"Take him away."
The Law Enforcement disciple's voice wasn't loud, yet it struck the mine entrance like a block of ice.
Two hands clamped down on Gong Chang's arms, left and right. The grip wasn't brutal, but it left no room to struggle. A spirit-binding rope wound up from his wrist bones, tightening until his fingertips went numb. Fine runes along the cord flickered on and off, as if warning him: don't stir your qi, don't let reckless thoughts rise.
A stir ran through the line, then died down.
The mine hands instinctively backed away, eyes skittering. Some pulled their caps lower; some hugged their ore baskets tight, as if afraid that flash of red would smear onto them. Moments ago they'd still dared to whisper. Now even their breathing turned careful.
Hu San stood beside the disciple, forcing a smile. His voice, however, was sharp. "You'd better check this properly. He snuck into the Abandoned Branch! That place is sealed. A mine hand dares crawl in—if that isn't ore theft, what is? Besides, he's always been slippery—"
Gong Chang lifted his eyes and looked at Hu San.
Hu San's smile froze for an instant, then he plastered it back on as if nothing had happened. But that tiny pause was clear as day to Gong Chang: this snake wasn't here for justice. It was cutting off its tail to slip away.
"Overseer Hu sent me down to make up my quota," Gong Chang said, voice steady. "The permit is on me. My ore basket is still on the weigh station, not a stone missing. If you want to check—go check now."
Hu San's face darkened. "What nonsense are you spouting! When did I ever—"
The disciple didn't even look at Hu San. "An anomaly trace is on you. Save your words for the Hall."
His fingers tightened. The spirit-binding rope cinched half an inch. Pain shot through Gong Chang's wrist, as if a nail had been pressed into the seam of bone. He didn't cry out. He clenched his teeth and swallowed that breath back down.
In the mine, shouting in pain brought the whip. In the Law Enforcement Hall, it only brought more.
"Move."
They marched him through the long corridor outside the mine grounds.
Nights in the Qinglan Sect weren't truly dark. Spirit lamps hung beneath the eaves, each wick fed by a thread of cyan flame that never died, bleaching the stone steps pale. Night-patrol array lines ran along the base of the walls, like rules made visible, fencing in every path a man could take.
Gong Chang had never walked this corridor before.
He'd seen outer disciples pass here—robes clean, steps light, as if they were born to walk beneath lamps. A mine hand like him only walked tunnels, mudwater, the kind of dark no one looked into.
Tonight he was under the lamps too—only he was being dragged beneath them.
Without showing it, he studied the two disciples escorting him. Bronze plaques at their waists bore the character "执," edged with fine serrations like a blade. The black trim on their sleeves was wider than an ordinary outer disciple's. When they walked, the hem of their robes didn't even pick up dust.
More importantly—
They held the spirit-binding rope, yet kept half a step away from him on purpose.
Not because he was dirty.
Because they were afraid.
Afraid of the red that had flashed in the mirror.
Cold spread in Gong Chang's chest, but he forced his eyes down. Don't think too much, he told himself. If you want to live, you need a mind. And you need that mind to keep calculating the road.
Past the end of the corridor lay a small square.
In one corner stood a stub of black stone stele, half buried in the ground as if someone had meant to forget it. Wind and rain had dulled its face. When the lamplight swept across, faint thin lines showed—like writing, like scratches.
Gong Chang's gaze paused for only a breath.
In that breath, the remnant scripture inside his robe twitched against his heartbeat. His vision wavered, and for an instant he seemed to see again that faint web of "threads" from the cave-in.
Then it was gone.
He lowered his eyes, pretending he'd seen nothing.
Things you weren't meant to see—once you saw them, you'd be recorded.
The Law Enforcement Hall's gate stood on the far side of the square.
Black-lacquered doors studded with bronze. Above them hung a plaque with two characters written in rigidly straight strokes: 執法. There was no killing intent in the brushwork. It felt more like vermilion ink on a ledger—colder for it.
Two watch disciples at the entrance raised their hands to stop them.
"Which lot is this?"
The escorting disciple lifted his chin. "Mirror check in the mine showed red. Bringing him in for a re-check."
The guards' eyes changed at once. They didn't ask more. One of them produced a smaller mirror, its frame inlaid with fine gold threads, its surface clear as water.
"Stand still."
Gong Chang was shoved beneath the lamp. The spirit-binding rope pulled his shoulders tight, yet he stood straight anyway, the way he had when taking the whip at the weigh station—no need for it not to hurt, only don't let it knock you down.
Light from the mirror fell across his chest.
At first it was still a clean glow.
Then a smear of red rose from the mirror's depths, as if someone had touched the surface with a needle tip. That smear stretched, thinning into a strand, almost forming a character.
The guard swallowed, his fingers loosening without thinking, like he was afraid of being burned.
"Red to this extent…" he murmured, almost to himself. "Doesn't look like ore theft. Looks like… a borrow-trace."
The other guard snapped his eyes wide. "Shut up! You want to keep those two words on your tongue?"
Afterward he looked at Gong Chang as if regretting it, his face turning even paler.
Gong Chang filed that phrase away.
