“What… what happened?” San Lian demands, voice low, though dread already coils in his gut.

  Khaizei looks up, grip tightening on the robe bunched in her lap. “He’s gone,” she chokes out. “Gujel… and Tukol—both gone.”

  A hush falls, broken only by Bazhin’s ragged exhale. San Lian’s mind spins. Gujel, vanished in the night? He kneels slowly by Khaizei’s side, hand hovering over her shoulder but not quite touching. “Tell me everything,” he says in a voice that tries for calm but trembles at the edges.

  Her words spill out in staccato gasps: how she woke to an empty bed, a cloth bundle scattered near the door. A single trunk left open, few possessions missing. The stable boy saw only a lone figure leading a horse away under the moon. A swirl of desperation clings to her every breath. “I… I’ve already sent a report to the imperial authorities,” she says, eyes filled with panic. “But that’s not enough—please, you must find him, bring him back.”

  San Lian’s pulse hammers. Gujel had spoken of leaving, of escaping the empire’s clutches. A dream whispered for years. He thought it might happen someday—just never this abruptly, this heartbreakingly real. Glancing at Bazhin, he finds the boy glaring at the floor, fists clenched. Heartache and betrayal mingle in those eyes, though not a single tear falls.

  “Please,” Khaizei repeats, voice cracking. “You’re the only one he trusts. If there’s a chance… go after him!”

  Silence claws at the room. Servants shuffle anxiously at the doorway, powerless to console the mistress. San Lian inhales, wrestling with inner conflict. He imagines Gujel riding under starlight, clutching Tukol, determined to outrun the empire’s shadow. The thought fills him with equal parts sorrow and a strange, reluctant admiration.

  “I—I can’t,” he finally murmurs, the admission tearing at him. Khaizei’s eyes flare in disbelief.

  “Can’t?” she echoes, near hysterical. “He’s your friend… he’s deserting—he’s—he’s taken Tukol! We don’t even know why or where!” Her voice rises, echoing off carved pillars. “Bring him back, I beg you.”

  San Lian bows his head. He hears Gujel’s voice from countless nights of quiet conversation, the man’s hatred of endless wars, longing for a simpler life. This is the inevitable next step, the fate Gujel spoke of in hushed confessions. And though it sears him to see the anguish it leaves behind, he cannot in good conscience drag Gujel back to the empire’s yoke.

  “Khaizei… I’m sorry.” Each word tastes of ash. “I knew his dream. I didn’t realize it’d happen now, or so abruptly. But I can’t stop him—can’t chase him down like a criminal.”

  She lurches to her feet, trembling with anger and grief. “You choose to stand aside? When my husband and child vanish?! You would let them wander god knows where?”

  San Lian swallows. “It’s his choice, my lady. Perhaps he truly believes Tukol is safer beyond the empire’s reach. I—I don’t know. But forcing him back… that would betray all he’s stood for.”

  Bazhin’s fist connects with the wooden frame of a nearby table, the sharp crack resonating. He breathes heavily, refusing to look at San Lian. “Then you’re no better than him,” he hisses. “Leaving us behind.”

  A knife of guilt twists inside San Lian’s chest. He steps closer to Khaizei, voice hushed with regret. “I wish I could ease your pain. But...”

  Her mouth opens, ready to unleash another plea or perhaps a furious tirade, but words fail. Tears gather anew, shimmering with heartbreak. She staggers back, half turning away, hugging herself as though the very air threatens to crush her.

  San Lian lowers his gaze, his shoulders heavy with sorrow. “I’ll speak with the officials if they ask… but I cannot lead them to him.” Then, so quietly only Khaizei might hear, he adds, “Forgive me.”

  The hush that follows is heavier than any war-drum thunder. Outside, a crow caws in the courtyard, a bleak cry echoing the heartbreak within these walls. San Lian remains rooted, torn between duty to the empire’s demands, loyalty to a friend’s dream, and pity for this anguished family. Finally, with a slow exhale, he bows once more to Khaizei. She does not meet his eyes.

  He turns to go, footsteps echoing across polished floors. The staff part like wraiths, their downcast expressions a silent accusation. Behind him, Khaizei’s muffled sobs break into the hush. Bazhin says nothing, only watches with blazing resentment as San Lian steps into the bright, pitiless morning sun, each footfall resonating with the echo of guilt and a promise left unkept.

  ...

  Time drags on, and rumors of Gujel’s disappearance swirl through Pezijil’s streets like bitter winds. Khaizei remains within her home, shutting out daylight and visitors alike. No one sees her at the markets. Friends who call are turned away at the gate by anxious servants. Bazhin, only in his teens, shoulders her silence, drifting through the halls like a specter—uncertain how to mend the gaping void left by his father.

