The moment the iron chain locked around his wrist, Lin Yi's knuckles froze. Not the expected hemp rope of punishment, but a hard chain soaked in tung oil, carrying the metallic scent of blood. The cold metal ring bit into his wrist bone, the *click* of the lock snapping shut as crisp as a breaking branch. He looked up. The two law enforcement disciples were expressionless, their movements as standardized as if they were hauling a bundle of firewood. "Move." The disciple on the left spoke. Flat voice, devoid of emotion. Lin Yi didn't move. His fingertips unconsciously tapped the knuckles of his other hand—*tap, tap, tap*. Slow rhythm. He was waiting for an explanation, or at least, a proper accusation. The disciple on the right frowned and jerked the chain hard. He stumbled, his ankle striking the threshold. Morning chill poured in through the open courtyard gate, mixed with the sweet, cloying scent of incense drifting from the ancestral hall square in the distance—that smell made his stomach churn. "I'll walk myself." Lin Yi said. Deliberately slowed speech, gaps between each word. No one acknowledged him. The chain tightened again, and he was dragged out of the small courtyard. The bluestone path was damp from last night's rain. The sound of the chain dragging was grating, drowning out his own breathing. On both sides, the windows of the servants' quarters were tightly shut, but behind several cracks, shadows flickered. No sound. Only the rasp of iron against stone, monotonously repeating. The outline of the ancestral hall square emerged through the morning mist. A dense mass of people. On the high platform, the elders' seats were arranged in a row. The center one was empty—his father hadn't arrived yet. The sides were already filled. Third Elder Lin Zhenhai sat in the first seat on the left, holding a yellowed scroll, reading with head bowed. His profile in the morning light resembled a piece of wind-dried wood, without grain. Lin Yi's heart rate dropped to combat-ready state. The grinding noise of the dragging chain suddenly stopped. One of the escorting disciples, the one who had remained silent, suddenly leaned close to his ear. "Don't struggle." The voice was very low, carrying the indistinct quality of street slang, "Accept your fate. The clan raised you all these years; it's time you repaid them." Lin Yi's fingertips stopped. Repaid? He lifted his eyes, sweeping his gaze across the square. The crowd automatically parted to form a path, extending all the way to the stone altar in the center of the square. On the altar sat a pottery urn, pale blue smoke rising from its mouth—that sweet, fishy odor was wafting from there. Other items were arranged beside the altar—a brazier of burning charcoal, with an iron poker thrust into the fire, its tip glowing red. And a pitch-black, palm-sized iron plaque, face-down, its engraving invisible. His gaze fixed on that glowing red poker. His breath caught for an instant. The chain moved again. He was shoved forward, closer and closer to the altar. The crowd's eyes clung to him like a layer of damp, cold moss. He saw familiar cousins turn their faces away, saw the instructor who once taught him basic fist techniques lower his eyelids, saw several half-grown children imitating adults, spitting vaguely in his direction before being hastily pulled back by their mothers. No pity. Barely even curiosity. Only a waiting, almost numb calm. He was brought to a spot three paces before the altar. The escorting disciples pressed down on his shoulders from left and right, their grip so tight their knuckles whitened. The back of his knee was kicked from behind. He grunted, falling heavily onto the cold stone slabs. His kneecaps struck with sharp pain. There was movement on the high platform. Third Elder Lin Zhenhai stood up. He unrolled the scroll in his hand, the yellowed paper rustling in the morning wind like the brittle vibration of some dried insect wing. The square fell completely silent. Even the wind seemed softer. Lin Zhenhai cleared his throat. His voice wasn't loud, but each word carried steadily, bearing the flat, cold cadence unique to the recitation of sacrificial texts. "Lin Yi." Lin Yi raised his head, staring fixedly at that face. He searched for something upon it—hypocritical apology, or at least, a trace of barely perceptible struggle. Nothing. Lin Zhenhai's gaze fell upon him as if looking at the smoking pottery urn on the altar. "Your body carries filth, bringing calamity upon the clan." Lin Zhenhai continued reading, his intonation without