Borrow-trace.
He'd never heard it, but he'd heard that voice—back in the fissure after the collapse, breathing that single word against his ear bone.
"Borrow—"
Inside his sleeve, Gong Chang's fingers curled slowly. The old wound in his palm warmed faintly. He forced the thought down.
In the Law Enforcement Hall, you couldn't even afford to think carelessly.
They pushed him through the doors and down several corridors. Inside was quieter than outside. Thick stone walls, fewer spirit lamps. Footsteps were swallowed the moment they sounded. Talismans clung in places to corners; the paper had yellowed with age, as if this place never lacked people—and never lacked "rules."
At last they stopped before a stone door.
Two sealing talismans were pasted on it.
A guard peeled them away. A heavy, stale chill breathed through the crack. Gong Chang was shoved inside. The stone door clacked shut. The talismans were pasted back on, and the light was cut off.
There was someone inside the cell.
A middle-aged man with a crippled leg sat against the wall. His robe was torn beyond recognition. Rough cloth was bound around the stump below his right knee, dark with old blood. He lifted his head, bloodshot eyes taking in the spirit-binding rope first, then Gong Chang's chest. His mouth twisted. "Another one."
Gong Chang didn't answer. He sat two steps away, back pressed to the cold stone.
He needed cold.
Cold kept the mind clear.
The cripple's throat was so hoarse it sounded like he hadn't tasted water in ages. "You got lit up red too?"
"I don't know," Gong Chang said.
The cripple chuckled once. There was no pride in it, only exhaustion. "Better not to know. Once you do, you won't sleep at night."
He lifted a hand as if to touch something, then jerked it back, like he feared being grabbed. At last he used a fingertip to tap the inside of his wrist. A line of red lay there, faint as an old scar, thin as an ink thread.
"They call me Cao the Cripple," he said in a low voice. "I used to wear the gray robe too. Then… I owed a breath."
Gong Chang's eyes tightened. "Owed?"
Cao the Cripple stared at him, then lowered his voice until it was almost inaudible. "Red script isn't a crime. It's a list. Once you're on the list, someone comes sooner or later to settle. You're not in here for ore theft. You're in here because you've been recorded."
A numbness crawled up Gong Chang's spine.
He wanted to ask: recorded by who? recorded how?
Cao the Cripple seemed to see the question forming and spoke first. "Don't ask what 'Borrow' is. The moment you ask, it hears you."
Gong Chang's throat tightened.
He remembered the "Borrow—" in the fissure, the red in the mirror almost writing itself into a character. And suddenly he understood—this wasn't some Law Enforcement disciple acting on a whim. It was a rule reaching out its hand.
Silence sank into the stone cell.
Now and then, outside, footsteps and low shouts passed by, as if someone were being dragged down the corridor. Even the screams were pressed into muffled thumps through the stone door, leaving only a cold, inhuman sense of order.
Gong Chang lowered his head and looked at his palm.
The cut the shard had made had already scabbed over, clean in a way that didn't make sense. The remnant scripture against his heart ran cold then hot, cold then hot, as if balancing accounts against his heartbeat.
He didn't dare touch it, much less open it.
He only kept calculating, again and again: where the way out was, where the line was.
He didn't know how long passed before the sealing talismans outside were peeled away.
Cold wind poured in with a faint wash of spirit-lamp light. Two deacons from the Law Enforcement Hall stepped inside.
The man in front was tall and thin, his brows and eyes pressed low, his gaze like the back of a blade—uncomfortable on anyone it landed on. The one behind had a round face and a smile at his mouth that never reached his eyes.
The tall deacon didn't spare Cao the Cripple a glance. He pointed at Gong Chang. "Out."
Gong Chang stood. The spirit-binding rope on his wrists made a small scraping sound. He followed them out. The corridor's light stung his eyes until he narrowed them.
The side hall for interrogation wasn't large: a stone desk, a single spirit lamp, and on the wall a wooden plaque with one character: 问—Question.
The tall deacon sat down. His first words weren't accusation, but route. "Your name is Gong Chang?"
"Yes."
"Around midnight, which section of tunnel did you go to? Who issued your permit?"
"Hu San." Gong Chang answered cleanly.
The round-faced deacon smiled as he picked up the thread. "Hu San? The mine overseer? Bold of him. So what were you doing in the Abandoned Branch—stealing ore? Hiding spirit stones? Or… cultivating heretical arts?"
"Making up my quota," Gong Chang said. "If I don't, they deduct my merit and throw me out of the sect."
The tall deacon raised his eyes. "What did you touch? What did you see? Have you ever sworn an oath, signed a contract, taken a blood vow?"
The questions came like someone flipping through a ledger, not like interrogating a man.
Gong Chang's chest tightened, yet he still answered, "No. Mine hands don't get contracts and vows."
The round-faced deacon's smile faded. "Then where did the red on your chest come from? Don't tell me the mine lamp drew it in."
The tall deacon didn't waste words. He lifted a hand and pressed down.
Spiritual pressure fell like a mountain.
Gong Chang's chest seized. The air was forced back up his throat. His knees nearly buckled. He clamped his teeth and held, refusing to drop to his knees. Veins bulged at his temples. His vision darkened.