  San Lian hears stray reports: that Khaizei no longer eats with the household, that she paces her chambers at odd hours, restless, haunted. Guilt gnaws at him. Against better judgment, he decides to return, to check if there’s anything he can do. Perhaps an apology, a lifeline of comfort.

  It’s mid-afternoon when he arrives, the courtyard overgrown with weeds that have gone untended. An unsettling hush has settled over the place. No servant rushes to greet him. Instead, Bazhin appears in the doorway, expression wan. His eyes flick over San Lian, but there’s no warmth in them—only resignation.

  “She won’t come out of her room,” Bazhin mutters. “She won’t speak to anyone. I keep trying…” His voice cracks, and he looks away, fists trembling at his sides.

  A chill seeps into San Lian’s bones. “Stay here,” he says, voice rough with foreboding. He brushes past the boy, heading down the dim corridor leading to the private chambers. Every step echoes in the stillness. Doors stand ajar, dust gathering on furniture that once gleamed. The air feels stale, heavy with an unnameable dread.

  He finds Khaizei’s bedroom door unlatched. Gently pushing it open, he sees half-empty cups of cold tea scattered on a low table—clothes strewn across a chaise where she might have collapsed in restless delirium. At first glance, the room seems empty, but then he spies the figure near the far side, draped in a pale gown.

  He steps closer, heart thrashing in his chest. Her shape appears wrong, suspended… The world blurs as he realizes she is hanging. A rope looped from an overhead beam. Shadows cast by the curtains outline her form in a terrible hush.

  San Lian staggers, a strangled noise clawing at his throat. Instinct drives him forward, fumbling to lift her, to free her from that twisted rope, but there’s no breath left in her body. Her eyes stare vacantly at nothing.

  “No,” he breathes, voice scarcely more than a rasp.

  Footsteps pound behind him, Bazhin’s frantic voice echoing in the corridor. San Lian whips around, blocking the doorway. “Don’t come in,” he hisses, voice thick with grief. He tries to shield the boy from the sight, but it’s too late. Bazhin glimpses his mother’s lifeless figure and emits a broken gasp.

  Servants, hearing the commotion, spill into the hall. Some cry out in shock and horror. Others bow their heads and whisper fervent prayers to the ancestors. San Lian gently lowers Khaizei’s body—trembling as he does—laying her on the ground as though she might still wake. He presses a shaking palm over her heart, but it’s silent.

  Time fractures, the next hours passing in a nightmare blur. Word travels swiftly, and soon the governor’s men arrive, accompanied by a minor official who scrawls notes in a ledger. They corner San Lian in the front chamber, where the air crackles with unspoken accusations.

  A slender governor with stern features clears his throat. “Explain,” he orders, voice resonating with controlled authority. “We’re told you discovered the lady Khaizei… in that state?”

  San Lian, swallowing hard, recounts how he entered, how no one greeted him, how he found her. Each sentence feels like a blade, cutting deeper. Bazhin stands in a corner, hollow-eyed, shoulders quivering. The officials cast sidelong glances at him, then return their scrutiny to San Lian.

  “You had a falling-out with Gujel’s family, did you not?” one official demands, brow arched. “It is rumored you refused to assist in retrieving him.”

  San Lian stiffens, aware how easily suspicion can warp truths. “That’s… correct,” he admits, voice hushed. “But I never intended her harm. She—” He chokes on the words. “She was already dead when I arrived.”

  The governor’s gaze flickers across the chamber. “There is no sign of forced entry or struggle,” he says, stepping carefully. “We found… personal letters she appears to have burned. Likely despair.” His expression, though impassive, reveals a trace of pity behind the official mask. “So you claim no wrongdoing. Then her death was by her own hand?”

  San Lian nods, bile rising in his throat. “She—she must have felt there was no escape,” he whispers. “No resolution to her loss.”

  A grave hush follows. The official scribbles notes. Another steps forward, quickly verifying certain details with the servants who discovered the body after the alarm was raised. Each nod confirms the harrowing conclusion.

  Finally, the governor exhales, removing his official cap and holding it with a kind of solemn respect. “Very well. There is no evidence of murder or foul play. The empire will record this as a personal tragedy—her final decision.”

  San Lian’s muscles go slack with relief, though the grief remains a crushing weight. He risks a glance at Bazhin, whose gaze is dull, uncomprehending. The boy stands alone, arms dangling by his sides, as if abandoned by every shred of hope.

  The governor tilts his head to an underling. “Prepare the official notice. Let the household have their rites. We’ve no reason to detain Officer San Lian.”

  At that, the official beckons San Lian out into the corridor. “You’re permitted to leave,” he says quietly. “I advise you speak no unneeded words regarding these events.”

  “Yes… thank you,” San Lian mumbles, voice quavering. Part of him wants to stay—to comfort Bazhin, to atone for failing to prevent this final, awful turn. But the boy refuses to meet his eyes, trembling with a heartbreak that seems beyond solace.

