Midnight had long slipped by, and Yangzhou lay hushed beneath the veil of night—yet Ashile Sun's heart refused to rest. By the open window he lingered, two trembling candles at his side, his gaze fixed upon the book that had waited in silence for him. Still, his hand faltered, unwilling to turn its pages, afraid of the words that might awaken within.
The conversation with Chen Wen Jin still drifted in his thoughts, faint as a shadow he could not shake.
When Ashile Sun spoke of Yang Jun still being alive, Chen Wen Jin only nodded, though a shadow crossed his face. His eyes narrowed, heavy with unspoken doubt.
"Do you not believe me?" The question cut through the air, snapping Chen Wen Jin's drifting thoughts back to the present.
"Pardon me—had anyone else said such a thing, I would have dismissed it as bluff and denial. But from one who has lived more than a century while still wearing the face of youth, I cannot help but think it might be possible."
At those words, Ashile Sun narrowed his gaze, his onyx eyes cutting sharply into Chen Wen Jin. Startled by their weight, Chen Wen Jin hurried to answer, his voice edged with unease.
"You need not worry—I have told no one of your origin. But if I may ask… how can you be so certain?"
His gaze darkened. "You knew that Yang Jun's body was stolen. But what you may not know… are the details. That secret, Lin Jing and I have carried to this day."
Chen Wen Jin swallowed hard, his throat tight, listening with sharp attention.
Ashile Sun leaned against the cold fortress wall, his eyes lifted to the stars. His voice dropped, heavy with sadness, misery, and regret. "Since you uncovered my origin, you must also know my blood is no ordinary blood. It can heal, restore, even prolong life…"
He shifted his gaze toward Chen Wen Jin, seeking a hint of his reaction. The man merely nodded, calm and composed. From the very first encounter, Chen Wen Jin—an expert in the study of ancient sects and forbidden arts—had felt a peculiar hunch about him. Yang Jun's sudden fascination with those long-forgotten teachings only deepened his suspicion. Yet the truth revealed itself on that fateful day, when Ashile Sun's face was laid bare before him.
How could a man remain untouched by time, his youth unweathered, unless his blood carried something extraordinary? Then, as his eyes caught the faint glimmer of the blood-red lotus tattoo sprawling across Ashile Sun's back, understanding dawned. He was no ordinary man—he was the descendant of the Red Lotus Sect, the vanished order of immense power, hunted through the ages for the one secret mankind most desired—immortality.
Since that day, Chen Wen Jin had resigned from his post and vanished from public sight. He shut himself in his study, day after day, the faint light of an oil lamp flickering over scattered scrolls and notes. He retraced every step of the past—every decision, every death—until the night Yang Jun fell.
And then, everything began to take shape.
The pattern was too deliberate to be chance. It was like a game of wéi qí 围棋 , intricate and merciless. One of the players was clearly Yang Jun. The other remained hidden, unseen yet present in every move.
A chill settled deep in his chest. He was both fascinated and terrified by Yang Jun's will. That man had gambled everything—his life, his clan, thirty thousand soldiers, even an entire nation—using the Black Qilin Seal as though they were mere stones on a board, all to protect Ashile Sun's origin. Was it victory that Yang Jun sought, or defeat that he embraced? Chen Wen Jin could not tell. He only knew one truth: Yang Jun never acted without reason.
From that day onward, Chen Wen Jin kept his silence. Not a word of what he uncovered left his lips. He did not touch the wooden box Yang Jun had left behind, nor did he dare to open it. He told himself he was waiting—for the right moment, the right person, the right question.
"But it was useless. It couldn't even save him from death—only preserve his body from decay. And not only that… I even lost him entirely."
Ashile Sun's voice turned hoarse, each word trembling as if carved from pain. His expression laid bare the turmoil within—regret etched deep, sorrow too heavy to hide.
"In my weakest hour, they came. Bandits, or so I thought at first—but no, they were too precise, too disciplined. Each strike was deliberate, swift, and deadly. They moved like shadows trained in both martial arts and cultivation. Even Touba Shan and I could scarcely endure their onslaught."