The round-faced deacon drawled, "You can take it? For a mine hand, you're tough. That makes you even less like an ore thief—thieves are timid. They don't hold up."
The tall deacon's voice was cold. "Whether he holds up doesn't matter. The red mark is on him. Process him as a heresy suspect."
Heresy suspect.
The moment the words fell, it felt like a blade cut across Gong Chang's heart.
In the Qinglan Sect, "heresy" wasn't a charge. It was a verdict. If you couldn't explain it, there were only two words waiting for you: archived.
He drew a breath and forced himself to speak. "If I stole ore, why would I return to the weigh station and line up? If I cultivated heretical arts, why would I take Hu San's permit into the mine? I didn't come to run. I came to turn in ore."
The round-faced deacon lifted a brow. "Nice words. Where's the permit?"
Gong Chang didn't hesitate. He pulled the yellow slip from the inner fold of his robe.
When they'd dragged him away, he'd already tucked it into the crease of his clothes—outside the remnant scripture, easier to produce, harder to search. Not because he was brilliant, but because he'd lived long enough in the mine to know where things should be hidden.
Hu San's seal was on the paper. The ink was still fresh.
The round-faced deacon's smile finally vanished. "Hu San gave you a permit into a forbidden passage?"
The tall deacon took the slip, pressed his thumb to the seal, and his gaze turned colder. "Do you know how long the Abandoned Branch has been sealed?"
"I do," Gong Chang said. "But I had no choice. Hu San said if I couldn't make up the quota, he'd wipe out what little merit I had left and send me into the Abandoned Branch to dig. He also said if I wasn't out before midnight, they'd assume I died in there."
The round-faced deacon gave a short snort. "Assume you died. How generous."
The tall deacon stared at Gong Chang. "So you're here to accuse him?"
Gong Chang didn't cry injustice. He didn't complain. He only said the truth. "I just want to live."
He paused, then continued. "Hu San wanted me dead, not because I stole ore, but because if I died in the Abandoned Branch, this permit becomes worthless paper. He stays clean. But I came out alive—then the mirror showed red, and he panicked."
The round-faced deacon looked at him as if seeing him properly for the first time. "You can calculate."
Gong Chang didn't argue. He knew argument was useless. If he wanted to live, he had to drag them into a bigger mess—big enough that they couldn't kill him in haste.
"The weigh station has records," Gong Chang pressed on. "I was two jin short because Hu San forced me down to make it up. The notches on my merit tag are there. If you convict me of ore theft, first ask Hu San why he dared issue a permit into a sealed passage. Then ask him—over the years, how many mine hands has he sent in, and how many crawled back out alive?"
The interrogation hall went quiet for a beat.
The tall deacon's eyes shifted, as if weighing something.
The round-faced deacon smiled again, but the smile still didn't reach his eyes. "Listen to you. You make it sound like you're running errands for us."
Gong Chang neither bowed nor flared. "I'm only saying what I know. If you want to investigate what's wrong with the mine, someone has to tell the truth. Mine hands' lives aren't worth much, but dead men don't speak."
The tall deacon suddenly asked, "What did you see in the Abandoned Branch?"
Gong Chang's heart tightened.
In his mind he sorted through it in a breath: bones, the carved marks, the black shard, the red light, the remnant scripture, the word "Borrow," the web of threads—what could be said, and what would get him killed the moment it left his mouth.
He chose what he could say. "A collapse. Bones. Marks on the wall. One horizontal, one vertical, dense everywhere. I cut my hand while digging, and I left."
The round-faced deacon pressed, "Cut your hand? Where?"
Gong Chang lifted his palm. "Here."
The tall deacon stared at the scabbed wound, his gaze sinking. "Stopped fast."
Gong Chang lowered his head. "It's cold in the mine. Blood dries quickly."
The excuse was ridiculous, but they didn't call him on it.
Because what they cared about clearly wasn't a single cut.
The round-faced deacon tapped the stone desk lightly. His voice was soft. "Do you know what the mirror saw on you?"
Gong Chang shook his head.
The tall deacon spoke two words. "Anomaly."
He tossed the yellow permit back onto the desk, his voice like a sentence. "Temporarily detained. Second review and re-test. You say Hu San—we'll investigate. If you lie by a single word, we'll cripple you first, then throw you into the death ward to talk slowly."
The round-faced deacon added, more like idle conversation, "But that red on you… isn't something we can touch casually."
The tall deacon lifted his brush and wrote a few characters on the desk. The ink fell heavy. "Fetch the trace examiner."
Gong Chang's heart dropped hard.
The trace examiner.
Cao the Cripple's word—"the list"—rang in his head like a stone door closing.
The two deacons rose and motioned for him to be taken back to the stone cell. On the way out of the side hall, Gong Chang heard unhurried footsteps approaching from deep in the corridor.
They were steady, striking the stone with no hint of haste—like someone walking with a ledger in his arms, even his breathing kept to rules.
Outside the stone cell, the sealing talisman was gently lifted.
A clean shadow stopped in the doorway.