Five days later. The capital. Night.
Autumn rain on the verge of falling, the air heavy as a wet cloth.
Under the same night sky. The breathing underground in the Astrology Tower continued. But in the capital, something else was seeping into the cracks of the stone.
—— The Rectification Sect's infiltration needed no sound.
Inside the Night Crow Bureau. Side hall.
The candle flame was turned to its dimmest.
Three people sat in a circle.
That clerk — the one who had crossed out "Pending Discussion" on a report — his finger stopped over the two characters "Pending Discussion" on another document. He looked at them for a long time.
Then — he did not cross them out.
Not hesitation. Those two characters sat there like a splinter. But he was suddenly uncertain — was a splinter necessarily wrong?
His breath, in that instant, was corrected by 0.005 breaths.
Not an empty space.
A trace left by being pressed flat. Like a sheet of paper ironed by a hot iron. The fibers were still there, but they could never spring back.
He did not notice.
But his body remembered.
The apprentice sat opposite, looking down at his own hands. Those hands had been called again yesterday to "correct" some deviated scale mark. He could no longer remember where the original scale marks had been.
But his fingers — at that moment — had stopped on their own.
Not resistance.
The place where he had been corrected, the muscle remembered the tightness on its own.
The third person's face was in shadow. His voice blurred by the field.
"The Rectification Sect asks nothing of you."
He paused.
"Only — let the word 'Pending Discussion' disappear from your definitions."
The clerk did not nod, did not shake his head. He only closed that document.
"Pending Discussion" — the two characters were pressed beneath the cover.
Invisible.
But he knew they were still there.
The apprentice's breath, in that moment, shortened another beat.
Not synchronized.
Measured by the same ruler.
The third person stood up. Walked toward the door. His steps were mechanically regular, the length of each step exactly the same.
As he passed the apprentice, he paused.
"You are not 'assisting' the Rectification Sect. You are helping the Empire — return to what it was originally supposed to be."
The apprentice opened his mouth, wanting to ask "what was it originally supposed to be."
But he found he did not know how to ask — because the word "originally," before he could learn it, had already been defined for him by that person.
He closed his mouth.
His lips did not press fully together. An extremely fine crack remained between them.
The person walked out of the side hall. His footsteps had no echo — not that the corridor was too long. After he walked through, the corridor forgot he had ever passed.
The clerk and the apprentice looked at each other.
No one spoke.
Their breaths, in the same instant, shortened by the same beat.
Underground, Astrology Tower. Moonlight seeped through the skylight.
Shen Yuzhu closed his eyes. His empty space was open.
The transparent segment of his left arm faded another half degree. But he did not look down.
He was "listening."
Not listening to sound. At the bottom of his empty space — that "made‑way position" — sensed something.
At the bottom of his empty space, the sentence Helian Sha had left — "We are only — still —" — breathed again.
Not an echo.
Being remembered.
Then — those 0.005‑breath traces of "correction" surfaced one by one.
Not grown from his empty space. They had been remembered on their own by that "made‑way position."
He opened his eyes.
"The Rectification Sect is infiltrating the capital."
His voice was softer than usual, as if speaking to himself.
"Not an attack. It is making the capital's breath — begin to forget empty spaces."
The mirror‑keeper stood in the shadows, like a stone forgotten in a corner. The dust had grown another layer thicker.
"Who is being infiltrated?"
Shen Yuzhu was silent for a while.
"Not specific people. 'Definition' itself."
He raised his left hand. That almost transparent left hand, in the moonlight, nothing but an extremely faint outline.
"The Rectification Sect does nothing. They only — let the word 'Pending Discussion' disappear from the Empire's grammar."
Mirror‑keeper: "How does it disappear?"
Shen Yuzhu did not answer.
He closed his eyes again.
At the bottom of his empty space, several extremely faint ripples appeared. Not 0.41 depressions. Flatness of 0.00.
Not filled flat.
They had never had an indentation.
Those people — those officials who had been "contacted" by the Rectification Sect — there had once been extremely short pauses in their breath, so short that not even the word "empty space" necessarily applied.
The only thing he was sure of — their bodies had begun to become "uncertain" whether they had ever had an empty space.
Outside the capital's north gate. Official road.
The grey‑robed man stood there.
Ever since returning from the Southwest, he had not gone back to the secret chamber to report. Not avoidance. He was waiting — for that 0.01‑breath residue to disappear on its own.
It had not disappeared.
Only grown fainter.
So faint he was almost unsure whether it was still there.
He did not look down at his left hand.
But he knew — that hand, within his sleeve, did not tremble.
Not that the crack had disappeared.
Nor that he was pressing it.
He had finally — stopped pressing.
That hand, in that moment, did not belong to the same version. It had made that decision on its own.
He thought of that person who had disappeared.
The Gate Keeper before that door.
Their left hands were the same kind of thing. Only one cracked open, one pressed shut.
His breathing was still regular as a ruler.
Inhale — exhale.
Smooth. Complete. Unbroken.
But he was not sure — was his breath still his?
He felt it.
Not through the ice mirror, not through any Rectification Sect channel. Through his left hand — that hand hanging at his sleeve — told him.
In the capital, someone was being "corrected" in their breath.
