Dawn never arrived.
The sky lightened, but the sun refused to appear, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to look at what we were about to do. The forgotten city lay silent, its stone towers bending inward like watchers waiting for a verdict.
The scholar led us into the inner hall. The air trembled faintly—not from wind, but from memory trapped in the stone. The flame in the lantern flickered in strange rhythms, like a pulse that did not belong to any living thing.
"Sit," he told me.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor. The cut over my sternum glowed a faint, furious red, still healing, still wrong. Shen Yue stood behind me, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight her teeth might crack.
The scholar placed the moonstone basin before me. Water rippled inside, though nothing had touched it. Shapes flickered beneath the surface—faces, maybe, or remnants of faces.
"This time," the scholar said quietly, "you do not open the bridge."
I let out a breath. "Then what?"
"You let it open you."
Shen Yue murmured a curse.
The scholar ignored her. He lifted a thin instrument carved from bone and obsidian—long, needle-like, terrifyingly delicate.
"The bridge will resist. It will hurt you. It must hurt you, or it cannot be reached."
He knelt in front of me and lowered the tool toward the glowing cut.
I forced myself to breathe.
The bridge inside me sensed the approach. It recoiled, then expanded, then recoiled again, like something confused or enraged.
"You're ready," the scholar said.
"No," I whispered. "But do it anyway."
The first touch of the needle felt like someone driving cold lightning through my ribs. My spine arched. Shen Yue grabbed my shoulders to keep me grounded.
The scholar began the cut.
The pain did not stay in my chest—it shot through my skull, my eyes, my memories. Suddenly I saw the forgotten city not as it was now but as it had been: crowded, bright, full of voices chanting in tones that could break stone. Then I saw bodies collapsing like puppets with cut strings. Then darkness swallowing the towers whole.
The scholar's voice echoed through the vision.
"Hold. Just hold."
The bridge writhed violently inside me.
A sound tore from my throat, half-roar, half-plea. Shen Yue held me tighter.
"You're here," she whispered into my ear. "You're here. Don't let go."
The needle deepened.
The bridge buckled and burst outward.
A wave of black light hit the hall. The lantern shattered. Shadows flew along the walls like fleeing birds. The scholar steadied himself.
"Good," he called through the chaos. "It sees you."
I gasped. "It sees everything."
"Let it see. Then learn how to blind it."
The bridge surged again.
I wasn't in the hall anymore.
I stood in the tower.
Not the physical one in Ling An—but the idea of it, the Mandate forming above the world. Its stones were not stone but layers of memory. Its windows were not windows but eyes. Its stairs spiraled upward and downward simultaneously.
And climbing it—
My father.
The Lord Protector's silhouette was unmistakable. Each step carved a wound into the air. Each breath made the tower grow taller. The sky above him bent in worship or fear.
"Stop," I whispered to the vision. "Stop climbing."
He didn't turn.
He didn't hear.
The tower shuddered.
A ringing sound split the vision—a deep, metallic tolling that rattled through my bones.
The tower's first bell.
I forced myself back into my body. The hall returned in fragments—the cracked floor, the basin trembling, Shen Yue's voice breaking with strain.
The scholar pressed the needle deeper.
The bridge screamed.
I screamed with it.
Then—
The second cut opened.
Everything went silent.
The pain vanished, leaving a hollow coldness behind. I gasped as the bridge recoiled like a beast struck across the spine. The hall settled. The shadows stopped trembling.
Shen Yue knelt beside me. "An…?" Her voice was thin, terrified. "An, are you still—"
"I'm here," I panted. "I think."
The scholar leaned back, sweat streaming down his temple. "Good. Better than expected."
"What did we do?" Shen Yue asked sharply.
"We split the anchor," he said. "His father tied the bridge to his mind. We just broke a piece of that tether."
Shen Yue froze. "Meaning?"
"He can resist the Lord Protector now," the scholar said. "A little."
"And the cost?" she demanded.
The scholar's eyes darkened. "He lost something."
I blinked. "Lost what?"
He answered gently.
"A year."
Shen Yue's breath caught. "You—what do you mean?"
"A year of memory," he said. "One whole year ripped clean."
I tried to summon my past.
Faces blurred. Seasons blurred. Someone laughed. Someone cried. Someone died. I reached for details and found smoke.
Shen Yue grabbed my shoulders. "An—look at me. Look at me. What did you lose?"
I swallowed.
"I don't know."
She shut her eyes as if the answer hurt her worse than the truth.
Before anyone could speak again, the air vibrated faintly.
The scholar stiffened.
"That's the tower."
I shook my head. "No. The tower pulses stronger."
He shook his head slowly.
"No. That was something else."
A distant, rolling tremor moved under the earth. Shen Yue reached for her sword. The moonstone basin rattled violently.
Then a second vibration came.
Then a third.
The scholar whispered:
"That is marching."
We ran outside.
The western horizon glowed faintly with torchlight. An army stretched across the mountains, spears glinting like teeth. Banners fluttered—dark red, silver-trimmed, unmistakable.
Zhou.
Thousands.
Then—
farther south, across the desert line—
another army.
The Southern King's colors.
And at its center—
a white lily banner.
The Emperor of Liang marched with them.
Two armies.
Both converging.
Both moving toward Ling An.
Both faster than they should be.
Shen Yue whispered, "They'll reach the capital in days."
"No," I said quietly.
"They'll reach the tower."
The scholar looked at me with grim clarity.
"You must leave at once. Before they close around the mountains. Before fate chooses sides for you."
I nodded.
Shen Yue looked me in the eyes.
"Can you walk?"
I forced myself to stand. My legs trembled, but I stayed upright.
"Yes," I said.
"I can walk."
But in truth—
I wasn't sure I could.
The scholar bowed deeply.
"Go west," he said. "To the city within the sandstorm. They are the last who know how to unmake Heaven's tools."
"And after that?"
The scholar's expression darkened even further.
"After that," he said, "you return to choose which Emperor dies first."
I tied my cloak around my shoulders.
Shen Yue took my arm.
We ran into the shadowed path between cliffs as the mountains behind us shook under the approach of converging armies.
The sky above twisted again.
The lotus constellation turned upside-down.
And the bridge whispered to me as we fled:
Hurry. Before they choose the world without you.