rise or fall, "Three years ago, heavenly punishment descended upon you …because I was… alive? At the very center of the high platform, beside that empty chair, a side door opened. Patriarch Lin Zhenyue emerged. He was not wearing his usual dark cyan robe, but a set of black sacrificial garments, with the family crest embroidered in dull gold at the cuffs and collar. He walked steadily, eyes fixed ahead, going straight to the central seat and sitting down. Throughout the entire process, his gaze did not fall upon the altar, nor did it look toward Lin Yi kneeling there. Instead, he stared at the sky beyond the square's end—that gradually brightening, fish-belly-white dome. As if everything happening in the square had nothing to do with him. Lin Yi looked in that direction, at the sharply defined profile of his father. The morning light gilded him with a pale golden edge, yet made his face seem even more distant, like the jade statue of an ancestor enshrined in the ancestral hall. The last faint hope—one he himself was unwilling to admit—died in that gaze. "Today, in accordance with the Heavenly Mandate's decree, the sacrificial rite shall be performed." Lin Zhenhai's voice rang out again, drowning out the buzzing in Lin Yi's mind. "Your surname 'Lin' shall be stripped from you, your familial ties severed. You shall be branded a slave, your pendant offered to Heaven, to quell the Heavenly Wrath." Stripping the surname. Severing kinship. Branding. Offering the pendant. Four words, like four nails, pinned him dead against the cold stone slab. The disciples holding him moved. The one on the left reached toward his neck—to tear away the red cord threaded with the family jade pendant. The disciple on the right pulled a slender key from his robes, unlocking the iron shackles on his wrists. Lin Yi's breathing suddenly grew rapid. He jerked violently, his shoulder knocking away the left disciple's hand, his knees scraping against the stone with a grating sound. The right disciple cursed under his breath and applied more force, his whole weight nearly pressing down on Lin Yi's back. "Hold him down!" From the high platform, some elder shouted. More footsteps. Two additional law-enforcement disciples rushed from the crowd, clamping his arms from either side and twisting them behind his back. His bones creaked from the strain. The red cord snapped. The instant the jade pendant left his skin, a sharp, icy emptiness exploded from his chest, stabbing straight toward his dantian. Then came pain—not the pain of flesh wounds, but something deeper, as if something within him had awakened, snapped the last binding chain, and begun to crash about frantically. "Ngh—!" A short, shattered whimper squeezed from his throat. His vision began to blur. The altar, the crowd, those indistinct faces on the high platform—all swayed and twisted. The sweet, cloying incense grew thick, mixed with a faint, particular odor of burning protein that preceded scorched flesh. The brazier was brought over. The red-hot iron rod was pulled from the flames, its tip wavering with distorted heat waves in the air. A character was faintly carved at its end—too far to make out, but Lin Yi knew what it was. Shame. The disciple gripped the rod's handle and turned toward him. The glowing heat source drew near, the air sizzling as it roasted. Lin Yi's pupils contracted. His last strength erupted in that moment. His body thrashed violently like a fish out of water, trying to break free from the four pairs of hands. His wrists scraped against the rough stone, skin breaking, blood mixing with cold sweat in a slick mess that made the iron chains bite even deeper into his flesh. "Ssst—" The scorching metal branded the inner skin of his left wrist. The sound was soft, like hot iron plunged into cold water. Then came the pain—sharp, burning, carrying the smell of carbonizing flesh, instantly overwhelming all defenses and exploding up his arm into his brain, burning every thought, every sound, every image into blank whiteness. His mouth hung open, but no sound came out. Only his body convulsed beyond his control, like a fish thrown onto shore. The branding lasted only a short time, perhaps no more than two seconds. The iron rod was removed. On the charred skin, a twisted, curled-edge character "Shame" rose with faint wisps of blue smoke, embedded deep into the flesh. The sweet, cloying incense, the stench of burnt flesh, and the metallic blood rising in his own throat—all mingled together. He collapsed, his forehead pressing against the cold stone, his