Ruò Yún, Lóng Xuán, and Shen Jian sprinted back into the Forge, breath ragged, panic written across their faces. When they burst inside, the chamber was eerily empty—only broken smithing machinery remained.
"Zhāo! Are you here?" Ruò Yún called, voice trembling with worry.
Silence answered.
"He wasn't here when we were working on the machine. Shen Jian and I have been here the whole time—if he'd sneaked in, I would have noticed." Lóng Xuán panted, scanning the wreckage.
"Yes," Shen Jian replied, still catching his breath. "His presence is powerful. It's impossible for him to slip in and out without us seeing."
"Then where did he go?" Lóng Xuán demanded.
"Ruò Yún? Where are you going?" Lóng Xuán shouted as the girl vanished like a flash into the narrow tunnels.
Youth moved with a speed adults could not match. Ruò Yún tore through the underground village, barging past busy Minggu folk and scattering pedestrians as she ran. Nothing stopped her.
"Damn it—where did she go? We lost her trail," Lóng Xuán growled, breath ragged in the cavernous streets.
"Are you looking for Zhāo's lover?" a concerned villager called out. "I saw her run toward the exit. She looked like she was about to cry."
"Please don't tell me she headed to the surface to look for Zhāo…" Lóng Xuán's lips trembled with fear.
Aboveground, Ruò Yún raced up the stone stairs toward the light. Flashes of brightness—like fireworks—occasionally sparked over the ruined plains. Every step was driven by panic and dread.
At the cave mouth she found no one at first. Then a burst of light exploded across the sky—giant fireworks lit the night above the remnants of Qīngliǔ's capital. In that glare she scanned the ruined gardens and toppled pavilions.
There—Zhāo's silhouette crouched beneath a lone tree behind a shattered hall, among the ruins of the palace.
She ran to him without thinking. "Zhāo—thank God you're alive!" she cried, throwing her arms around him from behind. "What are you doing here? Everyone's been searching for you. Come back into the cavern—this place is dangerous."
But Zhāo did not seem concerned with safety. His gaze was fixed on the distant celebration, on the crowd gathered at the far edge of the shattered avenue. In his hand he held a scrap of paper.
"Zhāo?" she asked.
"They're celebrating something," he said coldly.
"They're celebrating the conquest of our kingdom," he explained, voice flat. "Look—Guozhi Jingguo, hailed as a hero for seizing Qīngliǔ from the traitor's blood… What kind of poster is this?"
"I don't know," she said, peering at the paper. "From Xuánhǔ point of view, we're the villains. The man who's responsible for my parents' and your mother's deaths is called a hero by them. Irony—people can interpret the same event in so many opposing ways."
Ruò Yún squeezed Zhāo's hand to calm herself as painful memories of the massacre resurfaced—images of blood and stone, of the day their lives ended and began to sour into vengeance.
"We should go back," she whispered. "The longer we stay out here, the more dangerous it becomes."
"No." Zhāo's voice was quiet and resolute. "You should leave. I won't find sleep until I cut this man's head off. With the power I have now, I can do it."
Smack.
A sharp hand pressed across Zhāo's cheek and silenced him.
"Zhāo Han! Please!" Ruò Yún sobbed, voice breaking. "I lost my parents the same day you lost yours. But this—this is not the right way to seek vengeance. If you insist on killing the man on that poster tonight, you will die. Please understand your position."
"You should understand, Ruò Yún," Zhāo answered. "I will not stay by your side forever. Life and death are not choices to be postponed."
"Are you really going to leave me?" her voice cracked.
"That's not what I mean. Our home is buried underground, our family gone. I've decided on vengeance. Sooner or later, I will disappear too."
He cupped her cheek with gentle fingers, as if memorizing every contour of her face. "If that day comes, I want you to keep living—freed from the burden of the past. You have the best chance to live freely here, Ruò Yún."
"You're not the Zhāo I knew. Isn't there another way to save you from this thirst for revenge?"
"My old self was weak—whiny and naive. I've killed him." His answer was cold, final.
Tears slipped down Ruò Yún's face and fell to the ash-strewn ground, each drop a quiet agony. She fought to hold back her sobs, but the flood rose and broke.
"Let me in," she pleaded.
"Let you in?" Zhāo looked surprised, one eyebrow raised, as if the proposal didn't fit with her innocent face.
"I told you before—you wanted to use the Minggu to take revenge, didn't you? I know how to do it." Her voice hardened.
"How?" Zhāo asked.
"Hey! You there! Stop right where you are!"
Before she could explain, two soldiers in green armor—like the ones who had killed Zhāo's mother—cut them off from behind. Their spear tips glinted in the fireworks' light, and Zhāo felt the old pain flare up—every spark like yesterday's death.
The boy's anger ignited.
Caught by enemies, what would Zhāo and Ruò Yún do next?