During five more days, Li Wuxin maintained his routines, mechanically preparing two cups of tea each morning, placing them on the table in front of him, hoping the ritual would bring him some comfort. But each cup seemed colder than the last, and no warmth from the teapot could melt the loneliness that wrapped around him like a thick fog.

The soldiers around him noticed his growing melancholy. Some murmured behind his back, expressing concern for his mental state, but none dared to speak to him directly. Lu Xiaoquian, ever perceptive, was one of the few to address him, her words always gentle and filled with care. 

And in the meantime, Lu Xiaoqian... she too seemed to carry an invisible burden. Despite her apparent determination, a shadow of sadness clouded her eyes, as if she too was battling doubts and pain.

Li Wuxin found himself wandering the camp's hallways, staring at the distant mountains, hoping for a sign, any sign, of Xu Moyao's return.

Then, a figure appeared in the pavilion's doorway. Lost in his thoughts, his fingers tracing the edge of the cold cup in front of him, Li Wuxin was jolted back to the present by the sound of footsteps on the stone courtyard.

A messenger, dressed in the colors of the Southern Nation, approached, holding a scroll rolled in his hands. Li Wuxin straightened up, a shiver running down his spine. He had not expected any messages from the Southern Nation, yet the presence of this messenger stirred in him a confused sense of urgency.

"Master Li Wuxin?" the messenger said calmly, stepping forward to place the scroll on the table.

Li Wuxin took the scroll with hesitation, his fingers trembling slightly as he broke the seal and unrolled the paper. His eyes settled on the carefully written characters.

The words swirled in Li Wuxin's mind, each sentence seeming heavier than the last. Suddenly, Li Wuxin understood.

It wasn't just that he was gone; it was worse than that: Xu Moyao was not simply in danger; he was caught in something far more complex.

And yet, in that cruel clarity, Li Wuxin felt something unexpected: relief. He was not simply gone.

Li Wuxin swallowed with difficulty and reread the letter, his mind clouded with confusion. The words were filled with mystery, but also with hope. Xu Moyao was alive. That, at least, was certain. But now, more than ever, it was clear that they were facing something far larger than they had imagined.

Without another word, he rolled the letter again and held it firmly in his hand. His heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts swirling in a storm of emotions. Rage. Despair. And an ever-growing determination. Xu Moyao was alive. He would not die in some distant camp, forgotten and abandoned.

No. Li Wuxin would go after him.

The messenger still stood, waiting in the doorway. Li Wuxin looked up to meet his gaze.

"Who sent you?" Li Wuxin's voice was cold; the messenger shuddered.

" Her voice sounded like that of a girl. I do not know who it was. She did not give her name. She just said it was important. She paid more than most."

Li Wuxin's gaze hardened. His mind raced. He had to act quickly, before anyone noticed his absence. The letter had given him hope, but it had also rekindled in him a fierce determination.

Can I trust him Li Wuxin thought, Yet, without support, how could I hold on ? He felt his hesitation slip inside him.

At that moment, he knew trust was no longer a choice, nor even a hope: it was only a risk, immense.

I don’t have another choice

Without another word, the messenger turned and disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared, vanishing into the courtyard.

Li Wuxin remained there for a long moment, staring at the place where the man had disappeared, the words of the letter echoing relentlessly in his mind. The dim light in the hallway seemed to blur at the edges of his vision, as if time itself had slowed, demanding he process what he had just read. His heart pounded in his chest—not with certainty, but with the overwhelming rush of something too fragile to fully name. Hope.

Xu Moyao was alive. He was out there, somewhere. Hurt, maybe. Lost. But alive. And waiting—for someone, perhaps for him. The thought gripped Li Wuxin with a force that made it hard to breathe. His instinct screamed at him to move, to act, to run until he collapsed if it meant getting closer to that truth.

But another part of him, quieter and crueler, whispered doubts.

What if it wasn’t true? What if this was some trick? He had been burned by hope before—led into ambushes, into despair, into grief. Hope could be dangerous. Delusion wore the same face.

He hated that he hesitated. He hated the part of him.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Xu Moyao’s voice came back to him—not in words, but in memory. The quiet laugh. The steady presence. The warmth.

Even if it hurt. Even if he was wrong. He couldn’t ignore it.

Xu Moyao had always gone where others would not. Always stood between danger and the people he cared for.

Coul I do any less ?

He exhaled, slow and tense, as if trying to release the weight of fear and indecision in a single breath.

Yes, he believed it.

But belief wasn’t the same as knowing what to do next.

He combed through maps, retraced reports, questioned scouts and riders. Every hour was claimed by the mission taking shape in his mind. There was no margin for hesitation. No time to be unsure. He clung to the task as though precision could keep his hope from slipping through his fingers.

But beneath the surface, doubt pulsed like a slow drumbeat.

Leaving the camp meant exposure. Risk. It meant stepping into uncertainty, again. And it meant leaving Lu Xiaoqian behind.

He hadn’t told her—not yet. Each time he looked in her direction, words gathered at the back of his throat, then withered before they could take shape. She had been watching him more closely lately. Quieter. Distant, but not cold. There was worry in her gaze, though she hadn’t said anything. Not yet.

