The wind howled through the Lantern Grave, carrying with it the echoes of names long buried. Ash lanterns, suspended by rusted chains, swayed gently in the breeze, their flickering flames like whispering ghosts. Zhao Wei stood still at the center of the stone circle, where blood once sealed oaths and betrayal had worn its groove into the earth.

  Tonight, the blood moon hung low, bloated, unblinking, and too near. It bathed the ground in a crimson sheen that clung to her skin like war paint. Around her, the remnants of the Ember watched from beneath bone-white masks, their breaths held, waiting for a word, a glance, a ghost.

  She didn’t speak.

  Because silence was sharper.

  And her silence told stories: of loss, of return, of schemes that outlived death itself.

  A soft chuckle broke the tension, a new voice, one that dripped with sarcasm and something unplaceable. From the shadows of a leaning spire, a boy emerged. Lean frame, tousled hair, smirk sharp enough to gut a pig.

  "This feels a little too theatrical, don’t you think? Standing under the blood moon like you’re about to curse a dynasty."

  Zhao Wei didn’t flinch. “Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

  Feng Ren stepped forward cautiously. His expression had changed since the last encounter, less swagger, more calculation.

  “Your message was risky,” he said. “The Creed monitors this place.”

  “I count on it.”

  Feng Ren raised a brow. “You want them to see you?”

  She gave a half-smile, the kind that belonged to Wei Ning more than Zhao Wei. “No. I want them to fear me again.”

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  From behind the crumbling ruins, an old voice spoke. “Then why gather the broken, child?”

  All eyes turned as a cloaked elder stepped forward skin like worn paper, a staff carved from scorched jade. His voice was neither loud nor soft, but it held a weight that made even the masked Ember kneel.

  Zhao Wei lowered her head respectfully. “Because the broken remember. And the remembered obey.”

  The elder’s eyes gleamed. “So it begins.”

  A tremor ran through the ground, almost imperceptible, but Zhao Wei felt it in her bones. The Creed had arrived. Not in full force but enough. Shadows moved like ink spills behind the trees.

  She turned to her people.

  “Scatter. Follow the three trails. Burn the third if I fall.”

  Someone started to protest. She raised a single hand. Silence obeyed.

  With the rustle of cloaks and breathless speed, the Ember moved ghostlike and disciplined. All but one.

  A boy with a large satchel and too many scrolls tripped over his own feet and fell face-first into the dirt.

  Zhao Wei blinked. “Bai.”

  He groaned from the ground. “I knew I should have stayed in the archive...”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “I thought you might need... moral support? Or someone to scream dramatically when things go wrong?”

  Even Feng Ren chuckled.

  Zhao Wei sighed and helped him up. “Run, Bai. That’s an order.”

  He gave a mock salute and dashed off, tripping once more on a root.

  Then came the silence before thunder.

  Figures emerged from the trees, cloaked, armored, eyes burning blue. At their center stood a familiar shape wrapped in silver chainmail and shadow-stitched cloth. Not a commander.

  A Messenger.

  Zhao Wei’s jaw tightened.

  “Zhao Wei,” the Messenger’s voice carried like a death knell. “You should not have returned.”

  “I never left,” she said. “Just waited.”

  “You abandoned your oath.”

  “I was executed,” she replied, voice cold. “Not the same.”

  The Messenger’s hand moved to the blade strapped to his back. “Then allow me to complete what was left unfinished.”

  Before steel could sing, Feng Ren stepped forward.

  “You’ll have to go through me first.”

  The Messenger blinked. “Who are you?”

  “Unimportant. But my insults are very well written.” He pulled out a small talisman. “Ever heard of a memory trap?”

  He threw it.

  Light exploded in a twist of symbols and ghostly shrieks enough to blind the Messenger momentarily. Zhao Wei moved, fast as lightning, blade drawn and dancing. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed.

  She fought like the dead: without fear of dying.

  Each strike was a verse, each dodge a whispered truth.

  She had been reborn not to flee but to write the end.

  And in her silence, doom bloomed.