The council chamber was colder than usual.
Not from wind.
From what wasn't said.
Elder Han sat at the far end of the stone table, flanked by six others. No incense burned. No scrolls laid open.
Only a single item sat at the center: a sealed travel permit, marked with the Qingwu Sect's black wax.
Wei Qingzhao stood near the doorway, arms crossed. He hadn't been called. He had simply come.
Kaifeng stepped in without bowing.
Han did not reprimand him.
"Do you know why you're here?" asked Elder Fan.
"Because something has begun moving," Kaifeng said.
"No," Han corrected.
"Because something has stopped hiding."
A pause. Fan gestured to the table.
"You're being sent south. Alone."
Kaifeng did not touch the permit.
"Why me?"
Elder Fan leaned forward.
"Because the woman who left that mark—" he tapped the envelope containing the blade-rune, "—knows you. And you… still hesitate."
"So you want to use that."
"We want to know if she can be brought in. Alive. If not…"
"You want me to kill her."
No one spoke.
Wei broke the silence.
"That's why you summoned him and not a Fang-class sword disciple."
"This mission requires precision," Han said.
"Not noise. And not vengeance."
"Then you chose the wrong person," Kaifeng said quietly.
"No," Han replied.
"We chose the only one who's already broken where she once stood."
Kaifeng turned to leave.
"You'll go?" Han asked.
Kaifeng paused.
"You've already written my path," he said, not bitter. Just factual.
"I'm just the one carrying the ink."
That night, Wei Qingzhao found Kaifeng sitting on the edge of the eastern roof, overlooking the sparring grounds. The travel scroll sat beside him, unopened.
"You're going," Wei said.
"Even if they hadn't asked."
Kaifeng didn't deny it.
"What are you hoping to find?"
"Not her."
"Then what?"
Kaifeng's voice was soft.
"The part of me she left behind."
Wei didn't sit beside him. Just watched the mist curl over the trees.
"If you find her… and she hasn't forgotten you—what then?"
Kaifeng didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
And that silence was louder than any sword he could draw.
Far to the south, across the Ash Plains, a caravan burned quietly. No battle. No screams. Only smoke.
A lone figure walked away from the wreckage. Her robes were torn, but her steps calm.
She looked at the sky once, as if watching something far above.
Then whispered—
"He's coming."
And the wind carried her voice nowhere.
Except to the blade sheathed at her side.
Still clean.
Still waiting.
End of Chapter 8