In the sealed timeline chamber, the clone wrote in silence.
No Gu. No qi. Only calligraphy.
Across a scroll made from silkweed soul bark, he inked a name—not Fang Yuan's, not a false identity. A new one.
The moment the brush moved, the vault trembled.
"If I must diverge," he said, "then I must begin."
And as ink dried on the paper, the name pulsed like a signature fate-thread.
It was not attached to karma.
It was not attached to Fang Yuan.
But it existed.
The clone sat in stillness.
He had no illusions. The name was not for rebellion. It was for recognition.
He could no longer pretend he was only a reflection.