"When I finally recovered, I scoured the land for them. I swept through Qingya Mountain again and again, but they had vanished as if swallowed by the earth. Yang Jun's body was nowhere to be found."
His gaze drifted into the distance, voice sinking low.
"Because of our bond, I could still feel him. Sometimes his essence called to me from afar; sometimes it was so near it brushed against my ear, like a whisper carried by the wind. So I wandered across the Middle Earth, chasing that faint trace—searching for the echo of a soul that refused to fade."
Chen Wen Jin stepped closer to Ashile Sun, concern shadowing his face.
"Touba Shan… of the northern Touba Clan? Then this matter is truly concerning."
Ashile Sun's gaze hardened. "You know something, don't you? Tell me—is there truly an art that can revive the dead? Or is it only a fleeting illusion of yearning?"
He seized Chen Wen Jin's arm with sudden force, and the old man nearly cried out in pain.
"Ashile Sun—calm down," Chen Wen Jin said through a strained breath. "I cannot tell you now… I am not certain myself. But if it is what I think, then it is a dark art—one that should have long been erased from this world." His voice dropped to a mutter, more to himself than to the other. "If that is true… then they are real."
Ashile Sun's eyes narrowed. "They? Who are they?"
Chen Wen Jin froze. The color drained from his face, though he quickly forced composure back into his voice.
"Lin Jing's death must have reached the emperor by now," he said, deliberately changing the subject.
"In a few days, you'll be summoned to the capital under the pretext of discussing a new alliance. If you've decided to face him and your past, come to my residence first. I will tell you everything I know… though I warn you, it will not be easy to hear."
Ashile Sun released his grip, his tone low and steady. "Does the emperor take part in it?"
Chen Wen Jin's eyes flickered. "I cannot answer that. What if he does? And what if he doesn't?"
The question hung heavily between them. Ashile Sun said nothing.
Chen Wen Jin adjusted his robe and turned to leave. Before stepping away, he looked back.
"I came here to deliver Yang Jun's last memento—and to warn you. Over the past decade, the officers involved in the Yang Clan incident have been brutally killed. Even the royal bloodline has not been spared. The imperial court is shrouded in fear. They suspect the Qing are behind it. And now that the Black Qilin Seal rests in your hand, their suspicion has only deepened. It would be wise to stay low. Do not reveal that seal to anyone. That thing can bring doom to entire Qing."
Ashile Sun's eyes darkened. "Do you also think it was me?"
Chen Wen Jin gave a faint, weary smile. "If it truly were you," he said quietly, "I would have been long dead before I ever crossed the front gate of Yangzhou."
When Chen Wen Jin's footsteps faded down the stone steps, silence reclaimed the fortress gate.
The night stretched wide and empty, and the wind howled across the battlements, tugging at Ashile Sun's cloak. Lanterns along the parapet flickered under the gusts, their flames shivering like frightened souls.
He remained where he stood, gazing into the dark expanse beyond the walls. From this height, the world below seemed distant—cold, silent, lifeless. Yet within his chest, everything burned.
Chen Wen Jin's words still echoed through him. Ancient sects. Forbidden art. They are real.
His hand clenched unconsciously around the stone railing. Beneath the calm mask of his face, the storm had begun to rise—grief entwined with anger, fear entangled with something dangerously close to hope.
He drew a slow breath, looking up at the sea of stars veiled by drifting clouds.
"Yang Jun…" The name escaped him in a whisper, soft and fractured. "If you still alive, then I will find you… even if I must walk through death itself."
The night wind carried his voice away into the mountains. Below, the ripped banners of the fortress snapped sharply, echoing like ghost. He remembered that battlefield—the blood-soaked soil, the cries of the fallen, Yang Jun's last smile before everything was lost.
His fingers brushed the pouch at his waist. The Black Qilin Seal throbbed faintly against his palm, as though something within it stirred—something that recognized his despair.
***
Ashile Sun closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. They were calm now, but their depths held the glint of steel.
The book before him remained closed. His heart was not ready to face the secret within. His mind kept asking whether the "they" Chen Wen Jin had mentioned were the same "they" he had spent years hunting—the ones who destroyed his clan before he met Yang Jun. If so, then Yang Jun's death, the fall of the Yang Clan, and the sacrifice of thirty thousand soldiers had all happened because of him.