  Servants shuffle about, lighting incense, moving the body to prepare for rites. The house that once resonated with children’s laughter and the scents of daily life is now a tomb of sorrow.

  With one final, haunted glance at Bazhin, San Lian steps out into the bright afternoon. The world feels unbearably loud—vendors calling beyond the walls, wheels of a passing carriage clattering on stone. Each sound mocks the silent grief behind him.

  He inhales raggedly, tries to steady himself, then walks away. His footsteps echo on the polished path, heavy with the knowledge that he has witnessed the consequences of dreams unfulfilled—and that no words or regrets can bring back the dead.

  ...

  Rain drizzles in a dull patter as the imperial authorities arrive. Their lacquered carriages gleam in the wet courtyard, matching the somber mood that has settled since Khaizei’s death. Bazhin, silent and hollow-eyed, waits beneath the eaves. His knuckles are raw from clenching them too tight. A young official steps forward, unrolling a scroll with brittle ceremony.

  “By decree of the Governor’s Council,” the man declares, voice clipped, “the orphan Bazhin is to be transferred to the imperial city. His father, General Tun Zol Gujel, is missing, and with his mother’s passing, he falls under state guardianship.”

  A hush follows. Servants peer from doorways, wide-eyed. The official gestures toward the carriage.

  Suddenly, San Lian steps out from the shadows by a stone pillar. Shoulders squared, he addresses the officials. “I will take him.” His voice resonates with quiet resolve. “I’m his father’s comrade, if you recall. I vouch for his welfare—and my ability to provide it.”

  The minor official bristles. “That is not standard procedure. The empire typically raises orphans of distinguished rank in academies or in the capital’s custody—”

  San Lian meets his gaze without flinching. “This boy is no burden to the state. I’ll accept all responsibility, including any costs or potential duties. Test me if you wish, but I stand by my word. And I’m no stranger to imperial discipline, either.”

  Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the tension in the official’s eyes. The Governor’s representative clears his throat, exchanging uncertain glances with his companions. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he rolls up his scroll. “Fine,” he concedes. “You shall sign a binding oath. Should anything befall the boy, you alone answer for it.”

  San Lian lifts his chin. “Agreed.”

  At that, Bazhin exhales shakily, relief warring with lingering anger. He casts San Lian a look of mingled gratitude and pain—remnants of betrayal still flicker there, but necessity binds them. The official calls for the requisite documents. Within the hour, San Lian pens his signature, ink scrawling a vow to raise Bazhin as though he were family.

  ...

  At first, Bazhin’s resentment lingers like a knife’s edge, but day by day, San Lian coaxes him out of the darkness. They move to a modest estate on the outskirts of Pezijil, far from the stifling corridors of the empire’s inner palaces. There, in a training yard behind a weathered stable, Bazhin hones his swordsmanship under San Lian’s watchful eye.

  The boy is fierce, driven by unspoken grief. His footwork sharpens, each strike loaded with the memory of a shattered family. San Lian tries to temper him with lessons of patience and cunning, reminding him that raw force means little without control. In the evenings, they study strategy scrolls by lamplight, discussing the great battles that shaped the empire—how victories can be hollow when they sow only despair.

  “Your father,” San Lian murmurs one night, smoothing out a map of the southern provinces, “disliked war, even though he excelled in it. Don’t let it consume you.”

  Bazhin bites his lip, eyes flicking to the silhouette of a half-drawn sabre on the table. “I only want to prove I’m stronger than… than the regrets that destroyed him. If he ever returns, I’ll show him who I’ve become.”

  San Lian’s heart twists at the bitterness in the boy’s voice. He nods, pressing a hand to Bazhin’s shoulder. “Make that strength serve something worthy—your own honor, not just imperial demands.”

  Seasons pass, the boy’s frame grows lean and tall, and rumors of his prowess reach local recruiters. By the time Bazhin is seventeen, the Moukopl army happily sweeps him into its ranks, praising his discipline and skill. Though the memory of his parents remains a silent echo, Bazhin rises through the ranks, recognized for cunning on the battlefield—a reflection of both Gujel’s blood and San Lian’s tutelage.

  ...

  Meanwhile, guilt gnaws at San Lian. He recalls Khaizei’s frantic pleas, her final despair. The more Bazhin excels, the more San Lian wonders if Gujel would be proud—or if, perhaps, seeing the boy’s growth might bring him home. Driven by remorse, he breaks his earlier stance of non-interference and decides to look for Gujel himself.

  At first, it’s subtle inquiries: quiet conversations with traveling merchants from Tepr, hushed questions to old soldiers who once patrolled those distant steppes. But the scraps of information are elusive. Some mention a man with Moukopl armor turned inside out, spotted near trade outposts. Others dismiss it as rumor.

