The hinges creaked with a rusty groan. Lin Yi, using his arm wrapped in a tattered cloth, pushed against the heavy wooden door of the storage room. Dust swirled around him like a disturbed nest of insects, illuminated by the faint light seeping through the cracks. The brand seared into his flesh, the character "Shame," seemed to burn with each beat of his heart, a searing pain that went right to the core. He stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, dust, and the musty odor of decaying wood, creating a suffocating atmosphere. The storage room was vast, filled with discarded furniture, faded tapestries, and dusty, forgotten objects, like a neglected tomb. Light streamed in from a high window, casting long shadows and illuminating the swirling dust motes. "You, the traitor!" The stern voice of the overseer echoed from the doorway, laced with anger. "Hurry up! If we don't finish before nightfall, there won't be any food tonight!" The words seemed to vibrate through the air, reaching him directly. Lin Yi didn't turn around. He gripped the nearest, broken wooden stool with his uninjured left hand, dragging it towards the far wall. The pain in his wrist intensified, his fingers clenching, his nails digging into the worn surface of the stool. He dragged. He lifted. Again, he dragged. Again, he lifted. His movements were mechanical, his breathing steady. The pain became a dull throb, like the rhythmic ticking of a distant watermill, a constant, unchanging presence. He broke himself down into components – his arm provided the strength, his eyes the vision, his legs the movement. Thought was a useless luxury in this situation. Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the dust, leaving a gritty film. He raised his arm to wipe, the cloth smearing the brand, sending another jolt of agony through him. He took a deep, slow breath, holding it for two counts, then exhaling gently. The world narrowed to a single, narrow lane. At the end of the lane was survival – if he could finish, perhaps he could eat, perhaps he could rest, perhaps he could forget the searing pain on his wrist, the cold faces in thethe ancestral hall, the feeling of emptiness that had consumed him when he lost the jade pendant. He picked up a stack of old ledgers. The pages were brittle and fragile, crumbling at the slightest touch. Fragments scattered, leaving a bitter, musty scent in the air. He moved deeper into the room, his foot kicking against something, a dull thud. It was a box. A simple, unassuming wooden box, about two feet long and one foot high, covered in thick layers of dust. The lid was slightly ajar, tilted open by his foot. Lin Yi stopped. He could have avoided it. There were so many other things to move, and the overseer wouldn't have noticed if he left one box behind. He stared at the box for a moment, the searing pain still present, a persistent reminder. He bent down, his left hand grasping the edge of the lid, trying to close it. The lid wouldn't budge. His wrist ached, but he couldn't force it. With a grunt of effort, he slammed the lid shut. Dust exploded outwards. Lin Yi stumbled back, shielding his eyes. He waited for the dust to settle. Inside the box, he saw a few old clothes, on top of which lay a white, embroidered robe with delicate, pale green floral patterns – the stitching was intricate, but the fabric was worn and faded. His breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded in his chest, then stopped, as if in shock. This was… hers. A faint, lingering scent of medicine. So subtle, almost indistinguishable from the dust and mildew, but it was there – like the scent of fresh snow on a winter night, seeping through the cracks in the window, filling his nostrils, invading his mind. He remembered this scent. His mother had been taking medication constantly, her body always carrying this faint, clean fragrance, like the smell of rain on bamboo. She had died the year he was ten. The family claimed it was a result of a failed cultivation practice, a heart attack. The funeral was simple, a small coffin buried in a secluded spot in the mountains. He knelt before the grave, weeping silently, his father standing at a distance, his face stoic. What had been in this box? He remembered that some jewelry, some books, and her personal belongings had been taken away. His father had said that seeing things would only bring pain, so he had been told to stop. He had believed him. Why was this box here? The air hung heavy with the scent of herbs. He wiped his brow, the smell stinging his eyes. He glanced at the box in the corner, half-hidden by the shadows. The lid was closed, but the faint aroma of medicine still lingered in the air, clinging to the dust motes. He finished sorting the last stack of documents. The sun had set, casting long shadows across the room. The light filtering through the high windows turned to a murky grey, and the darkness seemed to press in from all sides. The foreman had come again, scolding him and demanding he leave for dinner. Lin Yi remained silent. He waited until the sounds of the foreman's footsteps faded, until the courtyard outside fell silent. Only the distant murmur of workers and the faint strains of music drifting from the Lin family's inner courtyard – a lute, perhaps – reached his ears. He walked back to the corner. The space was cluttered with discarded items. He carefully moved aside a few broken crates, revealing the wooden box. Dust rose in a cloud as he did. He coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. He knelt down, his fingers tracing the outline of the box. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted the lid. The clothes were still inside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric – coarse, cool, and stiff with age. He lifted the clothes, revealing a dark blue skirt beneath, followed by a simple, plain, and faded grey robe. These were his mother's old garments, simple in design, made of ordinary cloth, now faded and worn. He carefully removed each item, laying them neatly on the floor. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if unwrapping a forbidden secret. With each item he took out, the faint scent of herbs grew stronger, mingling with the musty smell of the room. It created a strange, almost dizzying sensation. His fingers began to tingle, and the burning sensation in his wrist intensified, like a fire licking at his skin. The box was empty. Only a thin piece of cloth remained, its color faded and indistinct. He picked it up, intending to remove it, but his fingers froze. Beneath the cloth, at the bottom of the box… something was different. A subtle irregularity, a barely perceptible bump, located near the corner. If he hadn't been pressing his finger against it, he wouldn't have noticed. Lin Yi held his breath. He used his fingernail to trace the edge of the irregularity, feeling a tiny gap – not a natural seam in the wood, but a cut. A hidden compartment. His throat was dry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of cloth, using it to wipe his sweaty palms. He took a deep breath and, with a grunt of effort, pushed against the wood. The wood resisted, but with a final, desperate effort, he managed to pry it open. A small, shallow space was revealed, no more than a few inches deep. Inside were two objects. A piece of paper. Small, no bigger than his palm, folded and crumpled, its edges charred, as if it had been burned. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the ink faded. And a token. About the size of his thumb, long enough to fit comfortably in his palm, made of a dark, unknown metal, cold and heavy to the touch. The token was engraved with two characters, deeply carved into the metal, still visible even in the dim light – **Yun Zhi。** Lin Yi stared at the two characters, his eyes widening. Yun Zhi。 An unfamiliar name. He had never heard of it before. Was it his mother's? A friend's? An enemy's? Or… He set the token aside and picked up the crumpled paper. The paper was fragile, the burnt edges rough to the touch, releasing a faint smell of smoke. He carefully unfolded it, revealing the words inside. The ink was faded, but he could still make out the handwriting – his mother's. The writing was hurried, almost frantic, with some of the letters blurred and smudged. The paper contained only a few fragmented sentences: “…do not believe… the heavens… the contract… the price… Yi…” "The contract with the heavens." Those four words echoed in his mind. In the temple, his father's voice still rang in his ears: "The heavens demand… the family must atone… sacrifice the jade pendant, to appease the heavens…" The entire family had been taught this – Lin Yi, a child born with extraordinary spiritual power, was destined for greatness. But because of the "demands" of the heavens, his powers were "rejected," his spirit shattered, and he was left a useless outcast. This was the price, the sacrifice, the burden that the Lin family had to bear. — , re "rejected," his spirit shattered, and he was left a useless outcast. This was the price, the sacrifice, the burden that the Lin family had to bear. His fingers tightened around the edge of the remaining fragment, charred flakes falling. His heart pounded in his chest, making his ribs ache. That cold, needle-like thing, had spread from his veins, freezing his limbs, yet his mind burned. A lie. The family's public statement was a lie. His mother knew. She had investigated, and what she found, she left as a warning – hidden in the bottom drawer of the chest, in the abandoned warehouse, in every corner that would be forgotten. She had even burned most of the letters, leaving only this fragment, as if afraid it would be found. Who was she hiding from? His father? The elders? Or… “The Way”? Lin Yi clutched the fragment and token tightly in his hands. The token's coolness pressed against his palm, the fragment's charred edge scratched against his skin. He looked down at the two things in his hand – small, broken, but heavy, like two mountains. The world tilted beneath his feet. What he thought was an inescapable fate, was actually the first layer of a cage woven from lies. What he thought was “divine retribution” might be another carefully designed sacrifice. What he thought was his mother, who had long since passed away, might still be fighting against a conspiracy that was so vast, it was suffocating. And he was at the center of it. “Container.” Shi Meng had mentioned the word vaguely when he handed over the tome last night. At the time, he didn't understand, but now, as the fragments began to piece together – contract, price, container. His throat tightened, he swallowed, tasting the dust and blood. The burning from the seal continued, but it was no longer important. A different kind of pain rose from deeper within, cold, sharp, carrying the scent of betrayal. He slowly stood up. His legs were numb, he stumbled, grabbing onto the stack of old ledgers beside him. The ledgers slid and fell, smashing against the floor, sending up more dust. He ignored it, shoving the fragment and token into the small pouch sewn into the lining of his worn servant's uniform. The fabric rubbed against his skin, reminding him of their presence. He bent down, carefully picking up each of his mother's old clothes, folding them neatly, smoothing them out. He moved with care, as if afraid to disturb something. Finally, he closed the chest, pushing it back into the corner, covering it with the debris again. Having done this, he stood in the dim warehouse, listening to his own breathing. Rapid, but controlled. He heard the clanging of the bell – it wasthe hour of Xu (sunset). Time to go to the servant's quarters for dinner, then to sleep on the straw mat, alongside dozens of others, enduring another night. He turned to leave. He placed his hand on the doorframe, pausing. He looked back at the pile of debris in the corner, the chest completely obscured, as if it had never existed. Only the coolness and hardness in his hands, were real. He pushed the door open, stepping into the night. The courtyard was lit by a few flickering oil lamps, casting a dim glow. The noise from the servant's quarters was clearer, mixed with the clatter of dishes, muffled curses, and the sound of tired coughs. The air smelled of food – bland, oily, and stale. He walked towards it. His footsteps were steady, each one placed firmly. The imprint on his wrist from the seal still burned, but he had learned to treat the pain as background noise. The words “The Way, contract, price, container” echoed in his mind. He reached the servant's quarters. The heat radiated from within, dozens of people crowded around a long table, eating silently, only the sounds of chewing and swallowing filled the air. He took his share – a bowl of thin gruel, a half-loaf of coarse bread, a handful of salted vegetables. His eyes scanned the crowd. He found her. In the corner, old servant Shi Meng sat alone, hunched over, slowly eating his meal. He had no expression on his face, his eyelids drooping, as if he was about to fall asleep. Lin Yi walked over to him, sitting down in the empty space beside him. Shi Meng didn't look up, continuing to eat. Lin Yi tore off a small piece of his coarse bread, not eating it. He held the piece in his left hand, using his right to gently He didn't stop, he simply froze – like a wooden doll. The lines etched on his face tightened, contorted into a grimace. The milky white of his eyes snapped open, fixing on Lin Yi, pupils dilated to pinpricks, radiating a primal, almost instinctual fear. That fear was so potent, it seemed to materialize, slamming into Lin Yi's face. The corner of Shi Meng's mouth trembled, but no sound came out. He jerked his shoulders back, clutching the ragged edges of his worn clothing, his calloused fingers white-knuckled. His body began to tremble, as if in the grip of a winter night. The noise continued around them, unnoticed. Shi Meng's voice, strained and raspy, barely audible. "Where did you hear that from?" A pause. He swallowed, his throat working. "…I don't remember!" He abruptly raised his head, then quickly lowered it, his eyes darting around the room, checking for any sign of observation. Then, he leaned closer, his voice a mere whisper, laced with a dying rasp. "Some names… they're dangerous." He stared at the milky liquid in his bowl, his fingers still shaking. "…More dangerous than… than you are." He stood abruptly, knocking over the bowl, the liquid sloshing onto the floor. He grabbed a piece of bread, stood unsteadily, and moved to the furthest, darkest corner, facing away from everyone. He didn't look at Lin Yi again. Lin Yi remained seated, motionless. He picked up his bowl, taking a sip of the watery rice soup. The tasteless broth. His throat felt dry, the liquid scratching. He chewed slowly on the salted vegetables, the salt bitter on his tongue. Shi Meng's reaction confirmed it. The name "Yun Zhi" was real. And