eyes sunk into complete darkness. Only that fresh wound on his wrist throbbed in time with each heartbeat A faint, brittle crack—like jade splitting. The violent force raging inside him peaked in that instant. Lin Yi curled in on himself, his organs trembling as if countless icy needles were piercing through his viscera. At the same time, fragmented, chaotic images thick with the smell of blood forced their way into his blank mind— Shattered chains. Black blood. A pair of bloodshot eyes opening in the abyss. And a voice. Muffled, overlapping, like many people whispering at once, trembling with hunger: "...The seal... grows weak..." "...Food..." The voice vanished. The agony slowly receded too, leaving behind a hollow, cold exhaustion. He lay there, the brand on his wrist burning with pain, every breath tugging at the empty void in his chest. His vision gradually cleared. He saw on the altar that the green flame in the clay urn had gone out, leaving only a wisp of residual smoke curling upward, dissolving into the brightening sky. The jade pendant was gone. The family name was gone. Even his identity as a "person" was gone. On the high platform, the clan elders rose one by one. Lin Zhenyue was the first to leave, the hem of his black sacrificial robe sweeping across the steps without pause. The others followed behind him, speaking in low voices, their words blurred and indistinct, as if separated by a layer of water. The crowd began to disperse. Footsteps scattered, conversations hummed to life with the looseness that follows a concluded ritual. No one looked toward the altar anymore. The four law-enforcement disciples who had escorted him still stood there. One of them—the same who had first whispered in his ear—bent down, grabbed his arm, and hauled him up. "Can you walk?" the disciple asked, his tone still flat. Lin Yi didn't answer. He tried to straighten his legs, but his knees went weak, and the pain in his wrist sent another wave of darkness across his eyes. The disciple braced one arm, and another disciple took the other. "Throw him back in the servants' quarters." Third Elder Lin Zhenhai's voice drifted over from the direction of the high platform. He had already reached the halfway point of the steps and turned back to give the order. "Keep a close eye on him. Don't let him die." He paused, then added the second half, his voice not loud but clear enough: "The offering hasn't been completely 'used up' yet." The disciple acknowledged and, supporting Lin Yi, turned to walk out of the square. The iron chains still dragged at his feet, but the locks had been opened, hanging loosely from his wrists. With every step, the iron rings knocked against each other, producing dull clinking sounds. Lin Yi kept his head down, staring at the charred character *Chi*—*Shame*—on his left wrist. The skin around the edges of the brand had swollen, slightly gleaming, like a wound that would never heal. He lifted his eyes and looked toward the ancestral square one last time. The morning light had fully illuminated the bluestone slabs. The puddles left by last night's rain were evaporating, rising in a thin layer of mist. The high platform stood empty, its seats in disarray. The charcoal brazier on the altar had already been removed, leaving only a ring of scorched marks. The clay urn remained, its mouth blackened, hollow and empty inside. The wind lifted a few half-burned yellow paper funerary notes, sending them swirling across the ground. Everything was as usual. As if the ritual that had stripped him of everything had been nothing more than an insignificant cleaning in the family's daily routine. The disciples supporting him quickened their pace. The low roofline of the servants' quarters emerged at the edge of his vision. Third Elder Lin Zhenhai's voice cut slowly through the dead silence of the square like a dull knife. "Lin Yi." He unrolled the yellowed sacrificial scroll in his hand. The paper rustled in the morning wind, like the dry wings of some insect beating. "Thy body bears filth, bringing calamity upon the clan." Lin Yi's gaze was nailed to the Third Elder's face. That face was like the spirit tablets enshrined in the ancestral hall—wooden, cold, every wrinkle carved with unquestionable authority. He was searching, searching for a trace of hypocritical regret, a hint of room for compromise. Even if it were only an act. There was nothing. "By clan council, in accordance with Heavenly Dao." The Third Elder's tone was terrifyingly steady, each word falling with the precision of a