  Months slip by. Bazhin climbs from foot-soldier to an officer’s rank, forging new alliances, while San Lian quietly broadens his net of contacts. He enlists a few trusted friends, men who owe him favors from past campaigns, to gather intelligence on any fleeting mention of Gujel or a stranger traveling with a young boy. The leads lead nowhere definitive—Tepr is vast, after all—until one day, a tinker from the far north passes through Pezijil, speaking of a man from unknown origins, living among tribes at the foot of the Tengr Mountains.

  San Lian seizes that thread. Unannounced, he sets out alone, leaving Bazhin to his duties. The journey is arduous, the road winding between craggy passes and sparse villages. He braves blistering days and frigid nights, all for the chance of glimpsing Gujel again—and perhaps offering closure.

  Weeks slip into a month. At last, from the crest of a windswept hill, San Lian spots a small settlement clustered around a watering hole. Simple yurts stand in a broad circle. Shepherds tend goats under a blazing sun. He scans the figures moving about—men haggling, children chasing each other in the dust.

  Then he freezes. At the edge of the grazing field stands a tall man with faintly familiar bearing. The man laughs with a woman in a Tepr-style tunic, her hair braided and adorned with copper rings. By their side linger two children: one, nearly grown, the other younger, both bright-eyed. The older child’s silhouette tugs at San Lian’s heart—could it be Tukol, safe and content in a world far from Moukopl’s iron grip?

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The man leans to scoop the smaller child into his arms, a proud, fatherly grin lighting his face. He looks unburdened, at ease in a realm of endless skies. Even from a distance, San Lian senses the peace that eluded him in Pezijil.

  A wave of emotions surges: relief, sorrow, envy. He imagines stepping down that hillside, calling out Gujel’s name. But the memory of Khaizei’s final tears stings, and the vow he carries for Bazhin weighs heavily. Gujel seems… free, beyond the empire’s reach.

  San Lian clenches a trembling fist. This moment is Gujel’s dream come to life, the simpler existence he longed for. To shatter it with demands or blame would be cruel—and pointless. After a tortured pause, he exhales, turning away. He slinks down the far slope, leaving behind the sight of his old friend. He departs the settlement without a word, letting the desert wind swallow any illusions of reuniting.

  When San Lian returns to Pezijil, he shares no details of his journey. Only a faint sense of closure settles in his eyes. Bazhin, now a proven leader, soon rises to the rank of general—following in the shadow of a father he scarcely remembers, forging his own legacy in the Moukopl machine.

  He marries a proud, intelligent woman from a respected line of soldiers. Their wedding is a swirl of color and music, a fleeting spark of joy in a land often overshadowed by warfare. San Lian stands near Bazhin’s side, witness to the exchange of vows, forcibly swallowing tears of pride and sorrow. He wonders if Gujel would’ve stood there too, beaming at his eldest son.

  The seasons pass, and Bazhin’s wife bears a daughter—Jinhuang. The child’s first wails echo in the same house where once Khaizei’s final sobs lingered, but somehow, life persists. Her eyes shimmer with the spirit of new beginnings.

  In stolen moments, San Lian cradles the infant in his arms. He teases the baby with the hilt of a small wooden sword, eliciting giggles and grasping fingers. He stands as a surrogate grandfather, pouring love into every lullaby he hums, every gentle bounce that soothes her fussing.

  Bazhin, watching from across the room, smiles. The bitterness once lodged in his soul has softened, replaced by purpose. He calls San Lian “Master” still, but the word throbs with familial respect rather than mere soldierly discipline.

  ...

  Fog encircles San Lian like a weighted shroud, muffling his senses as the Western Bureau guards march him deeper into the labyrinth of half-lit streets. His mind throbs from long hours of interrogation and too little water. Each breath tastes of soot and damp stone. His wrists remain bound, rope digging into bruised flesh. He wonders if his arms will go numb before the night ends—or if something worse will claim him first.

  They cross a small courtyard where a few pale lanterns flicker against decaying walls. A battered archway looms ahead—an unmarked entrance to the Western Bureau’s domain. San Lian has been inside these offices before—dragged here by men in black-lacquered armor. But never has it felt so suffocating, so final. The presence of Sima—the bureau’s cold-eyed interrogator—makes each step resonate with dread.

  The guards shove him into a cramped chamber. The floor is slick underfoot, water dripping from a crack in the ceiling. The smell of damp stone mingles with the copper tang of old blood. At the far side stands Sima, robed in subdued imperial finery, a ledger tucked beneath his arm. His thin lips curve in a predatory smile as San Lian is forced onto a wooden stool.

  San Lian tries not to shiver. He clamps his jaw shut, refusing to meet Sima’s gaze. The hush in the chamber thickens. Behind him, the guards shift as if impatient for violence.