dangerous. Dangerous enough to elicit such a primal fear from a man who had spent decades in the servant quarters, a man who had become numb to death. "Names that can kill." Not a threat, but a warning. From someone who had seen too much death, someone who no longer cared about their own fate. Lin Yi finished the soup and ate the bread. His movements were mechanical, but his mind raced. His mother had left him with this name, along with the warning about the "Contract with Heaven." Shi Meng's reaction was like witnessing a ghost. The two were connected. But what was the connection? He put down the bowl and got up, placing it in the wooden crate. As he stepped out of the servant quarters, the night wind was even colder, biting at his skin. He looked up, and saw a crescent moon hanging in the sky, casting an icy blue light on the eaves. Back in the main hall, most of the people were already asleep. The sounds of snoring, teeth grinding, and murmured dreams filled the air. The smell of sweat, feet, and old straw filled his nostrils. He found his bed – against the wall, in the dampest corner, the straw mattress thin enough to feel the bones beneath. He lay down. The straw rustled beneath him. The person beside him turned over, mumbling in their sleep, and then fell back to sleep. Darkness descended, thick and heavy, like a suffocating blanket. The brand on his wrist burned, a rhythmic reminder of his shame. He closed his eyes. But he couldn't sleep. The token and the shard pressed against his chest, rising and falling with his breath. Cold, hard, like two nails hammered into his flesh. He remembered his mother's face – blurred, but he remembered her quietness, her pale skin, her cold fingers, and the strange, wordless tune she hummed. The tune. He still hummed it unconsciously, when he was tired or relaxed. "Contract with Heaven." "Price." "Yun Zhi." And Shi Meng's eyes, wide with terror. The fragments floated in the darkness, forming a vague, but clear outline – vast, dark, filled with blood and lies. And he stood on the edge, about to fall. He turned over, facing the wall. The wall was damp, covered in mold, and slick to the touch. He stared at the dark space, his eyes adjusting, and he could see faint shadows. Tomorrow. He had to go somewhere. Shi Meng hadn't said, but the warning itself pointed to something – some places, like some names, were dangerous. His mother had left him with these clues: "Yun Zhi," and the name of that place… Listening Pavilion. One of the forbidden places in the family. Deep in the mountains, long abandoned, near the Frozen Pond. He had heard stories about it, about ghosts and evil spirits He thought of the sealed documents he had received from Stone, which mentioned a possible "escape passage." The entrance to the passage seemed to be in the back mountain direction. Coincidence? His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, like a drum against his ribs. Up, down, up, down, echoing through his body. He took a deep breath, the musty and sweaty air filling his lungs. Go. Go tomorrow. Just to take a look. Just to confirm whether that passage actually existed, and whether there was something hidden in the Rain Tower. Even if the risk was as Stone had said – to die. He had no other leads. The token in his hand felt even more pressing against his palm. He adjusted his grip, trying to prevent it from pressing directly on his bone. His fingers continued to tap, the rhythm slowing down, until it finally stopped. In the darkness, he hummed that faint melody, almost inaudibly. Without words. Just a few simple notes, rising and falling, repeating, like a lullaby, but also like a lament. After humming the last note, he closed his mouth. Silence descended. Only the snoring, the grinding of teeth, and the wind whistling through the cracks in the window. And those two things in his chest, cold and hard against his skin, like two bombs about to explode. The scent of the charred scraps of paper still clung to his fingertips. He tucked the token and the scraps of paper into the innermost pocket of his coat. The fabric was rough and abrasive, pressing painfully against his skin. The pain was intense, a parallel fire burning through his body, one in his flesh, the other in his bones. The light outside the warehouse had turned a sickly green. The servant's shadow stretched long and distorted in the doorway, like a looming figure. "Clean up! Lock the door!" He nodded, his voice hoarse. He bent down, picking up the scattered debris and placing it back in its corner. His movements were mechanical, but his mind felt like it was being frozen in ice water, outwardly calm, inwardly churning with countless fine cracks. The Contract… the price… Mother, what are you trying to tell me? The family… what did they do to us, to you? He placed the last wooden box back in its place. Dust swirled in the last ray of light, creating a hazy cloud. He left the warehouse. The rusty iron lock clicked shut, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. At