counterweight. "Thy surname 'Lin' is stripped, thy kinship severed, thy flesh branded as slave, thy pendant offered to Heaven, to appease Heavenly wrath." His father, Lin Zhenyue, sat there. A black clan robe with golden thread embroidered with majestic beast patterns. His gaze rested on some patch of cloud in the distant sky, as if everything happening in the square—the person being sentenced—had nothing to do with him. His fingers rested on the armrest of his seat, the knuckles slightly pale. Beyond that, no expression at all. Lin Yi felt something cold surge up from the soles of his feet, instantly freezing his internal organs. Quicksand was dragging him down. "No..." A hoarse sound squeezed from his throat, unrecognizable even to himself. The hands of the two law enforcement disciples were like iron pincers, motionless. The one on the left even increased his grip a few degrees. Lin Yi's wrist bones scraped against the rough edge of the stone slab, burning with pain, yet far less than that suffocating hollow in his chest. "Execute." The Third Elder closed the scroll. A bare-chested, powerfully built man emerged from the side of the altar. In his hands he carried a bronze basin, the charcoal fire within glowing red. In his other hand he gripped a pair of long tongs, their jaws clamped around a square piece of iron. The iron had been heated crimson by the charcoal fire, and one could faintly make out the reversed characters carved into it—a twisted character for "shame." The air shimmered slightly, distorted by the high heat. The bronze basin was placed before the altar. The man knelt on one knee, re-burying the tip of the branding iron in the charcoal fire, turning it gently. Sparks crackled and flew, carrying a primal terror of mingled iron stench and cinder. Lin Yi's body began to shake uncontrollably. Not fear. Something deeper was rebelling. Every cell was screaming—to flee, to tear apart, to smash everything before him into pieces. A strange gurgling sound came from his throat, his body pressed to the ground flopping like a fish out of water. "Hold him." The Third Elder's voice held no warmth. More force pressed down. A knee against his spine, an elbow locking his shoulder. His face was pressed hard against the cold stone slab, the rough surface scraping his cheekbones. His field of vision compressed to a slit, able only to see that basin of charcoal fire drawing nearer, growing more blindingly bright. The red-hot branding iron was lifted again. Its dark red glow flowed in the early morning light, like a living piece of flesh filled with malice. The character for "shame" trembled slightly in the high heat, as if eager to bite into living flesh. "No—!" Lin Yi's roar finally broke through his throat. He erupted with his last strength, his back arching violently, trying to throw off the suppression. His muscles tensed to their limit, bones groaning under the strain. The law enforcement disciple holding him down grunted, nearly thrown off. "A waste of a man still wants to resist?" The disciple on the right spat, his knee slamming down hard. Agony exploded from his lumbar spine. Lin Yi's vision went black, his arched body smashed back to the ground. The air was squeezed from his lungs, his mouth open but unable to draw a single breath. In that brief suffocation, he saw that red-hot branding iron, steadily, irresistibly, drawing closer to the inside of his left wrist. Ten inches. Five inches. Three inches. His skin could already feel that destructive heat. His hairs curled, singed. He twisted his wrist frantically, nails scraping against the stone with ear-piercing sounds, leaving several shallow, blood-streaked marks. Useless. The iron-pincer grip never moved. The branding iron hovered one inch above his wrist. Waves of heat roasted his skin. The true agony had not yet arrived, yet fear was already corroding every nerve like sulfuric acid. Lin Yi's pupils contracted to pinpricks, staring fixedly at that mass of red light. He could see every twisted stroke of the character "shame," could see the slightly molten, golden edge where the iron block met the high heat. Time stretched out. The square was deathly silent. Only the occasional crackle of charcoal, and his own ragged, broken breathing. He could feel countless gazes nailed upon him—indifferent, curious, gloating. Those gazes had weight, pressing his spine near to breaking. On the high platform, his father still gazed into the distance. Lin Yi suddenly stopped struggling. All his strength, all his screams, all his questions—emptied in that instant. Something that had supported him for seventeen years, something inside him—crack—broke. He closed his eyes. *Chi—!