  Sima sets the ledger on a narrow table and steps closer. The dim lamplight emphasizes the hollowness of his cheeks. “You might wonder why we’ve summoned you,” he continues, speaking with an eerie calm that frays San Lian’s nerves. “But let’s not play games. You’ve been talking about the late General Tun Zol Gujel?”

  San Lian’s lungs tighten. So they’ve caught wind of his attempts to piece together Gujel’s fate. He glances at the guard on his left, searching for some humanity, but sees only a stone-faced mask. When he fails to respond, Sima steps closer, his breath reeking of bitter tea.

  “All we want are the details you know. Word is you confessed quite a bit to the local magistrates before. My men say you gave them your version of Gujel’s disappearance. So let’s hear it from you,” Sima murmurs. “Every scrap.”

  A muscle in San Lian’s jaw twitches. He exhales. “I told them… what I know.” His voice rasps from dryness. “Gujel—he left. He deserted the empire for personal reasons.”

  Sima clicks his tongue, pacing a slow circle. “Deserted,” he echoes. “That is a grave offense, wouldn’t you agree?”

  San Lian’s gaze flickers to the door, half hoping for a miracle, half resigned to doom. The memory of Gujel’s haunted eyes, his vow to find freedom, grips San Lian’s mind. He forces a steady tone. “He—he took his younger child. Abandoned everything else. That’s what I told the magistrates. No more.”

  Sima halts abruptly, the hem of his robe whispering across the stone floor. “Yet you left out why. General Gujel was a man of influence, rank… resources. Men like that don’t simply vanish.” Sima’s voice turns razor-sharp. “So you can see why the Western Bureau is curious.”

  Silence ensues, thick with tension. The guards shift behind San Lian. He feels their presence like drawn arrows on a bowstring, ready to strike. His heartbeat thrums in his ears.

  “I can’t speak for his motives,” San Lian manages, licking cracked lips. “All I know—he despised war. He wanted to disappear.” The hush is deafening, so he adds more quietly, “He didn’t mean harm to the empire.”

  Sima lifts a brow, doubtful. “Is that so?” He leans in, face close enough that San Lian sees flickers of candlelight reflected in Sima’s dark irises. “Let me explain how this works. Desertion is treason. Treason suggests conspiracy. And conspiracy rarely ends with a single deserter.”

  San Lian’s stomach knots, fear coiling beneath his ribs. “There is… no conspiracy,” he whispers. “He left his wife—his older son. That’s all. It’s no scheme.”

  For a moment, Sima studies his face in silence. San Lian can’t hide the tremor in his voice or the sincerity in his eyes. Finally, Sima snorts. “Perhaps you believe that. Or perhaps you’re a fool.” His gaze flicks to the guards. “Take him to the next room.”

  A jolt of dread spears San Lian. He’s heard rumors of the ‘next room’—where the Bureau exacts confessions through less civil means. The guards seize his arms and haul him upright, half-dragging him toward a narrow door set in the far wall. A rank smell wafts out: old sweat, iron shackles. The gloom beyond flickers with a single torch.

  “No—” he protests, voice cracking. “I’ve told you the truth!” His words reverberate in the corridor’s dark.

  Sima follows at a leisurely pace. “Good. Then you’ve nothing to fear,” he murmurs with mocking sweetness. “But I suspect you might recall something you left out.”

  They thrust San Lian into a cramped cell-like chamber. Chains hang from the ceiling, the floor sticky with grime. He staggers, nearly collapsing, but the guards keep him upright. Sima gestures for them to wait. One guard lifts a bucket from the corner, reeking of pungent water. Another brandishes a small metal rod that glints malevolently under the torchlight.

  Sima draws closer, expression turning predatory. “Where exactly did Gujel go? Did he speak of allies? Or perhaps he’s recruiting a band of renegades? You can spare yourself… misfortune… by telling us every detail.”

  San Lian’s heart thunders. He glimpses the rod, recognizes the savage scorch marks on its tip. The threat is unspoken but chilling. He tears his gaze from it, breath shuddering. “He… had no allies,” he rasps. “No cause to rebel. He only wanted quiet. Hiding in the steppes, somewhere. That’s it.”

  Sima lifts the rod, rolling it between his fingers. The overhead torchlight casts dancing shadows across his face. “I see. So your friend, your comrade, flees with knowledge of the empire’s defenses, the location of supply lines. All that lore in his head, free for savage tribes to exploit.”

  “That’s not—!” San Lian chokes on the words. “He didn’t plan—”

  “Shhh,” Sima cuts him off. “Your sincerity might be genuine, but I must verify.” He glances over his shoulder. One guard steps forward with the bucket, sloshing it ominously. Another brandishes a rope coil.

