed as "Gray Zone Pending Observation."
Depressions of 0.3 breaths or more are to be listed as "Red Zone Urgent Investigation."
Requires simultaneous verification of social interaction traces, text contact records, and recent nocturnal breath depth.
Observation Officers at all levels must complete the archiving of the previous day's traces before the Hour of the Rabbit each day; delays are considered omissions.
When he turned to the second page, his finger paused for 0.1 seconds.
A certain clause on that page read: "Those with respiratory rhythm anomalies must suspend that day's duties and undergo rhythm calibration. They may continue only after calibration is complete."
"Continue."
He stared at those two characters, remembering what Chu Hongying had said in the great hall yesterday—"Breathing merely requires continuing."
The same word. Different weights.
He continued flipping through. The provisions didn't target the Northern frontier. They applied to the entire city.
That was what made it terrifying.
Helian Xiang placed the regulations on a corner of his desk and called up the first set of breathing traces for the day. The ice mirror lit up, faint blue light patterns flowing across his face. His eyes were stung by the mirror's reflection—he squinted instinctively, then continued looking at the traces.
Inhale. Depression. Exhale.
Inhale. Depression. Exhale.
The trace number appeared: 0.32.
Same as the day before.
He should have begun the entry. But he didn't.
He sat there, looking at that 0.32, a thought arising in his mind—
Today should be 0.33.
Not calculated. It was... there.
He didn't know where this thought came from. He wasn't even aware that he had "sensed" something. It was just that when he called up the breathing traces, that number was already in his heart, waiting to be confirmed.
He adjusted the height of his seat cushion. The mat's edge scraped against the stone floor, making an extremely light sound—like something being scratched open.
Then he began the examination.
The traces flowed. The number appeared.
0.33.
He stared at that number for a very long time.
So long that the ice mirror automatically dimmed its light by one level. Then he reached out and pressed "Enter."
The report contained only one line: "Fluctuation within acceptable range, not exceeding standard parameters."
After writing, his brush paused for 0.1 seconds.
In that 0.1 seconds, he knew this sentence was no longer just a statement of fact. But he continued writing. Set down the brush. The brush handle touched the inkstone, making an extremely light sound.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Today's traces?"
A colleague's voice, muffled through the door panel.
"Within standard parameters."
He heard his own voice, exactly the same as when he usually said "within standard parameters."
Footsteps faded away.
He looked down at the ice mirror. 0.33 was still there.
Then he changed to another brush. The handle still held the previous user's residual warmth—or perhaps just his own hand warmth, he couldn't tell.
He didn't notice that when changing brushes, his gaze lingered on that stack of "Pending Review" dossiers for 0.2 breaths.
In that dossier, there was a name from three days ago. A name from yesterday. Today, no one had been placed there yet.
His hand didn't move. Just looked for a moment.
Late morning. City West storage area training ground.
A soldier stood in the sunlight, staring blankly.
His name was Zhang Xi, nineteen years old, in the army for two years, never been to the Northern frontier, never met anyone from the Northern frontier. His only problem was: last night he dreamed of his deceased elder brother.
In the dream, his brother was still alive, standing under the locust tree at their home gate, telling him, "Time you found a wife."
When he woke, his pillow was damp. He didn't tell anyone. Just got up, washed, assembled, trained.
But breathing cannot lie.
He didn't notice. But the Pivot network noticed.
A 0.2-breath depression, lasting three respiratory cycles. The traces were automatically captured by the Mirror-Abyss and compared with the archives.
Conclusion: "Depression waveform similarity to Northern frontier example: 67%. Recommendation: Verify recent text contact records."
Just past noon, he was summoned for questioning.
The interrogation room wasn't large. A small table, two cups of tea. The Observation Officer opposite had a gentle tone, as if asking whether he had eaten today.
"Have you recently read any texts not included in the official records?"
Zhang Xi was stunned: "...No."
"Have you had any contact with personnel from the Northern frontier?"
"No."
"Have you heard any discussions related to 'breathing depressions'?"
"...I don't know what that is."
The Observation Officer nodded, writing in the trace record: "Verification complete, no evidence of direct contact discovered."
Then looked up, smiling: "You may go. If you remember anything, feel free to come find us at any time."
When Zhang Xi walked out, the sunlight was blinding.
He stood in the courtyard, suddenly realizing—his own breathing was now 0.1 breaths slower than just now.
Not fear. It was... he didn't know what it was.
The sunlight nailed his shadow to the ground, motionless. He just stood there, stood for a long time.
He stood there. His chest felt different. He did not know why.
His chest did not return to its old rhythm.
He stood for a long time. So long that a comrade came to call him for the midday meal. He responded, followed along.
At the entrance to the mess hall, he paused, turned back to look at the window of that interrogation room.
The window was closed. Nothing visible inside.
But he remembered that position.
Afternoon. Helian Xiang called up that soldier's breathing traces.
0.2-breath depression. Three rounds. Similarity to Northern frontier example: 67%.
He knew it wasn't caused by the Northern frontier.
He knew it was just grief—the grief of a deceased elder brother visiting a dream at night. The trace record wouldn't tell him this. But he knew.
But before him were three options.
Classify as "Anomaly (suspected source unidentified)"—the Pivot network would initiate further verification. The soldier would be summoned again for questioning; his neighbors, comrades, even the old man at the noodle stall he frequented, would all be questioned. Not punishment, just verification. Everything in accordance with the law.
