Since the early morning, Ningyuan's main city had not been still.
New spell glyphs hung over the walls like fine rain. There seemed to be a lot more strangers in foreign robes moving in the streets today, their steps unhurried, their eyes patient—like hunters waiting for a trail to start.
The Council Hall stood at the city's heart, pillars carved with old law-seals, wind-bells at the eaves utterly still. Inside, three blocs faced one another: Lingyuan Council in the center, Ningyuan and the Five Sects flanking either side. Thick carpets swallowed every step; only the weight of tea and silence remained.
Shang Luhan from the Taiqing Sect rose first, smiling gently, hostility buried just beneath:
"Pass the Seal to the Divine, return the Law to the people—this is a compromise. It will spare strength on both sides… and keep Ningyuan safe."
The Ningyuan deputies exchanged glances but did not reply.
From the Lingyuan Council, Ling Wanzhou set down his cup on the table, voice mild:
"That sounds fair. But the Seal touches the deepest roots—it cannot be decided in haste. If there is anything changed, the Lingyuan Council will escort the bearer to the Divine Court itself."
Escort. The words landed soft, but the air drew tighter.
Shang Luhan tapped the table with one fingertip.
"Escort sounds polite. But if it goes to hard, some might think it's… confinement."
Xuanmo Zhenren from the Taixu Dao smiled without warmth:
"Why not first test the bearer's capability of holding the Seal? If there's truly no danger, why bother the journey?"
Mingjue Master from Kulian Temple kept his gaze low, the slow beat of his wooden fish carrying a thread of killer intent.
Then—measured steps from the outer hall—a man.
The top clasp of his dark-blue robe was left undone, showing the casual white shirt beneath. At his waist hung a jade piece carved with winter plum, its lines worn smooth with age. His gait looked loose, almost idle, yet each step fell square on the center of the carpet's weave.
That's the Head of Procurement of the Lingyuan Council—Lu Shiyin.
At the threshold he paused, glancing back into the corridor—as if someone met his gaze there—and a sliver of bronze passed briefly into his hand. He turned it once in his palm, then stepped inside.
"The outer wards are restless,"
He said with a bow to the Ningyuan officials, smile still in place though his tone was cool.
"Rumor says the Seal is faltering—becoming a seed of calamity. Delay much longer, and hearts will turn uneasy."
Shang Luhan's eyes shifted toward him.
"And your source?"
Lu Shiyin spread his hands as if the answer were obvious, but gave none.
"If you want proof, perhaps you should step outside the walls yourselves."
Ling Wanzhou raised his cup without comment, though the knuckles beneath his sleeve tightened.
Tea and words mingled in the air. Every gaze in the hall was already a hand on the chessboard. The match had yet to open—but the fire was lit.
The air in the council hall thinned with the last beat of the wooden fish.
One by one, the delegates left, their steps swallowed by the thick carpets, leaving only the smell of tea lingering in the air.
The corridors of Ningyuan Judiciary ran deep, the eaves' shadow spilling halfway down the stone steps. Even the wind seemed strained out, leaving only faint, stray voices in the dark.
Lu Shiyin took the right-hand passage, walking lighter than when he had entered. Rounding a turn carved with verdict seals, he slowed. Ahead, the light was dim—one bronze lamp veiled in gauze, its flame turning restlessly, breaking the shadows into fragments.
In those fragments stood the Taiqing Chief Adjudicator—Shang Luhan. Beside him, the administrator of Miaoji Tower—Song Shuangyi. Their voices were low; now and then, a short, dry laugh rang, like two blades brushing spine to spine.
"If we don't cooperate and take the Seal, this game won't finish," Song Shuangyi murmured.
"As for our methods—your teaching's not required."
Shang Luhan inclined his head.
"We can talk about who owns it later. The alliance comes first. That's the lever."
Lu Shiyin stopped at the door of the corridor, his smile faint.
"I like it—play the game before you decide the winner."
Shang Luhan glanced at him.
"And which side are you on?"
"Whichever keeps the game hot,"
Lu Shiyin said, tossing the small bronze chip in his palm—trading it, perhaps, for an unspoken accord.
At another corridor not far away, Ling Wanzhou walked in, as if by chance. The light brushed his sleeve; he paused a heartbeat, then turned into a different passage without looking back. His step was steady, his back unreadable—like a man who had heard something… or nothing.
The light wavered, splitting the shadows between the three—
as if a new chessboard had already been drawn in the dark.
—
The side hall was dim, the bronze brazier down to a single thread of sandalwood smoke, curling upward only to be caught and unraveled by the night.
Luo Qinghan sat alone before the desk, the paper mirror spread flat, its surface like water, reflecting her breath—each exhale rippling into fine, concentric rings. The tide of her spirit-energy stirred around her, not wind, not sea, but the touch of countless feather-light fingers searching along the mirror's back, their rhythm drawing close, then slipping away.
Beneath the mirror, the shadows shifted—like clouds parting above a hidden sea, revealing a flash of silver and black scales. Fine, quick, they darted once across the deep and vanished—like a dragon turning in some underworld depth, the sweep of its tail brushing the mirror and catching her pulse for half a beat.
She lifted her gaze. Footsteps stopped outside the door; Ling Wanzhou entered, steam still curling from the cup in his hand.
"Quiet in here," he said, sitting opposite her.
His eyes skimmed the mirror, lingering only a heartbeat.
"Any unusual signs lately?"
Her fingertip tapped the frame.
"If you mean the Seal, say it plain."
"The Seal, yes."
He sipped; the tea's surface rippled in a perfect circle.
"But I'm more curious—who's looking at you through the mirror?"
Her brows shifted slightly, no words. He didn't press, only rolled the lid of the cup between his fingers, letting it click softly.
"You sound almost… concerned." she said, her lips barely moving.
"Concern," he set the cup down, "or curiosity. Hard to say."
His gaze caught the flicker in her eyes, as if pinning a shadow for later, but he let it go. The sandalwood smoke drifted between them, a line both dividing and joining. Her guard did not fall entirely—but in that moment, it eased.
Elsewhere, Shen Jin sat cross-legged, his mind-sea a starless night. Suddenly, the burn-mark in his palm warmed, and a vein of red-gold flared like fire through his inner sight. With it came a voice—low, hoarse, nearly a breath—like someone in darkness had lifted a brush, drawn the first stroke of a character, and stopped. Ink-scent and heat mingled as it reached him.
"…the next stroke."
It felt pulled from the deepest well of his own memory, and for an instant he could not tell if another spoke to him, or if he whispered to himself in a dream.
He opened his eyes; the mark dimmed, the mind-sea stilled. Nothing had changed—except for a hollow, newly-touched place in his heart.
In the side hall, the paper mirror began to glow. Mist-light spread, then a single ripple pressed across its surface. Luo Qinghan looked down as the glow twisted into fine lines, winding together into ancient script—The Inverse Weave of Day and Night.
Around the edge of the mirror, images shimmered: half bathed in the sun of day, half under the backward flow of night, their border lit by sparks, as if someone were silently writing a scripture she could not read.
She watched the words until the last trace of sandalwood faded from the air, her gaze unbroken.