Liang Wei woke before the camp horn, her mouth dry and her limbs heavy in a way sleep should not have caused.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the canvas above her as gray morning light seeped through. When she sat up, the world tilted briefly. The dizziness passed, but the weakness did not. It sat deep in her bones, thin and persistent. She breathed until her pulse steadied.
The sword lay wrapped beside her pack. For the first time since leaving the mountains, she looked at it and thought, distantly, absurdly, of leaving it behind. Just there. Wrapped. Silent. Out of her reach. The thought unsettled her more than the hunger. She tightened the bindings instead and stood.
Li Běichén was nowhere to be found.
That irritated her more than it should have.
She completed her morning duties without incident, answered when spoken to, moved efficiently. When she finally asked after him, it was to a soldier crouched near the supply carts, sharpening a blade.
"Commander Li," Liang Wei said. "Have you seen him?"
The man glanced up, then smiled as if she had asked something impressive. "Hard not to," he said. "Must be something, being taken on by him."
"I am not," she replied. "Taken on."
The man laughed, friendly and unbothered. "That's what they all say at first."
"To me," Liang Wei said evenly, "he is simply the commander of the Black Tortoise Vanguard."
The smile faltered, just a little.
"Well," the soldier said after a moment, "he was out by the burial field earlier. Or near it. Hard to tell. Looks cleaner than it did yesterday."
Another voice nearby added, "Quieter too."
Liang Wei did not respond. She thanked neither of them and turned away.
She found Li Běichén beyond the supply road, where the ground flattened and the wind carried the smell of iron instead of smoke. He stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, looking over a rough spread of crates arranged in uneven rows.
Weapons.
Armor fragments. Bent spearheads. Dented helmets. Buckles torn free of straps. Everything laid out as if the battle had been emptied and left to dry.
"You're late," he said without turning.
"I was assigned elsewhere."
"And now you're assigned here." He faced her at last. His gaze swept over her once, impersonal and precise, then dropped to the sword at her side. It lingered there longer than before, not on the wrappings but beneath them, as if he were noticing something that refused to be ignored.
She shifted slightly, unsettled.
"You will recount and clean," Li Běichén said. "Separate what can be reused from what cannot. Match serial markings to the registry. Note damage. Note names if you find them."
She waited.
"No burial work," he added. "Do not correct markers. Do not touch the field."
"Why."
"That was not a question I asked you to answer."
Her jaw tightened. The task was dull. Repetitive. Beneath what she had been trusted with days ago. Still, she inclined her head and moved to the first crate.
The work was worse than she expected. Blood had dried into grips and seams. Leather was stiff with sweat and rust. Some armor pieces still held the warped suggestion of the bodies that had worn them. She worked steadily, scraping, wiping, testing balance, setting aside what could not be salvaged.
Her hands shook more than they should have.
The sword remained quiet, but she felt its awareness like a pressure against her side. Not reaching. Waiting.
Halfway through the second crate, she found the handkerchief.
It was caught in the hinge of a helmet, darkened with old blood, one corner torn. Plain cloth. Careless stitching. The kind someone carried because another person had made it for them.
Her fingers stilled.
Stone rose in her memory, cold and biting against her knees. A boy beside her, blindfold tied too tight, his hands clenched in his lap. Her own vision blurred with tears she had not yet learned to swallow. Madam An standing over them, voice firm, unyielding.
'Straighten your back. If you cannot endure standing, you will not endure living.'
An Yue's hand brushing hers, small and warm. His whisper, barely sound at all.
'I am stronger than you think.'
Liang Wei closed her eyes.
The handkerchief slipped from her fingers and she caught it before it fell. She folded it carefully and set it aside with the other personal effects, labeled in a steady hand she did not feel.
She did not cry. She did not draw the sword.
She worked until her shoulders burned and her breath came shallow. By the time the last crate was sorted, the sun had climbed and begun to tilt again. Her legs trembled when she straightened. Her vision dimmed at the edges, then cleared.
Nothing filled the emptiness she had held open. Only exhaustion.
The sword was cold now. Silent. Unforgiving.
Li Běichén stood at the edge of the field when she finished. He did not ask how long it had taken. He did not inspect the crates. His gaze passed over her once, lingering just long enough to register the pallor beneath her composure, then dropped again to the sword.
This time, his eyes narrowed.
A mark showed faintly beneath the wrapping at the hilt. Not decorative. Not ceremonial. Something older. Not of any forge he recognized, nor any tradition he knew.
He said nothing about it.
"You may return," he said instead.
Liang Wei inclined her head and turned away.
As she walked back toward the camp, hunger coiled beneath her ribs, sharp and unanswered. She welcomed the pain. It reminded her of what restraint cost, and why she paid it.
Behind her, the weapons lay clean and ordered.
And the field remained untouched.