  Terror grips San Lian’s core. He clenches his teeth, forcing himself to remain upright. “I… I swear he’s no threat. He left everything behind. He—he didn’t want war. I told you, that’s all I know!”

  Sima’s lips twitch, as though savoring the fear. Then abruptly, a curt rap echoes on the outer chamber door. A muffled voice—one of the bureau’s men, presumably. Sima pauses, scowling at the interruption. He barks an order for the guard to see what it’s about.

  The tension lingers, thick as poison. San Lian trembles, relief and dread tangling inside him. Every second is a reprieve from the torment threatened, yet he knows it could resume at any moment. Sima keeps the rod in hand, tapping it lightly against his palm, eyes never leaving San Lian’s face.

  At last, the guard returns, leaning in to whisper something in Sima’s ear. Whatever he says makes Sima’s mouth tighten, frustration spiking in his gaze. He lowers the rod, tossing it aside with a metallic clatter.

  “Seems we’ve drawn attention from a higher authority,” Sima mutters. “You’re wanted elsewhere.”

  The guard seizes San Lian’s wrists again, dragging him out of the interrogation cell. Sima strides ahead, back stiff with displeasure. As they move down a dim corridor, the flicker of lamps reveals more closed doors, behind which other souls might be enduring the Bureau’s brand of questioning. San Lian’s knees almost buckle, relief pounding in his chest—though the next step could be worse. He’s not certain which is more terrifying: the Western Bureau’s cruelty, or the unknown entity that outranks them.

  They reach a side entrance, where a swirl of fog seeps through the half-open door. A small group stands waiting—unfamiliar faces in dark cloaks. One figure steps forward, eyes gleaming coldly. Sima halts. Tension crackles in the air. The guards exchange uneasy looks.

  San Lian, battered by fear and exhaustion, tries to steady his breathing. The newcomer’s presence feels different: not the blunt brutality of the Western Bureau, but something more surgical, more calculating. He wonders if this is rescue or a deeper descent into the empire’s shadows.

  Sima turns to him with a curt sneer. “Seems your story isn’t only the Bureau’s concern, San Lian,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. “But rest assured, if you’ve hidden anything, we’ll find out.”

  Before San Lian can summon a reply, the cloaked figures close in, and the swirl of fog embraces them all. Sima’s silhouette recedes into the gloom. The last thing San Lian sees is that hateful glimmer in Sima’s eyes—promising that this reprieve is only temporary, that the Western Bureau is not finished with him yet.

  Then the night devours him, dragging him into the next unseen terror. The world spins, and San Lian’s heart pounds with one final plea for mercy that never crosses his lips.

  ...

  The courtyard is bathed in the gentle glow of twilight lanterns, the hush of dusk settling upon carved columns and blossoming peach trees. San Lian sits on a stone bench near the koi pond, watching ripples dance across the water. Time has weathered his features, silvering his hair. Yet he bears no new scars from the Bureau’s clutches; the empire’s suspicions have drifted elsewhere, leaving him in peace—an uneasy calm, but calm nonetheless.

  Beyond the courtyard’s archway, Bazhin appears, clad in light armor and carrying a curved blade strapped at his hip. His footsteps resound with the steady confidence of a man who has fought—and continues to fight—for the empire. Yet fatherhood has softened his gaze. He lingers at the threshold, scanning the quiet garden.

  “Master,” he calls softly. “Have you seen Jinhuang?”

  San Lian’s lips curve in a faint smile. The formal title has long since become more familial than respectful. He rises, inclining his head. “She was with her tutor earlier. We practiced reading for half the morning—then she vanished.” A wry twist tugs at his mouth. “Likely out exploring again.”

  Bazhin exhales, tilting his head back to gaze at the deepening sky. “The city can be dangerous after dark. She’s too reckless for her own good.”

  A memory flashes through San Lian’s mind: a much younger Jinhuang, toddling through the corridors with bright, fearless eyes, more determined to climb shelves than any child he’d known. The girl has grown into that fierce spirit, questioning authority the moment she learned to speak.

  “She must get it from you,” San Lian says quietly. “I recall a time you couldn’t stay indoors without training, or searching for a new challenge.”

  Bazhin snorts, half amused, half resigned. “I suppose. But I wish she’d stay put when I’m about to leave for the front lines again. The empire is calling me north.” His voice betrays the weariness of too many campaigns, too many nights away from home.

  A hush falls between them. Lanternlight flickers, casting shifting shadows on the courtyard walls. Then San Lian touches Bazhin’s elbow gently. “Go. Tend to your duties. I’ll find her.”

  Bazhin’s relief surfaces in a brief smile. “Thank you, Master… She listens to you more than she does me.”

  San Lian shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. But I’ll do my best.”

  ...

