Yuancheng, Judiciary Crown, Rear Quarters.
Zone Three — Provisional Detainment. A place for those who await judgment. Not quite a cell. Not quite a room. Just enough space to sleep.
Too little to dream. Shen Jin sat on the edge of the narrow bed. The Seal rested in his palm. Still. Quiet. But not gone. He was still "unconfirmed." Still under watch. No guards at the door—only locks and paper-mirrors, watching every blink, every breath.
The Fourth Seal had opened. But since then, the Seal had gone dormant, or pretended to. Sometimes it warmed in his hand—a pulse like old embers.
He closed his eyes. He hadn't dreamed since the trial. But he knew that wasn't peace. That was interference. Dreams are only one side of the Seal's voice. And the Seal was waiting for something, for dreams.
A knock at the door. He opened his eyes. The Seal slipped into his sleeve. Two taps. A voice:
"It's me. Luo Qinghan."
He stood. Opened the door. She stood there, holding a thin paper-mirror. Her face unreadable. But her eyes are tired.
"I was sent to monitor residual dream-flux."
He stepped aside.
"Come in."
She entered. Locked the door behind her. The paper-mirror unfolded on the desk. Its surface was clear. Too clear. She glanced at him. Then the Seal.
"Have you dreamed?"
"No."
She paused.
"Doesn't it feel a little too quiet?"
He looked at her.
"You noticed, too?"
She didn't answer. Only set the mirror upright. Glyphs shimmered.
"Then let's see if the dream is really asleep."
—
The paper-mirror sat still. Its surface is too clear, too still, as if no dream had ever lived here.
Luo Qinghan traced the edge.
"The block is too strong. I'll ease it."
She slipped a leaf-thin talisman into the mirror's center. A faint shimmer pulsed outward, like water disturbed.
From Shen Jin's brow, a thread of light stretched into the mirror. His mind stirred. Weightless. Not painful.
He asked quietly:
"They sent you?"
Not an accusation. More like something between uncertainty and a hope he wouldn't admit aloud.
She didn't answer. Then—softly:
"Yours."
He blinked. Didn't ask more.
The mirror clouded. Shadows moved. Not dreams. Not yet. Flickers.
Pages half-written. Then—
a line. Gray. Faint. Like an old scar.
Luo Qinghan stilled.
"That's not a dream trace."
"That's… a resonance scar. Something the Seal once wrote."
"Can you read it?"
No answer. Only focus. The mark shifted—not in shape, but in logic. It unfolded.
A door—half open. And behind it, a sigil he recognized—part of the Third Seal. But reversed. Backwards.
Luo Qinghan whispered:
"It's… writing itself."
Then—
Light. A spark tore from the mark—shot past her temple.
She flinched. Too late. The light struck her. And she froze. Eyes wide. Color gone. Her soul was pulled.
Shen Jin caught her. Steadied her. But her gaze was gone. Drawn inward into the mirror.
At the center of the mirror, a single line appeared:
"If you look upon me—I, too, may see you."
The Seal in his sleeve shivered.
He whispered:
"You're… answering her?"
The Seal did not reply.
The mirror collapsed.
Luo Qinghan lurched forward.
He caught her—pressed his hand against the center of the mirror.
And in that moment, the dream unfolded.
—
Shen Jin held the mirror. It trembled beneath his palm—on the edge of breaking.
Luo Qinghan had regained her awareness. Barely.
She knelt beside him, voice thin:
"We're still inside.
If you let go—
the dream will throw us out."
He didn't.
Because something within the Seal was pulling deeper. Not outward. Inward.
The mirror flickered. And then—a new vision unfolded. Not memory. Not dreams. Something older.
A place too dim for sky. Mist-thick. Soundless, save for the ghost of waves.
A boy sat on rubble. Alone.
Shen Jin recognized him.
Not by face—but by something sharper.
Memory like a wound that never learned to speak.
The boy was tracing his fingers over a ruined scroll. Soaked. Almost illegible. But he moved with reverence. He did not look up. Yet spoke:
"Dreams are books
written by someone else."
"The living only step inside
to read them."
Luo Qinghan gasped. She pointed at the scroll.
"That's… Lady Tongyuan's script."
It was a dead tongue.
Bone-speech.
Dream-ink is only visible to bloodlines she chose to write for.
A language that survived only in memory.
Shen Jin whispered:
"My mother never finished her writing."
The boy looked up. No eyes. No clear face. But a red line marked his brow—and within it, a glyph.
The Fourth Seal's Broken Ring.
He raised a finger—pointed to Luo Qinghan.
She flinched.
But the boy said:
"She wrote you."
"She wrote her."
"You woke
from her dream."
The mirror cracked.
The Seal flared.
The boy faded. Not vanished. Erased.
Only one thing remained—a line. Falling like dark feathers.
An old incantation, handwritten in his mother's dream-script:
"Jin bears no tongue—
but dream leaves words behind."
The vision ended. Silence returned.
The room stood still.
The mirror lay broken.
The Seal is quiet.
Luo Qinghan whispered:
"That boy… wasn't a dream."
Shen Jin replied:
"He was the 'me'
I never got to become."
—
Night at the lodging halls. The window-seals remained drawn. Only a single spirit-lantern lit the stone chamber, casting the slow sway of firelight across Shen Jin's still frame.
He sat, palm over the Seal. Since the dream, it had been quiet.
Luo Qinghan sat by the table, collecting fragments of the broken paper-mirror, face unreadable.
Then—
a knock.
Not the sharp code of wardens. Not a formal token. Just two soft taps. Private. Familiar.
Shen Jin stood, opened the door.
A man in the dark robes of the Inner Office of the Lingyuan Division stood there—
tall, graceful, gaze composed. Lips calm. Eyes quiet.
Ling Wanzhou.
He inclined his head.
"Late-night duty.
The chief sent this—
one unjudged scroll."
From his sleeve, he drew a small spirit-case. Fully sealed. Engraved with:
[Unjudged Fragment — Hollow Archive No. 0738]
Luo Qinghan glanced over, frowning:
"Why is an unjudged scroll being brought here?"
Ling Wanzhou replied, mild:
"I didn't summon it.
The Seal did."
"During imprint resonance, the library index
detected a related mark."
"I only followed protocol."
Shen Jin looked at him.
"This isn't the first thing you've brought me."
Ling Wanzhou gave a slight, courteous nod.
"Then maybe I'm just lucky."
He stepped inside, placed the case on the table. He didn't open it, only touched its surface.
The box gave off a low, steady hum. And the Seal in Shen Jin's palm—
answered.