Hour of the Dragon. Morning Court.
Sunlight did not come.
Heavy clouds had hung over the imperial city for three days now. The lamps and candles in the hall were still burning, the wicks occasionally emitting a tiny pop, extremely light, like someone sighing not far away, or perhaps like no one at all.
The hundred officials stood in two rows, their shadows falling on the bricks, a bit fainter than usual—without sunlight, shadows were shallow. But even that shallowness was orderly; no one stepped on another's shadow.
Helian Xiang sat at the end of the recording seat, before him today's memorial paper spread open, his brush already dipped in ink, hovering half an inch above the paper.
There was an empty beat in his breathing.
0.12 breaths—he himself did not know. That empty beat had grown too familiar, too familiar to need knowing. Inhale, pause, exhale. Inhale, pause, exhale. In that instant of "pause," his chest held an extremely shallow depression, shallower than anyone could notice.
But he himself knew. His body knew.
Today's memorials were very ordinary. Grain transport and allocation. Routine border defense documents. A certain county magistrate, three years term completed, requesting transfer. A certain granary needing repair, requesting allocated silver.
The new emperor sat enthroned above, young, expressionless, his gaze when looking at people unblinking.
Everything as usual. Same as yesterday. Same as the day the depression had been incorporated into routine parameters.
Zhou Shu stood in the middle of the civil officials' row, court tablet in hand, reporting—
"…Yongping Prefecture's autumn grain has arrived at Tongzhou, three days earlier than previous years, totaling twenty-three thousand stone, actually received twenty-three thousand stone, no losses…"
Forty-seven years old. A secretary in the Ministry of Rites. Twenty-three years in office—never heavily favored, never making major mistakes. His voice when speaking was neither high nor low, exactly the volume appropriate for his position.
When he reached "twenty-three thousand stone," his gaze inadvertently shifted to the side.
Not deliberate. Standing too long, his neck slightly stiff, his gaze naturally wandered. That wandering lasted only a fraction of a second, moving from the imperial steps before him, across the end of the military officials' row opposite, and landing on the recording seat—
And then—
he saw it.
That young recording official, sitting at the very end, head lowered, brush hovering above the paper—
His chest was not rising and falling.
Not breath-holding. Breath-holding meant a full chest, held still. His chest was empty. At the position where inhalation ended, there was no transition into exhalation. No pause. Just—nothing.
Zhou Shu's gaze stopped there.
0.2 seconds.
In those 0.2 seconds, his own breathing—just halfway through an inhale—also stopped.
Not deliberate breath-holding. It was that empty beat, like a pit dug long ago; his breath reached it and simply fell in.
He did not know that he and that young recording official, at that same instant, had entered the same rhythm.
Then, in his mind, a phrase from a document he had approved this morning suddenly flashed:
"Phase fluctuation within 0.39 shall be regarded as routine."
Below that line was the word "Approved" he had personally written this morning. The ink was long dry. But at this moment, that word "Approved" suddenly seemed very foreign—as if what he had approved was not grain, but something he had never truly understood.
He remembered that dossier on his desk, "Pending Discussion" for three months. Remembered the name inside. Remembered that every time he turned to that page, he paused, then turned past it.
He didn't know what relation that had to the young man before him.
But he knew: that "pause," and this empty beat before him, were the same length.
His gaze moved away.
Continued looking at his own court tablet, continued reciting:
"…actually received twenty-three thousand stone, no losses, request approval for warehousing…"
His voice did not change. His rhythm did not change.
But his right hand, below the court tablet, clenched for 0.1 breaths.
Those 0.1 breaths were exactly the length of that empty beat he had just seen.
He himself did not know.
Helian Xiang's brush fell on the paper, writing: "Yongping Prefecture autumn grain, twenty-three thousand stone, approved."
His brush tip paused.
Not because Zhou Shu's memorial had any irregularity. It was that gaze—from the middle of the civil officials' row, extremely brief, extremely light, falling on him, then moving away.
The duration of that gaze was the same length as the empty beat in his breathing.
He did not look up.
But within that empty beat, there seemed to be an additional layer.
Not sound, not temperature. The weight of being seen.
The memorials continued.
Court adjourned.
The hundred officials filed out in order. Footsteps. One. One. One.
The same rhythm as breathing.