  Night thickens across Pezijil, the city’s bustle dimming to a low murmur. San Lian prowls the winding alleys, cloak drawn tight. He skirts lines of vendor stalls closing for the night, catches glimpses of watchful guards patrolling lamplit squares. He’s no stranger to these streets—once, he wandered them on missions for the empire, or in search of rumors.

  He finally tracks a lead near a half-ruined courtyard where local youths gather, boasting with brashness and cheap liquor. They hush as San Lian steps in, an older man carrying an air of quiet authority. With a handful of calm words and a glint of silver coin, he coaxes from them news of a “girl with a fierce scowl” who left not long ago.

  They say she was headed east, maybe near the old city gate. “Looked upset,” one youth mumbles. “Threw a punch at some rowdy fool who tried to grab her arm.”

  San Lian’s throat tightens. Fear sparks in his chest—fear for Jinhuang, alone in an area known for petty thieves and unscrupulous watchers. He nods curtly, leaving them behind, moving with swift, purposeful strides.

  A lone torch sputters near the dilapidated gate, casting jagged shadows on cracked pavement. In that glow, San Lian sees Jinhuang perched on a broken stone balustrade, arms folded, scowling at the empty street. She has grown taller over the years, posture taut, raven hair pulled back with a simple tie. Her eyes, when they shift toward him, glint with defiance and relief intermingled.

  “Grandfather.” Her tone is part greeting, part challenge.

  San Lian approaches slowly, scanning the area. Two unsavory-looking men huddle by a corner, but they slink away once they spy his wary gaze. The city gate stands in partial disrepair—no official guard at this hour. He wonders if Jinhuang purposely chose an unsupervised spot to brood.

  “You gave your father quite a scare,” he says gently. “He’s heading north soon and wanted to see you before he left.”

  She exhales, rolling her eyes. “He’s always leaving. Always off to some war.”

  Pain flickers in San Lian’s chest. He remembers Bazhin’s own struggles, the torn loyalty that once consumed him. But Jinhuang’s generation knows only the empire’s ceaseless demands and unending conflicts. “Your father has responsibilities,” he says gently. “We all do, in different ways.”

  She leans forward, knuckles whitening as she grips the stone. “I hate it. I hate how he’s never here. And when he is, he’s so strict—telling me to behave, study sword forms, recite imperial codes. I’m suffocating.” Her voice trembles, raw with frustration.

  San Lian steps closer, resting a cautious hand on her shoulder. He feels the tension in her muscles, the vibrating resentment. “Jinhuang,” he murmurs, letting tenderness seep into his tone, “I know how it feels to disagree with the empire’s ways. But your father… he fights so you don’t have to live under constant threat.”

  She snorts, turning her face away. “Does he even see me anymore?”

  A breeze rattles loose stones near the gate. San Lian sighs, recalling how Bazhin once wrestled with the same fear of turning into the empire’s tool—how he overcame it, or perhaps learned to live with it. “He loves you,” San Lian says simply. “Enough to push you to be strong. Maybe too strongly at times. But never doubt that love.”

  Silence stretches. Jinhuang’s eyes shine in the torch’s glow. Her fists unclench slowly. “Why is it so hard, Gramps?” Her voice quivers, the tough facade cracking just enough to reveal a wounded heart.

  San Lian’s throat tightens with empathy. “I can’t promise you an easy path,” he admits. “Your father’s journey wasn’t easy either.”

  ...

  Back in the courtyard, the lanterns burn low. Bazhin stands anxiously by the koi pond. Jinhuang breaks away from San Lian’s arm, crossing to her father. They exchange few words, mostly subdued, but the relief on Bazhin’s face is unmistakable.

  “You’ll be careful?” Jinhuang whispers, trying to mask her worry.

  Bazhin sets a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will. And I’ll come back.” He glances at San Lian, gratitude flickering in his eyes. “Thank you, Master.”

  San Lian only inclines his head. “She found her own way home,” he says softly. “I just walked alongside her.”

  Jinhuang can’t help a tiny smirk, though sorrow still shadows her expression. The night wears on, an uneasy hush descending. Eventually, Bazhin departs for his quarters, to rest before dawn’s departure. Jinhuang lingers in the moonlit garden, arms folded, gazing at the rippling water. San Lian stands at her side in companionable silence.

  “Gramps,” she murmurs at length, voice subdued. “Thank you… for finding me.”

  He rests a hand on her shoulder, warmth in his eyes. “I’ll always find you, Little Flower.”

  ...

  Dark clouds gather in the early morning sky, turning the horizon a somber gray. The usual bustle in the courtyard seems subdued, as though the household itself senses impending sorrow. Soldiers clank about in half‐voiced murmurs, fastening saddlebags and sharpening blades. Bazhin stands in the center, fully armored, his posture laden with the grim determination of one who answers the empire’s relentless call yet again.

