Lin Wanzhao was standing outside the door.
She had a small pale-violet flower in her hair today, its petals curled at the edges, as though freshly picked. Her sleeve cuffs, predictably, had mud on them — dark brown, already dry.
"I've been waiting forever." She was smiling, the particular curve of someone who had known all along I was still in there. "Come on. I'll take you around the Grade E sector. Get your bearings."
I followed her.
The Grade E corridor was wider than the west-side laboratory wing. Luminstone lamps were set into the walls at intervals, giving off a soft, milk-white glow that lit the corridor without any edge to it. The floor was laid with blue-grey flagstone; thin moss had grown into the joints, and the surface was slightly slick underfoot.
"Residential wing." Lin Wanzhao gestured at the row of stone doors to our left. "All Grade E research subjects live here. One room each, numbered on the door. What's your number?"
"Seventy-three."
"Just ahead, then." She walked lightly, the dried mud on her cuffs shifting with her movement. "By the way — how much do you know about the isolation system?"
"Only that we have to wear the monitoring rings."
"That's just the beginning." She slowed and matched my pace. "Grade E is communal — one approved outing per month, advance application required, designated areas only. Grade D is better: private chambers, one exit per year. Grade C is full confinement unless—"
She pointed ahead.
Two cultivators were walking side by side down the corridor — both male, wearing the same pale-blue disciple robes, cloud-patterns embroidered at the cuffs. They were close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
The important part was their wrists.
The resonance marks on both wrists were faintly luminous — not the harsh kind, but a soft, synchronized glow. The left cultivator's marks lit for an instant; then the right one's followed. Like a single light alternating between two positions.
Where they passed, the potted plants along the corridor walls tilted toward them — not the yielding lean of wind, but stems bending of their own accord, drawn toward something.
"Companion Bond resonance exemption." Lin Wanzhao lowered her voice. "Once a genuine resonance is triggered, the isolation system no longer applies to them. They can move freely, live together, even go out together — with a report filed, of course."
I watched them until they were gone. The glow of their resonance marks had faded by then, but the sense of that synchronized pulse remained in the air, the way a sound does just after it stops.
"How does the resonance get triggered?" I asked.
"Emotional depth, physical contact, aether-resonance alignment." Lin Wanzhao counted on her fingers. "All three. None optional. And it can't be faked — the Covenant Hall has formation arrays specifically for verification. If someone tries to falsify it—" She paused. "Soul damage. Severe cases, the cultivation foundation collapses entirely."
"I see."
I filed that away. Emotional depth. Physical contact. Aether-resonance alignment. Three components.
I was only noting the rule. I had no use for it yet.
---
An old cultivator was sitting on a stone bench at the bend in the corridor.
He wore the standard Grade E grey robe, the cuffs worn badly enough that loose threads showed. In his hands: a medicine pouch, coarse undyed hemp, laundered until it had gone pale. He was hunched over it, turning the packets over with his fingers, slow and searching.
Lin Wanzhao nodded to him as we passed.
"Elder Zhou."
The old cultivator looked up, his gaze unfocused at first, then gradually settling. "Wanzhao." His voice was hoarse, like someone who hadn't spoken for a long time.
"This is Shen Qichi. Just arrived."
He looked at me. His gaze drifted again for a moment, then he nodded slowly. "Good. Good."
He went back to his medicine pouch. Lifted one packet. Set it down. Lifted another. The order was wrong.
I stopped.
"Your medicine," I said. "May I look?"
He passed the pouch over without hesitation. It was very light in my hands, the hemp rough against my fingers, the edges already fraying. I opened it. Inside were three packets, wrapped in oil paper, each labeled in small brushed characters.
Heart-clearing herb. Spirit-calming flower. Foundation root.
Heart-clearing herb and spirit-calming flower had conflicting properties — they couldn't be taken together. A minimum of two hours had to pass between them. Foundation root was a warming tonic and should come last.
The labels were arranged: heart-clearing herb, foundation root, spirit-calming flower.
"The order is wrong," I said. I took the packets out and rearranged them. Heart-clearing herb on the left. Spirit-calming flower on the right. Foundation root in the center. "Take the heart-clearing herb first. Wait two hours, then take the spirit-calming flower. Foundation root last. Spaced out — that's when the effects work properly."
The old cultivator's hands gave a small tremor.
Then stilled.
He took back the pouch I'd sorted, ran his fingers across the oil paper, then looked at me again. "Thank you," he said. His voice was a little clearer than before. "Which peak are you from?"
"I'm not a disciple," I said. "I'm a research subject."
His gaze dropped to my wrist — bare, nothing there — held for a moment, then came back to my face. Finally, he nodded.
"Thank you," he said again, and pulled the pouch close against his chest, holding it there.
Lin Wanzhao tugged my sleeve and signaled forward. A few steps later, she said quietly: "Elder Zhou was Foundation stage. An aether-resonance destabilization injured his cultivation base. His responses slowed after that. The Institute gave him the medicine. No one told him how to take it."
"I just think," I said, "that people shouldn't only be studied."
Lin Wanzhao didn't answer. She tugged my sleeve again — lighter this time.
I reached into my sleeve pocket and stopped. The oil-paper booklet was gone — I must have left it in the laboratory that morning. Lin Wanzhao had already turned the corner to water the spirit herbs. I walked back.
---
The laboratory faced west. By early evening the light in that direction had already sunk low. I pushed the door open. The room was empty, the instruments quiet, nothing left but a last wedge of late sun lying across the jade examination table.
I found the oil-paper booklet at the left corner of the table, pinned under an instrument case. I picked it up and turned to leave. My gaze swept across the table.
The dark-brown record book was open. It hadn't been closed.
I moved two steps closer and stood at the table's edge. The last line on the most recent page was written much lighter than the rest — the stroke barely pressing into the paper, as though the brush had hovered for a long time before landing. It had been crossed out. The crossing-out was heavy, the ink nearly breaking through to the other side, but the characters were still legible. Beside it, written again in neat, deliberate strokes:
*Fate-blank subject · Shen Qichi · Contact duration: 10 min · Resonance marks: no significant—*
Blacked out. *Resonance marks: stable.*
I stood there and looked at those two lines.
I put the oil-paper booklet in my sleeve pocket, pulled the door closed behind me, and left.
The corridor's luminstones stretched ahead, near to far. Eleven of them. The crossed-out line — I had it.