Tang Yanan collapsed onto the cold marble floor of the Song Enterprises hallway, her limbs trembling, heart pounding like a trapped drum. Her mouth opened to cry out, but no sound came.
Pain bloomed from her chest—not sharp, but smothering. Like drowning in heatless fire.
Inside her, something stirred. Something that didn't belong.
Her vision blurred, and for a moment, she saw herself—but from outside her own body. Floating above, like a puppet cut from its strings.
"It's happening…"*
"Like Jiaojiao… before she died."
And then—cold fingers gripped her wrist.
"Stay with me."
The voice was familiar—low, firm, steady like the heartbeat of the earth.
Chen Wanli.
He had appeared as if summoned by fate itself, kneeling beside her, pressing his palm to her forehead.
His other hand moved in the air, tracing ancient runes that shimmered briefly before vanishing into her skin. With every motion, the invisible force gripping her loosened—inch by agonizing inch.
"Focus," he said. "Breathe. Hold on to yourself."
She gasped, choking on air that felt too thick, too real. Then—her body convulsed, and a stream of black smoke burst from her lips, vanishing into the air like burned incense.
Yanan collapsed into his arms, soaked in sweat.
It was over—for now.
---
Later, she lay on the couch in her apartment, wrapped in a blanket, sipping warm ginger tea. Chen Wanli stood nearby, silent, watching the candle flame flicker against the window.
"You came," she whispered. Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from knowing.
"You were marked," he replied. "Same as Jiaojiao."
Her hands clenched. "I—I felt it. Like my soul was being… torn loose."
"You were moments from death," he said simply. "But death wasn't the goal. Not directly."
She looked up at him.
"Then what was?"
Wanli met her gaze.
"To shatter the Divine Thread."
She stared blankly.
"There are certain souls," he explained, "fated to awaken—through medicine, spirit, or blade. Some are born healers. Some are born rulers. But all are linked by the Divine Thread of Destiny. It's rare. It's ancient. And it terrifies people who seek control."
"And Jiaojiao…?"
"She's one. And now, so are you."
Yanan blinked. "I'm just her assistant. I file contracts. I manage calls."
Wanli shook his head. "You're more than that. Your bond to her—your loyalty, your sacrifice—was enough to awaken the mark. Which means someone wants to sever it before it grows stronger."
Yanan swallowed. "Who would want that?"
Wanli's eyes darkened.
"Someone with access to old curses…
And a deep fear of what she might become."
---
Elsewhere, Zhao Liren stood on the balcony of his penthouse, eyes fixed on the sprawling cityscape. The wind tore at his coat as he stared into the storm clouds gathering again over Haicheng.
His associate stepped behind him.
"We lost the curse. The girl was saved."
Zhao said nothing for a long moment.
Finally, he turned.
"Then it's time to stop whispering," he said.
"Summon the Ghost Hand Pavilion.
We're going to rip the Divine Thread from its roots—before it strangles us all."
---
Back at Yanan's apartment, Chen Wanli stood to leave.
"I've stabilized the curse," he said. "But it's only a matter of time before they try again. Stay hidden. Stay away from spiritual mirrors, cold pools, or temples. They're gateways."
She nodded, then caught his hand.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He paused, then gave a faint smile.
"One life mended.
One more step toward balance."
As he vanished into the night, the candle beside her flickered—then burned brighter.
And far above the city, the stars began to shift.
---