the end of the corridor, the servant's quarters loomed in the twilight, like a tired, silent beast. *** It was dinner time. The air in the dining hall was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap oil, and the sourness of leftover steamed buns. The queue to receive food moved slowly, no one speaking. Everyone lowered their heads, staring at the rough-hewn ceramic bowls in their hands. Lin Yi was at the end of the line. Stone was in front of him. The old man's back was even more hunched than before, his worn grey tunic stained white with dirt. It was his turn. The servant lad glanced at the bloodstained cloth wrapped around Lin Yi's wrist, and his hand trembled, spilling only a thin layer of watery soup into the bowl. The steamed bun he threw over was hard as stone, landing with a thud on the edge of the bowl. Lin Yi didn't look up, he picked up the bowl and sat down in the corner. Stone was sitting opposite him, across a greasy wooden table. The old man ate slowly, chewing each mouthful meticulously before swallowing. The dim light from the oil lamp flickered on his face, highlighting the deep wrinkles, each one etched with unspoken sorrow. The only sounds in the dining hall were the clatter of bowls and chopsticks, and the muffled sounds of chewing. The air was so thick it made it hard to breathe. Lin Yi's fingers continued to tap softly on the underside of the table, a rhythm that was almost oppressive, only he could hear it. His gaze fell on Stone's hands, calloused and thick with veins, holding the bowl. They were trembling slightly. This was his only chance. He had to do it before anyone else could focus their attention on him, before their eyes and ears registered anything. He broke off a small piece of the hard bun, about the size of his fingernail. Using his elbow, he pushed the piece onto Stone's bowl, stopping it just before it hit the edge. Stone's hand stopped. He paused, chewing. The murky liquid in the bowl seemed to freeze. His dark eyes moved slowly, deliberately, to look at the piece of bun. Then, he looked away. He didn't take it. Lin Yi picked up his bowl, drinking the last of the watery soup. The silence descended. Shi Meng’s hand, which had been holding the bowl, suddenly jerked, and the remaining soup sloshed, splashing onto his cracked hand. He didn’t wipe it off. The face, which had previously been only numb and tired, seemed like an old piece of paper, crumpled and trying to smooth itself out, all the wrinkles compressed and distorted. He looked up sharply at Lin Yi, and something emerged from his eyes – not surprise, not confusion, but a pure, ice-cold fear, like a ghost appearing in a deserted graveyard at night, even his pupils had shrunk to the size of needles in the lamplight. That fear lasted only a fleeting moment. Shorter than a heartbeat. Then, he lowered his head, almost burying his face in the bowl. His hunched body began to tremble uncontrollably, not from cold, but from a tremor that seemed to emanate from his very bones. His rough, calloused hands clutched at the frayed edges of his robe, his fingers straining so hard that they turned blue and white, as if the fabric was not cloth, but the last lifeline, or the desperate attempt to stifle the scream that was about to erupt from his throat. The noisy din of the dining hall seemed to be cut off by an invisible barrier. Lin Yi could hear the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, "dudududu," slow and heavy. He could also hear the suppressed, labored breathing of Shi Meng, like a bellows being pumped. For several seconds, time seemed to stand still. Finally, Shi Meng moved. He didn't reach for the corner of the bowl, but instead, with his trembling hands, scooped up the last of the remaining soup and swallowed it. The act of swallowing was clumsy and hurried, his throat contracting violently. Then, he put the bowl down, and the rim scraped against the wooden table, making a faint sound. His head was still lowered, but his voice emerged from the hunched shadow. It was muffled, with a scratchy, sandpaper-like quality and an uncontrollable tremor, each word as if he were expending all his remaining strength: “Did… did you hear it from… somewhere else?” Lin Yi didn’t answer. The movement of his fingers tapping on his knee stopped, and his voice remained calm, low, and deliberate: "From somewhere else. Written on wood." Shi Meng gasped sharply, his voice like a deflating balloon. "Wood… a token?" he asked, his voice even more strained. "Yes." "You threw it away." Shi Meng almost immediately added, his voice fast and unnatural, "You threw it away right away! As far as you could, as high as you could, throw it into the back mountain, into the frozen lake!" "Why?" Lin Yi asked, deliberately slowing his pace, creating a chilling effect, "Just a name?" "A name?!" Shi Meng suddenly looked up, and this time, the fear was mixed with a near-furious desperation, his eyes bloodshot, "It's not just a name! It's… it's