* The moment the branding iron touched his skin, the sound was short and viscous. The agony The world turned pure white. Absolute, all-devouring pain. He fell through that blinding light with no end. Time, space, who he was, what he was enduring—all of it blurred, melted away, until only pain itself remained. How long it lasted—perhaps an instant, perhaps ten thousand years—the white light finally began to fade. Sensation returned like a tide slowly flowing back. First, smell. That nauseating stench of charred flesh. Then, hearing. His own ragged, trembling breaths, and the hushed, rustling murmurs of the crowd around him. Finally, touch. The inside of his left wrist. It was no longer skin. It was a screaming, searing brand, burning with frantic intensity. The pain was no longer an explosion but a sustained, throbbing scorch, beating in pulses like a second heart taking root there, each beat pumping fresh agony through him. He could feel the minute sting of raw flesh exposed to air where the skin had been burned through, could feel the swollen, fiery ridges along the edges of the brand. He opened his eyes. His vision swam with physiological tears. He struggled to focus, looking down at his wrist. A dark red, blackened character *Chi*—*shame*—deeply embedded in the flesh, its edges charred and twisted like a coiled viper. The skin around the brand was red, swollen, and ulcerated, weeping clear fluid mixed with threads of blood, congealing into a sickly yellow-red at the blackened borders. A slave mark. Those two words drove like an ice pick into his consciousness, still raw from agony. From now on, wherever he went, this character would follow him. Telling everyone that he was the shame cast out by his clan, a servant unworthy even of a family name. "Yi." The Third Elder's voice rang out again, so calm it was monstrous. "Present the pendant." Lin Yi hadn't even processed the words. A rough hand was already reaching for his neck, seizing the red cord that held his ancestral jade pendant. It was the burly man who had carried the brazier. His face was expressionless, his fingers like iron hooks, digging into the gap between the knot and Lin Yi's skin. "No..." Lin Yi rasped out the word. He didn't know where the strength came from, but he jerked his hand up to protect it. Too slow. The man's wrist twitched, and he yanked. *Snap.* The sound of the red cord breaking was soft. But in Lin Yi's ears, it was like thunder. The jade pendant left his chest. In that instant, some delicate balance that had been maintained for years—shattered. Not a metaphor. Truly shattered. As if some taut, fragile string inside him had snapped the moment the pendant left his body. An emptiness exploded from his dantian instantly—not pain, but something far worse than pain: *void*. As if something had been violently gouged out of him, leaving behind a bone-chilling, bottomless hollow. Then, and only then, did true agony descend. Not the external, burning pain of the wrist brand. This was a wild, tearing sensation surging from the deepest parts of his body, from his marrow, from the gaps between every cell. Like countless hands clawing madly inside him, trying to rip his organs out. His stomach convulsed violently, his throat filled with a sweet warmth, and he vomited a mouthful of dark, blood-tinged phlegm. At the same time, countless chaotic fragments crashed into his mind. Blood. Blood everywhere. Dismembered limbs. Twisted faces. Piercing screams. And flames—black flames, devouring everything. The fragments flashed without logic, carrying a resentment and hunger so thick they could not be dissolved, surging like a tide threatening to drown his sanity. Hallucination? Memory? He couldn't tell. He could only curl on the ground, his body convulsing beyond his control, each spasm tugging at the brand on his wrist and triggering fresh waves of agony. Everything in his vision spun and twisted. The altar, the crowd, the high platform, the sky—all of it dissolved into blurred patches of color. Deep beneath those color patches and the noise of fragmented images, a voice rose. Faint. Overlapping. Like many people whispering at once, yet also like one person speaking in countless voices. Hoarse, dry, filled with an inhuman, pure hunger. "...The seal... has weakened..." The voice reverberated directly inside his skull, making his bones go numb. "...Hungry..." "...Food..." Lin Yi's pupils dilated and unfocused. He