Helian Xiang walked at the very end.
The corridor was very long. The stone slabs beneath had been laid for decades, some already loose. When he stepped on one of them, an extremely light sound came from underfoot—
"Click."
That sound was the same length as his empty beat this morning.
He paused. Not his feet waiting—his breathing waiting.
That gaze had long disappeared. But within that empty beat, there was an additional layer. He didn't know what it was. But he knew, that layer of something, from now on, would always be there.
He didn't look back.
Kept walking.
The private journal in his robe pressed against his heart. Inside was a line: "Subjective interference could not be fully excluded."
That was written a few days ago. At that time, he didn't yet know that one day, that "interference" would be seen by another person, in this way.
He didn't take it out to look. Just walked.
Footsteps. One. One. One.
The same rhythm as breathing.
0.12. Beat. Exhale.
0.12. Beat. Exhale.
Zhou Shu walked behind, seven or eight paces back.
He saw the person ahead pause.
0.1 seconds. Extremely brief. So brief that if not seen with one's own eyes, one would never know such an instant existed.
His steps also slowed by 0.1 seconds.
Then continued walking.
The two walked out of the corridor one after another. The sky was overcast, no sunlight, and thus no shadow cut before their feet. Only grayish light filtered in from beneath the eaves, falling on the bricks, a thin wash of pale gray.
Helian Xiang stepped across that pale gray. Zhou Shu also stepped across.
No one looked back.
Afternoon. The duty room.
Zhou Shu sat before his desk, a stack of documents spread before him. He had been looking at them for a long time, but hadn't turned a page.
His right index finger unconsciously tapped the desk.
Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
He himself didn't notice the rhythm. That rhythm didn't need his notice—it was that empty beat he had seen this morning, now dwelling within his body, continuing to exist in another way.
Someone passed by outside the window, footsteps approaching then fading. He didn't look up.
In the afternoon, at the Hour of the Monkey, he reviewed a document.
"Regarding the Inclusion of Phase Fluctuation into Routine Parameters · Seventh Day Archive"
He opened it and saw a line:
"Within 0.39 shall be regarded as routine."
His brush paused for 0.1 seconds.
Those 0.1 seconds, and those 0.1 seconds this morning, and those empty taps on the desk just now, were the same length.
He didn't know that, in a place he couldn't see, at the same moment, the system was recursing—the same length, the same inability to complete.
He didn't know what relation these three 0.1 seconds had to one another.
He signed. Approved.
The document was placed in the "Verified" basket. The paper's edge touched the basket's rim, an extremely light sound.
Outside the window, the sky had darkened a bit more.
Night. A certain residence in the eastern part of the city.
Zhou Shu had already lain down. His wife was already asleep, breathing evenly, beside him.
He looked at the ceiling beam.
The beam was old, the paint mottled; he had looked at it every night for years, never noticing what it looked like. Tonight, suddenly he saw it—that crack, extending from the beam's center to the corner of the wall, not wide, but deep.
He suddenly remembered this morning at court, he had seen something.
Couldn't remember who. Only remembered that instant.
The chest not rising and falling. Like a sentence written halfway—suddenly stopping.
He didn't know who had written that sentence. Didn't know what it wanted to say.
But he knew, that sentence was not yet finished.
Then he turned over.
When sleep came, his breathing slowed by 0.1 seconds.
He himself didn't know. His wife didn't know. No one knew.
But those 0.1 seconds, and that 0.12 waveform in the corner of the ice mirror somewhere in the western part of the city, at that same instant, fell in the same position.
The night deepened further.
The pivot chamber. The ice mirror was dark.
Helian Xiang sat in the darkness, his right hand pressed against his chest. There, the private journal, against his heart.
He remembered walking through the corridor this morning, that "click" of the stone slab.
He knew someone was behind him.
He didn't know why he hadn't looked back.
Outside the window, no wind. The window paper didn't rustle.
His breathing: 0.12 beat—the same as every day.
But within that empty beat, today there was an additional layer.
That layer, and the weight of being seen, were the same thing.
He didn't light a lamp. Just continued sitting.
Inhale—beat—exhale.
Inhale—beat—exhale.
That empty beat remained. That layer of weight remained.
No one asks now.
But it had been seen.
[CHAPTER 175 END]