a curse! Once you hear it, you're doomed! Do you know… " He stopped abruptly, as if someone had strangled him, and he stared wildly around, his eyes wide with terror. The only sound was the chewing. He lowered his head again, his shoulders hunched even further, his voice a barely audible whisper, "Some names… they kill you… not with pain, but with a slow, agonizing death… far worse than… than what you're experiencing now… a hundred times, a thousand times worse!" Lin Yi was silent. The lamplight cast an intermittent shadow on his face. "My mother," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "She also knew about this." Shi Meng froze. Completely frozen. As if the words "my mother" were even more terrifying than "Yun Zhi." For a long moment, he didn't move, and then, very slowly, he raised his head, looking at Lin Yi. His eyes were so complex that they were almost unnerving – the fear was still at the core, but it was overlaid with an overwhelming sense of pity, and a hint of… understanding? It was as if the worst of his suspicions had been confirmed. "She… she went to the back mountain… she went to the 'Rain-Listening Pavilion'… " he said, his voice scratchy, like sandpaper, "What did she do there?" This was not a question. Lin Yi didn't answer. He stated, "She knew." Shi Meng didn’t deny it. He simply said, "I know nothing. I only know that your mother… she was a good person. Too good, so she couldn't last." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes, then extinguished “I don’t know!” Shi Meng almost shouted, then quickly lowered his voice in fear, “How could I possibly ask? At that time… the tower had already been sealed off, they said it was due to evil spirits, and anyone who approached suffered. But she didn’t. Once, I saw her coming back from there, her face as white as paper, holding a cloth bag in her hands, she was so flustered that she hid the bag behind her… That look, I will never forget, just like when you asked me…” He took a deep breath, and his aging chest rose and fell heavily. “A few days later, she ‘fell ill.’ She got sick very quickly, and passed away so quickly. They said it was because she had gone too far in her cultivation, and her own spirit had turned against her… How absurd.” The final “absurd” was spoken with a sigh, light as a whisper, yet full of cold mockery. Too far in her cultivation. Her own spirit had turned against her. The same words that the family used when they announced that Lin Yi had “gone mad and destroyed his own path.” Lies. All lies. The cold anger surged through him, like a snake, rising up his spine and taking root in Lin Yi’s chest. But his expression remained unchanged, only the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the table continued, faster and heavier. “What was in the bag?” he asked. “I don’t know!” Shi Meng shook his head, his white hair swaying in the lamplight. “But she was hiding something… It must have been something bad. Later, when she ‘disappeared,’ I went to her room and found it clean… too clean, as if it had been thoroughly searched. I also couldn’t find that old box, which she cherished the most. I thought it had been taken away, but…” He couldn’t have imagined that it would be found, in this way, after all these years, unearthed from the mountain of discarded objects. “The box was here,” Lin Yi said, his gaze fixed on Shi Meng. “There were some burnt papers inside, and a token. The papers were written with ‘Heavenly Contract,’ ‘Price,’ and ‘Do Not Believe.’” Shi Meng’s face turned ashen. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, he just gurgled, like a fish out of water. Finally, he shook his head very slowly and deliberately, his movements filled with helplessness. “Don’t look any further,” he said, his voice so tired that it seemed to have aged him ten years. “Listen to me, don’t. The things your mother hid, you can’t dig them up. It will only… bury you too. You are… but you are still alive. Some truths, once known, can’t be unlearned.” “Like her?” Lin Yi asked, his voice calm to the point of being terrifying. Shi Meng was silenced. He looked at Lin Yi, at the spark of cold, stubborn, almost frantic fire in the boy’s eyes. That fire, burning in the ashes of despair, was terrifying. He knew he couldn’t persuade him. Once a path was seen, it could never be retraced. He sighed deeply, his sigh filled with the dust of the past. “Tomorrow,” Lin Yi said, “I will go to ‘Listening Rain Tower.’” Shi Meng didn’t object, as if he had already expected it. He remained silent for a long time, so long that the noise of a group of servants eating and talking in the next room faded away. Finally, he nodded almost imperceptibly, a barely perceptible movement. Not agreement. Acceptance. “Behind the western wall, at the root of the third loose brick,” his voice was so low it was almost inaudible, “There’s an old key. A long time ago… when the tower hadn’t been sealed, the old gardener, Lao Wu, dropped it. I picked it up, and