Chapter 18 – Threads in the Smoke
The rain returned with quiet persistence, drumming softly against the windows of their temporary apartment in City B. Bai Xueqing sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch, the ancient journal opened before her. Candlelight flickered in the corner, casting shadows across her face.
Mo Chen stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the street three stories below.
"They're looking for us," he said. "Three surveillance drones circled the block an hour ago. One stopped above the neighboring building for thirty seconds too long."
"They won't find us yet," Xueqing replied, flipping another fragile page.
The journal was centuries old—its ink faded, the pages scented faintly of ancient incense and timeworn secrets. It had belonged to someone who knew the truth behind the clone program, someone who understood the weight of memory and blood.
A name finally emerged from the coded script.
"Xu Yanshang."
Mo Chen turned sharply.
"You know it?" she asked.
"It's an old name." His voice cooled, the atmosphere around him shifting. "One I hoped not to hear again."
Xueqing set the journal aside. "You knew him, didn't you?"
He hesitated.
"Don't lie, Mo Chen. Not to me."
He exhaled slowly. "He was part of the original reincarnation experiment—one of the architects. In our past life, he was… obsessed with you."
She stilled. "And you knew?"
"I found out too late. He'd spent years trying to manipulate fate—twisting cultivation paths, stirring sect rivalries. All to drive you toward him. And when you still chose me… he tried to take you by force."
The silence stretched like thread between them.
"You killed him," she said finally, the memory vague but edged in pain.
"I thought I did," Mo Chen admitted. "But if he's resurfaced in this life—under whatever name he wears now—then he's not just alive. He's winning."
Xueqing picked up the journal again, flipping back to the passage.
"The gloved hand pulls the thread of fate, but the red thread always returns to the heart it belongs to."
A chill slithered down her spine.
"That line," she whispered. "It's about the reincarnation link."
Mo Chen's eyes darkened. "He's trying to break it."
Xueqing stood and crossed the room to the window. "If he's in City B, he's close. We've already pulled his attention by baiting Qiao Lan."
Mo Chen nodded. "He'll either retreat or strike harder."
A soft knock echoed through the apartment.
Both of them turned at once. Mo Chen's hand went to his concealed pistol. Xueqing, calm as ever, slipped the journal into the drawer of the side table and nodded.
He opened the door carefully.
Meng Zhihao stood there, drenched and holding a laptop under his jacket. His expression was unusually grim.
"You need to see this," he said, walking straight in and dripping on the rug. "Now."
---
The screen glowed brightly in the dim apartment. A live feed flickered to life—black and white, grainy. A warehouse lit in infrared.
"The coordinates you gave me from the burner phone Qiao Lan was messaging?" Meng Zhihao said. "Led me here."
They watched in silence as two men in heavy coats loaded a long black container into a van.
The camera panned.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
Slim. Masked. Gloves on.
Mo Chen froze.
"That's him," he said.
"How can you tell?" Meng asked.
"The way he stands. He always tilted his weight to the left, like his right knee's damaged. It never healed properly. He used to wear a support brace during sparring in the cultivation realm."
Xueqing leaned closer. The figure turned slightly, and for a second—just a second—the corner of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the glove.
A stylized phoenix engulfed in chains.
Xueqing's pulse skipped.
"I've seen that tattoo before," she whispered. "In the Bai Clan's ancient scrolls. It marked traitors—those who sacrificed blood for forbidden power."
Mo Chen muttered, "He's not just following us. He's weaving his web again."
Zhihao shut the laptop. "Whatever he's doing, it's big. That van is heading north—to District C's restricted zone."
Mo Chen straightened. "Then we follow."
Xueqing agreed, already gathering her coat and tucking a dagger into her boot.
Zhihao blinked. "You're going after him tonight?"
"Of course," she said, voice like silk and steel. "If Xu Yanshang wants to play this game again, I'll make sure he regrets ever returning."
Mo Chen looked at her, pride flashing in his eyes. "You're incredible, you know that?"
She arched a brow. "Flattery won't save you when we're shot at."
"Worth the risk."
Zhihao groaned. "I'm surrounded by lunatics."
---
As they moved through the night streets in a stolen sedan, the city lights blurred like a dream behind them.
Xueqing's gaze never wavered.
Mo Chen drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting close to hers on the console.
Their fingers brushed once—then stayed there, barely touching.
In that quiet moment, with danger in every shadow and history roaring back from the depths, they didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
The war was coming.
And this time, they would fight it side by side.