He knew she sensed something.

And she would understand. He told himself that, over and over. She had always understood him, even when he didn’t speak. Even when he didn’t want to be understood.

Still, part of him hated the silence between them. Hated the idea of disappearing without saying what needed to be said.

But he would not let Xu Moyao be forgotten. Not this time. Not in this life, nor in any other.

The Southern Nation, the Xilin Mountains, the temple where Xu Moyao was supposed to be held, all of these were just pieces of a puzzle Li Wuxin had to assemble blindly. He had only fragments of information, coded words. But that was enough. A spark in the darkness was all a man like him needed to move forward.

He didn't need to see the entire road. He only needed a goal.

Li Wuxin tightened his grip on the map. The path was inscribed in him, not as a drawing, but as a necessity.

Lu Xiaoquian had been watching from the doorway, silent as a statue. Her face was calm, but her fingers betrayed a tension, wrapping and unwrapping around the fabric of her sleeve.

Her arms crossed were not those of anger. They were those of someone witnessing an inevitable thing, powerless to stop it.

"You're going to find him," she said, her voice strangely hoarse. It wasn't a question.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Lu Xiaoquian stepped forward.

"Shinzun."

He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. And in that look, she saw what no words could express: a cold, burning, unshakable determination. Like an underground torrent sweeping everything in its path.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.

"If I don't go now, I'll never forgive myself," he said in a voice that was no longer entirely his own.

Lu Xiaoquian nodded slightly, her shoulders heavy with an invisible weight.

"Promise me you'll return."

He didn't promise anything. He couldn't have.

Instead, he simply hugged Lu Xiaoquian.

The next morning

He left at dawn, when even the birds hesitate to sing.

The camp was barely waking, unaware of the storm raging beneath its tranquil facade.

Li Wuxin moved forward, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He took the road south, alone, guided only by instinct and the fragments of clues in the letter.

The days became blurry streaks. He rode until his horse panted, its mouth foaming, its muscles trembling. He slept under the stars and ate barely enough to stay on his feet.

Sometimes, he passed villages so poor that even the light seemed to have escaped. Sometimes, he crossed rope bridges suspended over bottomless ravines, the wind howling like a thousand lost souls.

When doubt gnawed at him, Li Wuxin thought of Xu Moyao. Of the rare smiles that, when they emerged, seemed to sweep away the shadow of the world. It was these fragile flashes that often kept him from falling.

He walked on, carried by that silent light, until finally, the Crimson Lotus Lake appeared before him, shimmering beneath the pale sky, like a dream resting on the water.

The mist clung to the ground, heavy and sticky, hiding dangers beneath veils of whiteness. The marsh stank of decay and something old, something evil. Each step seemed to awaken an ancient memory, made of primal fears.

The trees twisted like old men, reaching toward him with gnarled fingers. Green flashes of light danced on the dead water.

The old inn was there, between two bridges with moss-covered planks, all rotting wood and flickering lanterns.

Inside, the air was thick, saturated with the smell of stale tea and melted wax. The innkeeper, a thin man with a furtive look, didn't speak.

But the paper slipped across the counter had its effect.

"She said you'd come," he murmured, placing a scrap of parchment in front of him.

Li Wuxin took it with his fingertips.

"She?" he asked, his throat dry.

A glance. A silence. Then: "Gone. But she left this."

No apparent trap. No promise either. Only coordinates, hastily written. A map, rudimentary but sufficient.

He didn't even bother to drink the tea.

The path became more treacherous as he advanced. The ground, soaked, gave way beneath his steps, slowing him down constantly. The mud clung to his boots, heavy, sticky. Above him, the sky grew tighter, turning into a dark, shapeless mass. The air smelled of rain and iron, and each breath seemed harder. Around him, the trees, deformed by the wind, leaned toward him, as if the forest itself wanted to close its arms around him. The world grew narrow, hostile.

The world reduced itself to one word: move forward.

When he finally reached the indicated place, he realized his mistake.

This wasn't a temple. It was a fortress.

Forgotten by all, half-swallowed by the marsh, concealed by reeds so dense that one could pass within a few meters without seeing it.

The Southern banners hung, torn and faded. A sentry dozed on a crumbling tower. Two others were playing dice near the entrance.

Li Wuxin crouched in the shadow of an old dead tree, his breath imperceptible.

He observed. Counting the guards. Studying the watchtowers. Weighing his options.

He would wait for night.

And if he had to die, so be it.

But he would find Xu Moyao.

He wait until the sentinel had shifted positions — one had vanished into the barracks, the other two now sprawled lazily near the entrance, their dice long abandoned for a flask passed between them. A soft snore rose and fell, blending with the low chorus of frogs in the marsh beyond the walls.

The silence between heartbeats grew louder.

He moved.

A breath drawn in. A measured exhale. Then he slipped forward. Each step was a negotiation with the earth, each motion tested against the world around him. The rain-slick moss muted his movements, but the marsh had a way of clinging to even the most careful feet. Water pooled in shallow depressions, swallowing sound but threatening betrayal with a single careless splash.