Yang Jun must have known something—and chosen not to tell him. The days before the execution replayed in his mind like a flickering film. He had sensed something was wrong back then. From the very beginning, it was as if Yang Jun had been deliberately pushing him away.
Ashile Sun murmured, his voice low with despair, "Did you not trust me too?"
He had been the closest person to Yang Jun. He thought he understood the man—his thoughts, his heart. But in the end, he realized he had known nothing at all. Beyond guilt, a deeper fear lingered within him: the fear that he had meant nothing to Yang Jun, that he was no more than a stranger in his eyes. His feelings for the man had long surpassed admiration and brotherhood. There was a bond he could never explain to anyone—but had Yang Jun ever felt the same?
A sudden knock at the door broke his thoughts. He quickly removed his outer robe and draped it over the book. Composing himself with quiet dignity, he said, "Come in."
Two men entered, bowing deeply with both arms outstretched in salute. One of them reported, "Chief (Lǎodà 老大), Jiang Shen comes to report. Our soldiers have finished sweeping the area. It's all clear—no human activity detected within fifty li. Citizens still avoid Yangzhou. Many even take a detour through the Dongnan region to the Shengang Desert just to reach the capital."
"That's good news for us," Ashile Sun replied. "The Yangzhou fortress holds a strategic position for scouting and reinforcement. It's close to both Qing and the capital. If war breaks out between Gifu and Qing, this will become our front line. For now, order the soldiers to rest. Tomorrow, we'll hold the ceremony for the deceased."
The two men exchanged a glance, their eyes glistening. Then, together, they knelt and kowtowed deeply.
"What are you two doing?"
"Lǎodà," one said, voice trembling, "we're grateful for your kindness. The thirty thousand who died here were our fathers, uncles, and brothers. They gave their lives so we, their descendants, wouldn't bear the shame of traitors. If you hadn't fought to lead us out of Yangzhou back then, we would never have survived to return and honor them."
The other added, "For fifteen years, we could only hold memorials in Qing. But coming back here—it's different. Now we can finally bury them properly. So please, let us pay our respects to you. All the soldiers who came with you feel the same."
They kowtowed three times, their foreheads striking the floor, unable to hold back their tears. That day had taken not only thirty thousand lives but also the futures, moments, and hearts of those who loved them.
Ashile Sun understood that better than anyone. He accepted their respect in silence. When they rose, he bent his back in return, voice steady but soft.
"Then allow me to show my gratitude—for your loyalty, and for your courage."
That bow had lifted the weight long chained to his soul. For years, the shadow of that day had bound his hands and feet like iron cuffs.
Wherever he went, the ghosts of the past followed.
Guilt, regret, and sorrow—three blades that never dulled—cut into him until even death refused to take him. Bound by fate, cursed by heaven, he lived on as an empty shell adrift in time.
The' what ifs' that once tormented him were finally silenced.
What if Yang Jun had died because of him?
What if Yang Jun had despised him and chose death to be free of him?
So what of it?
Would that strip his heart of feeling?
Never.
He would carry this devotion to the end of his days.
If Yang Jun still breathed beneath the same heavens, he would find him and beg forgiveness.
If Yang Jun's heart had turned to hatred, he would win it back—no matter how long it took.
If Yang Jun had truly crossed into death, then he would follow him, once his vow was fulfilled and his debts repaid.
Even if that path led to the depths of hell, he would walk it willingly.
And if, in the end, he were to remain there alone—he would be content, knowing the other had found peace.
He had nothing left to lose.
What, then, was there to fear?
To honor the vow made to Yang Jun and the thirty thousand fallen souls, he had to uncover the truth—no matter how bitter it proved.
To secure the future of Qing, he had to rise from the ashes of the past.
Perhaps this was why Lin Jing had entrusted him with the Qing—to awaken the man who had long lived like the dead.
Gathering his resolve, Ashile Sun opened the book. He turned each page as though touching the remnants of a soul. Within those words, Yang Jun still lived—his thoughts, his laughter, his sorrow—all breathing quietly between the lines.