saw the burly man carrying his jade pendant toward the bronze cauldron at the center of the altar. Fl was the only solace he could hold onto during those sunless days imprisoned in the cold pool behind the mountain, the only meager proof of his identity as "Lin Yi" beyond his bloodline. Now, it was in the flames. The golden light grew weaker and weaker. The chain-shaped runes dimmed and collapsed one by one. The jade pendant— The door hinges emitted a dry, grating creak, like the sigh of a dying man. Lin Yi lay on the straw mat without opening his eyes. The footsteps were light, carrying the characteristic shuffling of an old man, accompanied by the mixed odor of cheap medicinal herbs and body grime. The visitor placed something on the ground; the base of a pottery bowl scraped against the rough floor with a brief, abrasive sound. Then, a hand seized his right wrist. Lin Yi's muscles tensed instantly, but he forced himself to relax. Resistance was meaningless. The hand was rough, with swollen knuckles and skin like sandpaper, yet the pressure was controlled with steady precision. It carefully examined his wrist, fingertips pressing around the edges of the brand, assessing the depth of the burn. A sharp pain came. Lin Yi's breath caught for a moment. "Tch." A hoarse voice, like air leaking from a broken bellows. It was Shi Meng. The old servant who had been reduced to menial labor due to his injuries, taciturn and silent. Lin Yi remembered him. Three years ago, when he himself had still been a prodigy, he had seen this man practicing boxing in the training grounds—his moves unadorned, but every strike carried a ferocious intent to punch through the air itself. Later, he heard that Shi Meng had encountered a demon beast while gathering herbs in the mountains, crippling one arm, and had been sent to the servants' quarters to await death. Shi Meng released his hand and rustled about, pulling something from his robes. Lin Yi cracked open his eyes slightly and, by the faint light filtering through the window, saw a palm-sized crude pottery jar. Shi Meng used his left hand—his good one—to pry off the lid, then scooped out a lump of dark, sticky ointment with his index finger. The ointment was viscous, with an eerie dark green hue, emitting a strong bitterness and a certain mineral-like fishy odor. The moment the ointment touched the brand, Lin Yi clenched his back teeth. Not relief, but another kind of burning. Like countless tiny ice needles stabbing deep into his flesh, battling and canceling out the residual heat of the brand. The agony spiked briefly, then began to recede slowly. Cold sweat slid from his temples, dripping into the straw mat. Shi Meng worked deftly. Apply the ointment, spread it evenly, wrap it with a relatively clean strip of torn cloth. When winding the cloth around the wrist, he deliberately avoided the center of the brand, securing only the edges. Then, he lifted Lin Yi's tattered upper garment to examine his ribs. The skin over the broken bones had already swollen purple, with dark pooled blood visible beneath. Shi Meng's fingers pressed there, and Lin Yi grunted. "Two," Shi Meng said, his voice still hoarse. "Didn't puncture the lung. Lucky." From his robes, he produced several thin wooden splints and a roll of even dirtier cloth. The splints pressed against Lin Yi's side, the cloth wound tight to secure them. Throughout the entire process, Shi Meng used only his left hand and his teeth to coordinate; his right hand—that crippled arm—hung limply at his side, swaying occasionally as his weight shifted. After the bandaging, Shi Meng squatted there, catching his breath. Sweat seeped from his graying temples. These movements were not easy for an old man with one arm ruined. Lin Yi opened his eyes and looked at him. Shi Meng was looking back at him too. In the dimness, those eyes were cloudy, but deep within, a trace of unextinguished light remained, like embers buried in ash. "Why?" Lin Yi spoke, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper grinding. Shi Meng didn't answer. He pushed against his knees to stand, his body swaying once, steadying himself with his left hand on a rickety wooden table. He pointed at the bowl of porridge on the ground, then at Lin Yi, and turned to shuffle toward the door. "You knew my mother," Lin Yi said. Not a question. Shi Meng's footsteps stopped. He didn't turn around. His hunched silhouette in the shadow cast by the doorframe was like a weathered stone. "She saved you," Lin Yi continued, his words slow, each one like testing