The second use was not cautious.
It was not desperate.
It was intentional.
When Zhou's forward observers crossed the frayed edge of the road, Wu An did not wait to see what they would do. He felt their alignment, the way their formation pressed against the Presence like a finger against a bruise.
He pushed.
Not with words.
Not with will.
With definition.
The space around the road clarified again, snapping into an unnaturally clean line. Zhou scouts vanished—not into nothing, but into somewhere that did not permit return. The ground beneath their boots sealed like water smoothed after a thrown stone.
No bodies.
No blood.
Just subtraction.
The city shuddered.
Two more streets buckled.
A tenement folded inward like wet paper. A hundred people disappeared before anyone could scream.
Wu Jin felt it from the throne and stood so fast his chair fell backward.
"Seal the north!" he shouted. "Seal—"
The order arrived at the same moment he understood it was meaningless.
He turned instead to the ministers.
"We are accepting Zhou's 'stability agreement,'" he said hoarsely.
General Han froze. "Your Majesty—"
"Sign it," Wu Jin said. "Now."
Ink met paper.
The city felt it.
A wave of quiet passed through the streets as Zhou's legitimacy solidified.
Wu Jin closed his eyes.
He had just sold the idea of sovereignty to buy time.
Shen Yue felt the second collapse like a knife behind her eyes.
She did not run to Wu An.
She went down.
Into the foundation levels no one else remembered.
She knelt before the stone panel again.
This time, the light did not hesitate.
She placed her palm against the first sigil and whispered the activation phrase.
A hairline fracture spread through the tower's geometry.
Not enough to be seen.
Enough to be possible.
"Forgive me," she breathed.
Above, Wu An stood alone at the edge of a vanished street, staring at the place where people had been.
"I stabilized it," he murmured.
No one answered.
Zhou moved.
Not soldiers.
Monks.
They walked forward chanting patterns older than the empire, prayers designed not to banish, but to stiffen reality. The road's shimmer dulled. The air thickened. The Presence did not recoil—but its reach became uneven.
Wu An felt it.
Not weakening.
Interference.
Wu Shuang turned sharply inside the tower.
"Someone is touching it," she said.
The Lord Protector's eyes narrowed.
"Zhou," he replied.
"And Shen Yue," Wu Shuang added quietly.
He did not look at her.
"Careful," he said. "You're naming things."
Outside, Wu An realized the truth at the same moment the monks finished their chant.
The horror was not absolute.
It could be contained.
And someone he loved had just begun doing exactly that.
He did not rage.
He did not shout.
He felt something colder than either.
Above Ling An, Zhou's banners lifted for the first time.
Not in triumph.
In confirmation.
The war had entered its final, ugliest phase:
Not of who had power—
but of who could afford to use it.