  San Lian lingers at the edge of the courtyard, watching in silence. He can still recall the bright‐eyed child who first learned sword drills under his guidance. Now Bazhin is a general in his own right—tall, composed, with a streak of early silver in his braided hair, hardened from countless campaigns.

  Jinhuang hovers near her father, arms folded tight across her chest. Her expression betrays fury and despair in equal measure.

  Bazhin sets a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, gentling his tone. “I promise... I’ll come back.”

  Jinhuang shudders, tears slipping down her cheeks. Then she spins away, fighting the urge to beg him to stay.

  Quietly, Bazhin turns to San Lian. Their gazes lock, and an unspoken understanding passes. The memory of Khaizei’s death, Gujel’s flight, every sorrow they endured—there in a single, weighty breath.

  “Master…” Bazhin says, exhaling. “Look after Jinhuang if… if something should happen.”

  San Lian’s throat tightens. The words carry a foreboding that churns his gut. But he manages a nod, pressing his palm to Bazhin’s armored forearm. “Return, and I’ll scold you for making us worry,” he tries to jest, though his voice cracks with emotion.

  A faint smile touches Bazhin’s lips, fleeting as a ghost. He lifts his helm and fits it over his head. Then, with a final salute, he mounts his warhorse. Jinhuang stands stiffly behind, tears blotting her lashes, refusing to call out. The riders file out of the courtyard, hooves clattering on cobblestone until they vanish through the gates and into the storm-heavy dawn.

  ...

  Days bleed into weeks. Rumors trickle back from distant frontiers. Tales of ambush, heroic last stands, entire regiments vanishing into ravines. The emperor’s edicts paint the battle as a stalemate, but the hushed voices in taverns speak of overwhelming casualties.

  San Lian’s heart pounds each time a messenger arrives—hoping for a letter with Bazhin’s seal, a scrap of news to confirm he survives. But the days stretch on, devoid of any word. Jinhuang lurks around the palace courtyards, fury coiled inside her like a tempest. She demands answers from returning scouts, cornering them in hallways, but they avert their eyes and offer only vague reassurances.

  Finally, one dreary evening, a battered courier enters Pezijil, face hollow, bearing a list of the fallen. No official pronouncement confirms Bazhin’s name, only rumors swirling among the men.

  Jinhuang stands rigid by the city gates, shock draining the color from her cheeks. When the rumors reach San Lian, he can barely draw breath. She rushes to him, tears of rage and despair warring in her eyes. “They’re liars,” she spits. “He can’t—he wouldn’t just vanish.”

  San Lian opens his arms, and she collapses against him, her small frame trembling. He tries to whisper comfort, but the words die in his throat.

  ...

  Night falls, a wind-lashed storm rattling shutters throughout the city. Thunder booms in the distance, as if mourning with them. Inside the family estate, Jinhuang locks herself in her room, refusing to speak. Servants tiptoe about, afraid to stir the suffocating silence. San Lian finds himself alone in the once-bustling courtyard, the storm’s rain streaming off tiled eaves.

  He stands there, letting the downpour soak through his robe, remembering Bazhin’s first attempts at swordplay. The child’s stumbles, the proud grin after mastering a new stance. The laughter they shared over a humble meal. The quiet nights with a cup of warmed wine, discussing what the empire’s wars truly accomplished. And at last, that final departure— “Look after Jinhuang if something happens.”

  Lightning flashes, illuminating the courtyard in stark white. San Lian’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He grips a wooden post for balance, feeling as though the world is collapsing under the weight of this loss. Bazhin was not just Gujel’s son or a disciple; he was a piece of San Lian’s heart—the living legacy he had promised to protect.

  The sky rumbles again, and a sob tears from San Lian’s chest, raw and unbidden. He bows his head, tears mingling with rain, trembling as grief tears down the stoic walls he’s built over the years. Betrayal at the empire’s unending demands… the heartbreak of families left behind… now Bazhin is gone, swallowed by another war’s maw.

  He imagines Gujel in distant lands, never knowing the fate of his eldest son, or perhaps sensing it in some unspoken link. Another tragedy in a chain of tragedies. “I tried,” San Lian rasps, voice lost in thunder. “I tried to raise him like my own.”

  In that endless downpour, San Lian’s sorrow crystallizes—a heartbreak as searing as if he had lost his own flesh and blood. He sinks to his knees, rain soaking his hair and shoulders. His mind races with regrets and unvoiced apologies, replaying Bazhin’s final words: “Look after Jinhuang…”

  He recalls the vow he once made to Gujel, the guilt-laden promise to carry the weight of secrets that he can never fully share. He thinks of Khaizei’s death, Gujel’s vanished footprints, the child, Tukol, lost to the northern steppes. All of it converges here, a tapestry of agony woven by empire and fate.

  Thunder crashes. San Lian closes his eyes, tears coursing freely.