Not pressed.
Forgotten.
He did not speed up. Did not slow down. Only continued standing.
His left hand in his sleeve.
That 0.01‑breath residue — this time —
did not appear.
Not remembered. Not taken away.
Just — did not appear.
The capital. A certain long street. Night.
That young official — the one who had written "Pending Discussion" on a report — walked home.
His steps were normal. His breathing normal.
But the empty space in his chest — that extremely short, almost‑nonexistent pause — was still there.
He tried to ignore it. Could not.
Because with every breath, that empty space was lightly "confirming" itself. Not deepening, not shallowing. Just — still there.
He stopped walking, looked up at the sky.
The autumn rain had not yet fallen. Clouds were thick, blocking the moonlight. Lanterns on both sides of the long street swayed in the wind, light and shadow flickering.
He suddenly thought of one thing.
That report — the one on which he had written "Pending Discussion" — he had not submitted it. He did not know where to submit it. That "Pending Discussion" cabinet in the archives room? He had never been to that cabinet.
He had only pressed the report at the very bottom of his drawer, covered by other documents.
Not hiding. It was —
He did not know why he had done it.
He kept walking.
Inhale — short pause — exhale.
That pause, like a leaf fallen on water. Not yet sunk. But the water had already begun to ripple.
What he did not know was — at the same moment, at least seven people in the capital had the same pause in their breath, too short for any instrument to capture.
Not infection. Not synchronization.
Pressed out by the same kind of "uncertainty."
Night Crow Bureau. Archives room. Deepest part.
The "Pending Discussion" cabinet stood quietly in the darkness.
Its door did not close properly. That crack was still there.
Inside the cabinet, nine documents now lay.
Not placed by the same person. Not placed at the same time. No one had mobilized, no one had called for it, no one had given any order.
The documents had walked in on their own.
Not because they had been "chosen."
Because "completion" had begun to feel uncomfortable.
The wood grain of the cabinet door, in that instant, breathed ever so lightly.
Not a rhythm.
It was — finally something could breathe.
Underground, Astrology Tower.
Shen Yuzhu closed his eyes.
Those 0.005‑breath traces of "correction" — were still there.
Not deepened. Not shallowed.
Just — still there.
He did not "remember" them. He only let them stay there.
Like that unfinished sentence Helian Sha had left.
"We are only — still —"
Still what?
He did not know.
Nor did he need to know.
Because that sentence — did not need to be completed. It only needed — still to be there.
He opened his eyes and looked at the mirror‑keeper.
"The Rectification Sect is not evil."
The mirror‑keeper stepped out of the shadows one pace.
"What do you mean?"
Shen Yuzhu did not answer directly.
He looked at his left arm. That almost transparent left arm.
"They only — no longer dare to crack open."
He paused.
"Like that person."
He did not say who "that person" was.
But the mirror‑keeper knew.
The grey‑robed man. That hand that no longer pressed down on the crack. That hand that no longer trembled, but was no longer entirely his own.
Moonlight seeped through the skylight, falling on Shen Yuzhu's face.
He did not speak again.
Only continued breathing.
Inhale — empty — exhale.
In that empty space, there were traces of the Rectification Sect's infiltration, empty spaces being forgotten, a hand that no longer pressed down on a crack, a clerk beginning to be uncertain, a young official who had written "Pending Discussion" and did not know why.
And a question —
"When forgetting is easier than pressing flat, will people still choose to crack open?"
He did not ask it aloud.
But that question, at the bottom of his empty space, breathed on its own.
The capital. A certain long street. Deeper into the night.
The young official finally reached home.
He pushed open the door. The room was not lit.
He did not light it.
Only sat by the bed, took off his shoes. Movements normal.
Then — his left hand, as he set down the shoes, paused ever so lightly.
Not that he wanted to pause.
His fingers had stopped on their own.
He looked at that hand.
In the darkness, he could not see clearly.
But he knew — that hand remembered something he himself was no longer certain of.
He did not know why he had pressed that report to the bottom of his drawer.
He only knew — every time his left hand touched that drawer, his fingertips grew half a degree cooler.
Not temperature.
The shape left in his body by that word remembered by the paper.
He did not press it back.
Nor did he confirm it.
Only let that hand rest on his knee.
Breathing.
Inhale — exhale.
Inhale — exhale.
No empty space.
But he was not sure — was it that he had no empty space, or that he no longer remembered what an empty space was supposed to be?
Night Crow Bureau. Side hall.
The clerk sat alone.
The candle flame burned to its end, flickered a few times, went out.
He did not get up to relight it.
In the darkness, he raised his left hand.
That hand — over the two characters "Pending Discussion" — had once stopped on its own.
Not his decision. His fingers had stopped on their own.
He did not confirm.
His fingertips were half a degree cooler.
Underground, Astrology Tower.
Shen Yuzhu closed his eyes.
Those traces — were still there.
He did not count them. Did not remember them.
He only let them stay there.
Because he knew — tomorrow, there might be more.
The Rectification Sect's infiltration would not stop.
Not because they were evil.
Because completeness needed no reason. Completeness only needed to forget.
He continued breathing.
Inhale — empty — exhale.
Breathing continued.
[CHAPTER 243 · END]