The fortress was dying, or already dead. Once, this had been a seat of command — now it felt like the carcass of something left too long beneath the sun. The air itself was heavy with mildew and rust. The scent of iron, faint but constant, haunted every passage.

He moved, melting through the gaps between moonlight and cover. The courtyard ahead had become a basin, half-flooded by years of neglect. Dead reeds grew from the cracks in the flagstones. Rotten boards bridged shallow puddles like makeshift paths. Towering above it all, the fortress loomed — stone bleeding dark with moisture, wooden walkways warped and bowed under their own weight.

Above, broken windows gaped like wounds in the walls. Behind them, nothing stirred.

He crossed the courtyard, steps careful, low and swift. Each breath was paced. Every heartbeat controlled. He ducked beneath a stairwell sagging under the weight of ivy and time, its bannister snapped like a broken limb. The air here changed — cooler, still. A flickering lantern burned in a narrow slit of a window nearby, its pale flame barely licking the surrounding gloom.

He waited.

Nothing moved.

The scroll.

He hadn’t been told what it looked like. Only what it carried — coordinates, prisoner movement orders, coded symbols, and names.

Names that mattered.

One prisoner above all: Xu Moyao.

He repeated the name silently, not out of sentiment, but focus. Anchor the purpose. He’d read the messenger’s letter again and again — “hidden in the central hall, beneath the old standard of the Southern Nation.”

That was all.

But it was enough.

He knew the symbol, a black sun sewn on red silk,  a relic of the last war, when the Southern Nation had burned half the coast. Their banners had once meant terror. Now they were buried in ruin and mildew. He could still see it in his mind: how those standards had been raised high on polished wood, guarded with ceremony. Where the banner was, the scroll would be.

He slipped through a doorway barely hanging on its hinges. Inside, the corridor choked with debris — beams that had collapsed inward, plaster crumbled like dust. The scent changed again: rot, something acrid, and beneath it, the unmistakable coppery smell of old blood. The walls had been reinforced crudely, almost like someone had tried to trap the fortress inside itself.

He moved with care. The darkness here was thicker, as if the walls held it in. Moisture dripped from above, steady as a dying clock.

He came to a fork — to the left, the air soured further, oily and burnt. The kitchens, perhaps.

He turned right.

His boots found purchase on slick, uneven flagstone. He slowed further, head tilted to catch the slightest tremor of movement, the faintest draft of disturbed air. Somewhere above him, voices echoed — light, careless, unguarded. Guards at ease. They weren’t expecting anyone. That was his only weapon.

The hallway narrowed, choked with old rubble.

 The silence felt watchful. As if the stone itself had memory — and might cry out if tread upon wrong.

At the far end, a pair of doors rose into view. Heavy. Ornate. Wood blackened with age, their frames marked with soot and ash. Yet still the carving showed through: faded, cracked, but clear — the black sun of the Southern Nation.

He approached, hand to the hilt at his belt. The doors were ajar, just slightly. A whisper of wind moved between them.

This was it.

He pushed one side open, slow and deliberate, and stepped inside.

The central hall opened around him like the hollow belly of a beast. Vast, cavernous. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow, its ribs of timber crusted with webs. Long-dead banners hung from iron hooks, their colors bled out by time. The air here did not move. Even his breath felt like it might echo too loud

A massive table, once the centerpiece of this hall, lay overturned, and blades lay in piles along the far wall — rusted, broken, forgotten. The remnants of past glory reduced to scrap. He moved along the edge of the room, keeping to the shadowed line of the walls.

Every corner, every alcove, every balcony above was scanned, marked, and cleared.

No movement.

He reached the dais.

The flagpole stood crooked in its socket ,  still anchored in a wide stone base carved long ago. The emblem remained etched in the dais: the virtues of the old empire — loyalty, purity, strength.

But one stone was wrong. Subtly. A shade too light. Smoother than its neighbors.

He crouched, knife in hand.

Ran the blade’s edge along the seam. Gently.

The stone resisted.

He pressed the tip in. Levered.

A small crack. A shift.

Then, with a low scrape, the stone came free.

A hollow beneath.

Inside, something wrapped 

His heart skipped. 

He drew it out and peeled the wrapping back.

The scroll was intact.

He scanned the inked lines: not just locations. Not just troop movements. There were names. Identifiers. Orders stamped in red ink. And then — one phrase that hadn’t been in the briefing.

“Transfer delayed. High-value subject remains in confinement pending Divine Mandate.”

Divine Mandate.

The words struck deeper than they should have.

He’d heard them before — murmured in temples long thought abandoned, spoken behind veils by pale-robed adherents, chanted low in camps where commanders drank from bone cups and prayed before battle. A phrase wrapped in myth, blood, and ambition.

Xu Moyao wasn’t just a prisoner.

He was part of something larger. Something hidden.

A symbol. Maybe even a key.

A board creaked.

Li Wuxin froze.

Scroll in one hand. Knife in the other.

Every muscle tightened.

Silence.

Then—another step.

Behind him.

Too close.