The compass glowed faintly in Chen Wanli's palm, its runes flickering like embers starved of oxygen. The soul disk pulsed again—once for Song Jiaojiao... and once more, weaker, but persistent.
"A second mark," he muttered.
"And it's close."
He traced the needle's direction: east, into the higher districts, where the Song family's influence sprawled like a polished fortress.
Wanli turned from the alley and vanished into the crowd, cloak flapping behind him like the tail of a passing storm.
---
At Song Enterprises Private Residence, Song Jiaojiao stood in her bedroom, dressed now in civilian clothes: sleek, monochrome, sharp.
The lotus-shaped mark behind her ear still throbbed subtly, reacting every time she came near reflective surfaces—mirrors, glass, polished metal. But no matter how closely she examined it, she could find no explanation. No record in her medical history. No known scar. No memory.
Just that voice in the dark, and that golden light that had pulled her out.
And now, something else—visions. Flashes of another time. A temple. A battlefield. A man kneeling beneath a blood moon.
"Have I seen him before?" she whispered.
The door creaked open.
Her older brother, Song Yi, stepped in with practiced grace. His tailored suit and easy smile masked the calculating glint in his eyes.
"You gave us all a scare," he said. "Even Father's flying in early."
Jiaojiao watched him. She didn't return the smile.
"I died, Yi-ge," she said bluntly.
"Only for a few minutes," he replied, tone light. "You're alive now. That's what matters."
But her gaze didn't soften.
"I didn't crash on my own."
He paused. "What are you implying?"
Her voice was ice.
"I'm implying someone wanted me dead."
---
Elsewhere in Haicheng, Chen Wanli crouched beside a crumbling shrine hidden beneath a bridge where the river turned black with industrial runoff.
He placed the soul compass at the shrine's center, dropping a single bloodstone bead onto its surface. The compass began to spin, reacting violently. A faint outline shimmered in the air—an imprint of two souls.
Jiaojiao's was clear and warm—recently saved.
The second was blurred, fragmented. And fading fast.
A name rose to the surface.
Tang Yanan.
Chen's breath stilled.
---
Back at Song Enterprises, Tang Yanan exited the conference room, rubbing her temples. The board had grilled her for two hours, demanding answers she didn't have.
Jiaojiao's miraculous survival had thrown them into a frenzy—not because they were relieved, but because it disrupted their plans.
Yanan sighed and leaned against the hallway wall.
Then her legs buckled.
A searing pain struck behind her eyes. Her pulse spiked. Her breath hitched. Darkness clawed at the edges of her vision. And somewhere, deep within her soul, something writhed—
something bound.
"Help," she gasped.
---
At that moment, across the city, the compass in Chen Wanli's hand shattered.
"No," he whispered.
"Not again."
He stood abruptly, heart hammering.
Someone was accelerating the curse. Whoever had marked Song Jiaojiao… had tethered Tang Yanan too.
And one of them wasn't meant to survive.
---
**In a darkened observatory high above Haicheng**, Zhao Liren stood before a wall of ritual scrolls. His fingers danced across ancient sigils.
"You interfered with fate once," he whispered to the wind. "But let's see how many threads you can hold before they all snap."
Behind him, a figure cloaked in shadows bowed low. His voice rasped like torn parchment.
"Do I remove the girl?"
Zhao shook his head. "No. Let her suffer. And let the healer break himself trying to save her."
---