The boy's breathing slowed.
Not all at once—but enough. Each inhale a little steadier. Each tremor a little softer. The red glow beneath his skin pulsed faintly, then dimmed like coals cooling in ash.
Ye Han stayed beside him, kneeling in the dirt, coat catching the wind.
The crowd didn't speak.
Someone cleared their throat. Another stepped back. A few drifted away, muttering about work, about breakfast, about how they'd seen worse.
No one came closer.
The boy finally looked up.
His eyes were wide, but not wild now. Just tired. He blinked once. Then again. Then whispered, "Did I… hurt anyone?"
Ye Han shook his head.
The boy didn't say anything else.
---
A minute earlier, he almost had.
Right before Ye Han reached him, the boy had clenched his fists—and a spark snapped from his wrist to the cobblestone, scorching a black line into the stone.
Someone had screamed. The light was rising. His breath was breaking.
Then Ye Han stepped into the space beside him, and the system flare collapsed inward.
> When a system spiraled, the discharge could burn through walls—or people. Especially in children.
The boy didn't understand how the calm came.
Only that it did.
---
Later, the blacksmith arrived. Red-faced. Out of breath. Boots slapping against the alley stones.
He froze when he saw them:
His son seated against the wall, exhausted but whole.
And Ye Han beside him, unmoving.
For a second, the man said nothing.
Then his voice cracked:
"Ren."
The boy turned, just barely.
The blacksmith dropped to one knee, hands trembling as he gripped his son's arms—checking, counting, shaking once. Then pulled him in, hard.
The boy didn't resist.
He whispered something too low for Ye Han to hear.
The father held him tighter.
---
Ye Han stood. Walked away without waiting.
But before he reached the alley's end, the boy called after him—barely loud enough to carry.
"Will… will I do that again?"
Ye Han paused.
Didn't look back.
> "New Page Detected."
> "Unbound Echo Registered."
> "Echo: 'I don't want to hurt anyone anymore.'"
> "Ledger Entry Created."
> "Passive Unlocked: Aura Dampening – System flares within 3m of Warden presence reduce by 8%."
He exhaled softly.
Didn't answer.
But when he stepped into the street, his shadow felt longer behind him.
---
A woman carrying firewood passed him. She looked up. Stared.
Not with fear. Not suspicion.
Just a long, searching pause.
As if she wanted to ask something—and didn't know how.
Ye Han kept walking.
---
At the hut, Yaya was sitting up.
She was small. Couldn't have been more than five. Still too tiny for the coat to fit properly—sleeves bunched up like ropes, collar swallowing her neck.
She hadn't moved much. But her eyes were wider than they'd been the night before.
She didn't smile.
Didn't speak at first.
But when Ye Han stepped inside, she tilted her head slightly.
"You didn't know that boy."
He didn't respond.
She tugged at one sleeve. "But you helped him anyway."
Ye Han poured water into the cup. Set it beside her.
She watched his hand, not the cup.
"The words showed up last time too," she murmured. "When you touched me. They floated like a book page."
She blinked slowly. "Is it a book that remembers people?"
He didn't answer.
But the system did.
> "Ledger Page 2: Stable."
> "Aura Link: Passive."
> "Current Network Effect: Low-range suppression."
> "Field Consistency: Strengthening."
> "Projected Expansion Threshold: 3 Pages."
Yaya didn't look impressed. Just thoughtful.
Then, after a pause, she asked—almost shyly:
"Do you think the book can remember… flowers?"
Ye Han blinked.
She didn't explain.
---
That night, clouds hung low over Qingye's ridge line.
Ye Han stepped outside just before dusk. The breeze had teeth now—thin and needling. He watched the treetops shift. Listened to the faint hammering from the forge fading into quiet.
And then he heard them.
Two voices. Low. Just outside the well house.
"…He didn't even activate a system."
The other voice was older. Quieter.
"Don't ask. Just keep your head down."
Ye Han said nothing.
Closed the door behind him.
But in the far corner of the hut, Yaya was sitting upright.
Eyes open.
Hands folded in her lap.
And though she faced the wall, her head was tilted—not in fear, but like she was listening to something **no one else could hear.**