The first step off Qingwu grounds felt unremarkable.
No farewell. No ceremony. Not even the bell.
Kaifeng carried no pack. Only a plain gray travel robe, his callused hands, and the sealed permit hidden in his sleeve.
The sect gates did not groan as they closed behind him.
The silence did.
The mountain path twisted downward in long, breathing spirals. Below, the Ash Plains stretched like a forgotten wound — flat, wind-swept, marked only by scattered stone pillars and burned-out shrines.
Most travelers avoided it.
Kaifeng walked straight through.
Three days passed.
No birds. No voices. Only the crunch of fine black soil beneath his soles.
On the fourth morning, he reached a half-buried waystation: roof collapsed, walls scorched. The air smelled faintly of copper.
Kaifeng stepped inside.
A man sat at the center. Hooded. Calm.
Not armed — at least, not visibly.
But the dust around him was disturbed in a perfect ring. Not by wind. By motion.
Kaifeng stopped.
The man looked up.
"They told me the Qingwu boy wouldn't come himself."
"They were right," Kaifeng replied.
"Ah," the man said, smiling.
"You're not here for answers. You're here for memory."
Kaifeng didn't reply.
The man gestured to a second stool — unburned, oddly clean.
"She passed through five days ago. Said nothing. Left one thing behind."
He reached beneath his cloak.
And handed Kaifeng a folded piece of silk. Torn, black-stained, with a faded petal pressed between the creases.
Kaifeng opened it.
Inside: one sentence. Written in a curved, fluid hand.
"You remember what they let you forget."
Kaifeng stared for a long time.
"Where was she headed?"
The man didn't blink.
"She didn't say. But she moved like she was following something. Or someone."
A pause.
"You."
That night, Kaifeng made camp at the broken shrine east of the Ash Plain's edge.
The wind howled, but the fire didn't sway.
Not once.
He laid the silk down beside the flames, staring at it.
Then drew his fingers through the dirt, etching a single character into the soil:
听 – To listen.
Not speak.
Not strike.
Just listen.
Unseen, far to the north, Wei Qingzhao stood before Elder Han again.
"You sent him to find her."
"Yes."
"But she's not what she was. And neither is he."
Han turned to the sealed scroll beside him — the one no one else was allowed to open.
"That's what worries me."
"Why?"
Han's voice was quiet. Almost ashamed.
"Because she may no longer be the one who needs saving."
End of Chapter 9