Classify as "Natural Traces (physiological)"—include in standard rituals, no further tracking. The soldier would disappear from the Mirror-Abyss's field of vision. No one would look at him again.
Or—
Not archive.
Not delete. Not alter. Just delay. Let this trace "temporarily not exist."
His finger paused at the edge of the ice mirror for 0.2 breaths.
Then he placed that trace at the very bottom of the "Pending Review" dossier—above the name from three days ago, below the name from yesterday.
As he placed it, his fingertip touched the dossier's edge. That spot was slightly warmer than elsewhere—the traces of his own body temperature, again and again, left in the same place.
His finger paused.
This wasn't the first time.
He didn't continue thinking. Just neatly restacked the dossier. The corner of the topmost dossier touched his thumb for 0.1 seconds. The page was slightly askew—the corner not perfectly aligned.
He saw that askew corner.
Then walked out.
Behind him, the traces on the ice mirror continued flowing. No one noticed the 0.2-breath delay. No one noticed that the three breathing traces at the bottom of the dossier were waiting, in ways unseen by anyone, for a "review" that would never come.
Dusk. City West.
Zhang Xi finished training and walked back to the barracks.
His steps were slower than usual. Not intentional; his body slowed on its own.
At the barracks entrance, he paused. Not pausing to do anything, just pausing.
Then he turned around.
Behind him was the training ground, the direction of the interrogation room, the city wall.
The city wall was very high. The sunset gilded its top with a golden edge.
He stood there, looking north.
That direction. The north.
He didn't know what was in the north. He had never been there. He only knew that there was a group of people whose way of breathing was... a little different from his—from everyone's.
He only looked for a moment. Very short. So short he wasn't even aware he was looking.
Then he walked into the barracks.
Evening meal. Washing up. Lying down.
When he closed his eyes, he thought of his brother again.
No dream this time. Just remembrance.
His breathing, in the darkness, was slightly steadier than during the day.
0.1 breaths. He himself didn't know.
Midnight. Nightcrow Division.
The Mirror-Abyss automatically generated the daily report.
"Seven-day observation ritual stable."
"Gray Zone Pending Observation: 0 cases. Red Zone Urgent Investigation: 0 cases."
"All city breathing traces within standard parameters."
The report was filed under "Routine Archival Storage," no one to review it again.
Helian Xiang sat in a corner of the pivot chamber, no lamp lit.
His breathing—for the first time without external trigger—spontaneously depressed by 0.12 breaths.
He didn't notice.
But in the corner of the ice mirror, that "trace of his own breathing" he had never formally archived, at the 0.12-breath depression position, hung quietly.
No one looked at it.
But it existed.
The same 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 hadn't moved it.
The pulse was steady. Inhale—empty space—exhale. Inhale—empty space—exhale.
Moonlight shone on the ice crystal flower, blooming quietly.
Six petals fully formed, facets sharp, refracting the moonlight—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo.
The seventh petal—
Not "clearer."
It was the arc itself closing.
After closing, the flower no longer needed to be seen. Its completeness was its own proof.
Bo Zhong didn't look down. But he felt it—the cold in his palm was a few tenths of a degree shallower than just now. Not warmth. It was "the cold becoming shallower." As if something, from very deep, had seeped up a tiny bit.
He didn't ask what it was.
Just kept pressing.
Moonlight shone on the flower. Seven petals. Complete.
The same midnight. The capital. The inn.
Seven people lay 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.
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 tonight—if it truly was warmth.
He didn't know what it was. He just remembered it.
The way to remember was no longer a thought. It was just the shape his breath took now. At that half-beat position, a little longer, without thinking.
Chu Hongying's voice, very soft, came from the window:
"Can't sleep?"
Shen Yuzhu didn't 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.
Shen Yuzhu waited a while. She didn't answer. He didn't ask again.
Just continued lying there.
Inhale—empty space—exhale.
In the empty space, there were six people. There was that half beat. And there was something none of them could name.
He closed his eyes.
Dawn was near.
Helian Xiang still sat in the corner of the pivot chamber. He didn't know what he was waiting for. Just hadn't left.
On the ice mirror, three traces flowed simultaneously—
The Northern frontier's depression: 0.33 breaths.
City West soldier Zhang Xi's depression: 0.2 breaths. (At the bottom of the "Pending Review" dossier.)
In the corner, his own depression: 0.12 breaths. (Never archived.)
Three traces, three depressions, three depths.
No one placed them together for verification. But they were under the same night sky, with their own rhythms, each depressing, each recovering.
The Mirror-Abyss's automatic archival program activated.
Filename: "Exemplar · Class B · Eighth Day Pre-Observation Sequence."
Outside the window, the faintest line of white appeared at the sky's edge.
The Northern frontier's ice crystal flower, seven petals complete, before the moonlight faded, refracted seven colors one last time—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
Helian Xiang stood up and walked to the door.
His hand pressed on the doorframe, paused for 0.1 seconds.
In that 0.1 seconds, he remembered two things:
One, today should be 0.33 breaths.
Two, at the bottom of the dossier, three traces were waiting for him.
He didn't turn back to look at the ice mirror.
The ice mirror hadn't dimmed.
He pushed open the door.
Outside, the morning light had just arrived.
He squinted. Stepped into the light.
The ice mirror remained lit.
Breathing continued.
[CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE END]