the thickness of ice. "Three years ago, when you returned to the mountain gravely injured, everyone "That wasn't pity." Shi Meng's voice grew hoarser, like gravel grinding in his throat. "It was debt." He paused, his left hand unconsciously touching his ruined right shoulder. "Your mother... she was a fool," he said, no contempt in his tone, only a heavy, almost numb statement. "She could barely keep herself alive, yet she was always trying to pull others up with her. She said, when you're alive, you can't just look at the road ahead—you have to look back and see if anyone's fallen into a pit." He tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if trying to smile, but no smile came. "And the result? She fell in herself. No one pulled her out." Lin Yi's fingertips pressed into his palm. His nails dug into flesh, bringing a sharp, subtle pain. "How did she die?" he asked. Shi Meng's eyes flickered, avoiding his. "Of illness," he said, too quickly, too quick to be true. "That's what the clan says." "What do you think?" Another silence. Shi Meng lowered his head, looking at his own feet caked with mud, his cracked nails. His straw sandals were worn through, toes exposed, covered in dark purple scars from frostbite. "I can't think," he finally said, his voice low as a whisper. "I'm a cripple—what can I think? I can't even get out the door of this servant's quarters." He raised his head, looking at Lin Yi again. This time, that ember in his eyes burned a little brighter. "But you're different," he said. "You can still move, still think. What your mother left you... it's not just that jade." Lin Yi's heart leaped violently. "What do you mean?" Shi Meng didn't answer directly. He walked back to the table, laboriously pulling something from his chest with his left hand, and placed it on the table. It was a flat, palm-sized cloth bundle, coarse fabric faded to white, edges worn and frayed. "Your mother left it with me," Shi Meng said. "Said if one day you were at the end of your rope, then give it to you." Lin Yi propped himself up, his ribs crying out in sharp protest. He moved to the table and reached for the bundle. Light, almost weightless. He untied the hemp cord and lifted the cloth. Inside was a thin booklet. The cover was made of some tanned hide, now dry and brittle, edges curling. No words on the cover, only a shallow scratch that looked like it had been carved with a fingernail, shape twisted, unrecognizable. Lin Yi opened to the first page. The paper was yellowed, coarse in texture, with several lines written in charcoal. The handwriting was neat, even delicate—his mother's script. He recognized it. "Yi'er, if you are reading these words, it means Mother is already gone. Don't grieve. Mother has simply gone where she was meant to go." "There are things Mother never told you. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. The waters of the Lin family run too deep—the more you know, the faster you die. Mother wanted you safe, even if ordinary." "But if you have already reached a dead end, if they have already raised their blades against you... then these rules need not be kept." "This booklet records the fragments of clues Mother secretly gathered over the years—about the Lin family, about the 'Heaven's Punishment,' about those 'wrong' things with your body. Incomplete, many places mere speculation, but perhaps they can help you find direction." "Remember: trust no one, including your father. The Lin family has no familial affection, only interest and fear." "Survive. By any means, survive." The writing ended here. Lin Yi's fingers traced over the charcoal marks, feeling the rough texture of the paper and the slight depression of the characters. He turned to the next page. Behind were densely packed, smaller characters, interspersed with simple diagrams and symbols. Some places were smudged, some margins held tiny annotations, ink colors varying in depth—clearly not written at the same time. He skimmed a few lines. "...Three months before Zhenyue assumed clan leadership, secretly left the mountain for seventeen days, returned with fearful expression, entered seclusion and did not emerge..." "...Underground chamber beneath the ancestral hall, entrance behind the third 'Clan Suppression Stele,' requires clan leader's bloodline and specific incantation to open..." "...'Heaven's Punishment' is not natural disaster, but artificially triggered formation, formation eye at... (here smudged with heavy ink)..." "...When Yi'er was three, high fever in deep night that would not