I haven’t returned it.” He paused, as if justifying his own actions, “I didn’t steal it, I just… forgot.” He forgot. A servant who had spent decades in the servants’ quarters, meticulously careful and cautious, had “forgotten” to return a seemingly insignificant old key, and had kept it for so long. Lin Yi didn’t press him. “Thank you,” he said. Shi Meng shook his head violently, as if he had been scalded by the words. “Don’t thank me! I haven’t said anything, I haven’t known anything!” He spoke quickly, his eyes darting around nervously, “Whatever you do, whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t tell me! It’s none of my business!” He finished — , u see, whatever you hear, don’t tell me! It’s none of my business!” He finished The reaction of Shi Meng, the existence of the key, were far more definitive than any words – “Yun Zhi” and “Listening Rain Pavilion” were connected, his mother’s death was due to investigation, the key was deliberately hidden, and the name was a taboo. The lies had created a crack in the fabric. Behind that crack, darkness churned, emitting the smells of blood and long-forgotten conspiracies. He slowly sat up, tidying his bowl and chopsticks. His movements were still smooth, even slower than before. Only he knew that the ice in his chest was frantically absorbing all emotions – fear, anger, sadness – and then solidifying into something harder, sharper. A resolve. He left the dining room. The night wind blew in, sharp and cutting, chilling the skin. The early winter's cold seeped into his bones, but it couldn't suppress the growing cold fire in his heart. He returned to the dormitory. Dozens of people were crammed onto a large kang, the smells of sweat, feet, and mildew, and the palpable sense of despair, almost formed a solid mass. He found his position in the corner, lying down on the thin, hard straw mat. The mat was rough beneath him, pressing against his bones. The bed next to him was empty – Shi Meng hadn't returned. In the darkness, the subtle sounds were amplified. But his ears seemed to automatically filter them, leaving only the roaring of his own blood, and the sense of the two foreign objects in his chest – the coarse texture of the letter fragments, the coolness of the token. Like two seeds embedded in his body, absorbing his warmth and hatred, preparing to sprout. After a long while, the bed next to him stirred. Shi Meng moved, still damp from the night. He didn't speak, nor did he look at Lin Yi. But in the oppressive silence, Lin Yi felt something coarse and warm, being placed very slowly, and very carefully, into the straw mat beside him. He moved it without making a sound. Half a coarse flatbread, wrapped in old cloth, was cold and hard. There was no words. Only the sound of the cloth rubbing against the straw mat, and the heavy, suppressed sighs as the old man turned over. Lin Yi held the half-bread. The rough texture scratched against his palm, a faint warmth seeping in from his cold fingers, quickly swallowed by the cold in his chest. But this touch, like a needle, pierced a small hole in his frozen world. Moonlight streamed in through a gap in the paper, casting a small, white spot on the floor, blurred and wavering slightly. The spot slowly moved, crawling up the kang, illuminating his dangling wrist. The torn edges of the cloth were dark red with blood, like a grotesque seal. He stared at the light, his eyes empty, yet deep. Shi Meng's fear was real. His mother's warning was real. The family's lies were real. The "foreign objects" in his body were real. The key to “Listening Rain Pavilion” was, indeed, lying behind a loose, dark brick in the west wall. All the broken pieces, all the hidden traces, all the silent screams and frozen fears, pointed to one place – that dilapidated pavilion, swallowed by vines and rumors. What was there? What did his mother see there? Who was “Yun Zhi”? What was the “Celestial Contract”? The questions were no longer "is", but "what". And the answer, he had to dig it out of that forbidden darkness, to uncover it himself. The cold resolve finally covered everything. Like a hard, transparent shell, enclosing all the turmoil within. Fear was suppressed, anger was refined. Since he had fallen into the abyss, since he had been chosen, since he had been sacrificed, since even his family had to hide a name, there was no reason to stop now. The worst thing was, to find out the truth, and then be unable to live. But it was better than being a fool, lost in lies, than to die not knowing why he was chosen, why he was sacrificed, why even his family had to hide a name. His fingers, unconsciously, tapped on the straw mat. Tap, tap, tap… steady, clear, with a cold rhythm that sounded like a door being knocked. Outside, the moonlight slanting, the spot moved away from his wrist, deeper into the darkness. He slowly clenched his fist, the half-bread pressing painfully against his palm. The familiar burning at his wrist intensified, but he didn't let go