Jianli didn't sleep that night.
He sat hunched beside the calligraphy shop, the rain whispering against his shoulders, his fingers curled protectively around the brush he'd stolen. No—not stolen. Claimed. It had awakened something in him, or perhaps remembered something in him. His skin still tingled from the memory of the stroke, the soundless thrum that had passed through the paper like a tremor through stone.
He stared at the scroll.
The character he had written — 漬 — still shimmered faintly. Not with light, but intent. It was as if the word was aware that it had been spoken into the world. And it was still listening.
By dawn, the rain had carved rivulets in the alley mud, turning the street into a sluggish stream of gray. Jianli remained in place, unmoving, even when Old Lin came out to sweep the stoop. The old man paused when he saw the boy. His mouth puckered. His eyes scanned the discarded scroll.
"I don't recall leaving that out," he muttered.
Jianli looked up slowly, unsure if he should run.
Instead, Lin squinted. "You wrote that?"
The boy nodded.
Lin's brow furrowed. "Don't lie. That stroke style — that's Bone-Wire Script. No one under seventy writes like that anymore. And not without training."
Jianli blinked. Then, to the old man's amazement, the mute boy bowed deeply.
It was enough.
Lin exhaled, muttered a curse, and waved him inside.
The shop was a different world from the alley. Dust danced in golden slats of morning light. Shelves sagged with inkstones, brushes, and jars of powder—crushed obsidian, cinnabar, jade dust, ghostbone shavings. The air thrummed with quiet reverence.
"Sit," Lin ordered.
Jianli did. He didn't look at the scroll on the table, or the brush resting in his lap like a sleeping dragon. He looked at the old man.
"You're no ordinary mute orphan, are you?" Lin asked.
The boy said nothing.
Lin rubbed his temple. "There's something in your qi. Wild. Old. Like... ink that remembers too much."
He stood, walked to the back room, and returned with a thick tome bound in leather and sinew. "This," he said, slapping it down, "is the Treatise of Living Script. Written during the Dynasty of Thorns, banned by six emperors, and believed to be extinct."
Jianli's eyes widened. He leaned closer.
Lin opened it. The pages pulsed faintly.
"There are words that do not merely describe," Lin said. "They reshape. Writing them is not calligraphy—it is command. But it's dangerous. Each stroke draws from your spirit. Too much, and you bleed dry without shedding a drop."
He paused. "You wrote one yesterday. And the world flinched."
Jianli's fingers twitched.
"You're not ready. But fate clearly disagrees." Lin sighed. "So you'll train. Here. With me."
The boy nodded.
Outside, the rain had stopped. But the clouds lingered, listening.
And beneath the calligraphy shop, in the cracked foundations of the Outer Margin, something ancient stirred.
It had felt the word, too.