break, strange black patterns emerged on chest, like living things moving. Zhenyue "...What is a 'vessel'? The elders mentioned it in secret talks, seemingly related to 'sacrifice.' Every generation, the Lin family must produce one 'vessel' to bear the family's 'curse,' to appease the 'heavenly wrath'..." "...Yi'er, Mother fears... you are this generation's 'vessel.'" Lin Yi's breathing stopped. He stared at those last words. Each character was like a red-hot nail, driven into his eyeballs. Vessel. Sacrifice. Appease heavenly wrath. All the fragments, at this moment, were strung together by a cold thread. The eavesdropping in the Ancient Stele Forest, the Third Elder's warning, the jade pendant's strange behavior, today's public disownment, branding, and pendant offering... It wasn't because he was trash. It was because he was the chosen "sacrificial offering." The family had raised him all these years not out of familial affection, but to fatten him up, and when the time came, slaughter him as an offering to that so-called "Heavenly Dao," in exchange for the family's continued peace. The empty patch of skin on his chest suddenly burned with pain. Not the pain of the brand, but something deeper, as if something were squirming beneath his skin, trying to bore its way out. The hollow feeling in his dantian intensified, like a black hole spinning there, devouring what little warmth and strength remained. But at the same time, some unfamiliar, cold perception, carrying the metallic scent of rust, was seeping out from the edge of that black hole, thread by thread. He raised his head and looked at Shi Meng. The old man still stood by the table, his left hand bracing the table's edge, his body leaning slightly forward, his cloudy eyes fixed tightly on him, as if observing his reaction, as if waiting for something. "You knew long ago." Lin Yi spoke, his voice terrifyingly calm. Shi Meng did not deny it. "Knew a little." He said, "When your mother was investigating these things, she would occasionally ask me about matters in the mountains, the habits of demonic beasts, which places were strange. She never said why, but I could guess roughly." He paused. "Three days before she died, she stuffed this cloth bundle into my hands. Said, 'Hide it well. Don't let anyone know.' That night, she coughed up blood the entire night. The next day, she was gone. The clan said it was a sudden illness, but the serving girl secretly told me that when she cleaned the room, she saw the spittoon full of black blood, and... several pieces of something like unburnt talisman ash." Lin Yi's fingertips dug into the booklet's cover. The beast hide was tough, grinding against his finger bones with pain. "Why didn't you give this to me sooner?" "Your mother said, only when there was no other way." Shi Meng's voice was hard and stiff, "Before, although you were crippled, you were still a young master, confined to the back mountain, with people delivering food. You wouldn't die. Now..." He glanced at the cloth bandage on Lin Yi's wrist, where blood was faintly seeping through. "Now, you don't even have a name anymore. Branded, pendant offered. They squeezed out your last bit of value, threw you back here, not to let you live, but to let you slowly rot away, die cleanly, without dirtying their hands." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. The smell of herbs and sweat-stained grime grew stronger. "Lad, listen well. Behind the servants' quarters, at the westernmost end of the row of rooms against the mountain cliff, there's a woodshed for storing broken tools. Under the woodshed, the third stone slab is loose. There's a hole beneath it that leads to the old hunting trail in the back mountain. The trail has been abandoned for over a decade, but it's still passable. Follow it north, and you can slip out of Lin family territory." Lin Yi stared at him. "Why are you telling me this?" "Repaying a debt." Shi Meng straightened up, the wrinkles on his face looking even deeper in the shadows, "Your mother's debt, I cannot repay. But pointing out a path that might let you live—that's the last thing this crippled old man can do." He turned and once again walked toward the door. This time, his steps were more dragging, his back even more hunched. When he reached the door, he stopped, his hand resting on the bolt, not turning back. "I mixed some pain-relieving herbs into the porridge. Drink it, and you'll sleep a while. But don't sleep too deeply." He said, "Tonight... someone might come to 'inspect.' The brand wound, the condition