Master An was dying. He knew this the way he knew the weight of a silence, or the scent of rain on old paper.He sat in the heart of the Azure Archives, on a cushion worn thin by a century of contemplation. Before him lay an empty pedestal of polished river stone. This was the Last Plinth. Upon it, only one thing would ever rest: the Dragon-Eyed Scroll of the dying Keeper.His breath was a shallow tide, each pull a little weaker than the last. Around him, in the endless, shadowed shelves, ten thousand scrolls slept. They did not whisper to him now. They were holding their breath.“Soon, my old friends,” he murmured, the words dust on his lips. “Soon.”He had been Keeper for ninety-seven years. He had guided the final echoes of over eight hundred martial styles into this sacred stillness. He had soothed vengeful ghosts, calmed sorrowful masters, and locked away techniques too terrible for the living world. The Archives were not just a library; they were a tomb, a memorial, and a prison

The relief Li Ming felt from quieting the voices was short-lived. The new pressure from Lady Silken Death’s words was different, a slow, sinking pull, like a hook in his soul."Do you feel it, Keeper?" Iron Saint Bai’s voice was solemn. "That tugging in your spirit? Like a river current dragging you toward a waterfall."Li Ming focused inward. Beyond the low hum of the ten thousand silent scrolls, he felt it. A faint, rhythmic dragging sensation. It pulled down and to the east. It felt like melancholy, like the last sigh of a fire.“Yes,” Li Ming whispered. “It’s… sad.”"It is the ‘Death Throes’ of a style," Bai explained. "The ‘Drunken God’s Steps.’ Its last true master is on the brink. When he falls, the style’s essence will tear loose. If we are not prepared, it will rip through the Archive like a wild ghost, damaging other scrolls. Or worse, it might not come here at all. It might shatter, lost forever. Or attach itself to some unworthy fool in the world below."“What do we do?” L

Awareness crept back slowly.First, the smell: damp wool, wood smoke, and the pungent, oily scent of fish. Then, sound: the crackle of a fire, the steady drip of water, and the deep, resonant rumble of the river close by. Finally, sensation: he was lying on something rough and scratchy, a blanket, maybe, and every muscle in his body ached with a deep, cold soreness. His head throbbed cause of pain.He tried to move, and a groan escaped his lips.“Awake, are you?” The voice was the same one from the stone, gruff, weathered, and distinctly unimpressed. “Figured you’d either wake up or not. Wasn’t sure which.”Li Ming pushed himself up on his elbows. His earth-sense was muddled, his connection to Bai’s borrowed power faded to a faint, warm ember in his feet. He was in a small space. The fire’s heat came from his left. The river’s rumble was ahead and below. The air felt enclosed.“Where am I?” His voice was a rasp.“My shack. Under the river bluff. Only way in or out is by water or a cli

Wen’s hand on his elbow was a steady, unassuming guide. She did not pull or hurry him. Her steps were measured, her presence a calm warmth against the cool night air. The path underfoot changed from soft earth to smooth, fitted stones that clicked gently as they walked.“You sense the village layout?” Wen asked, her voice conversational.Li Ming focused. Beyond the immediate sounds, their footsteps, the distant frogs, the sigh of wind through reeds, he began to map a broader space through echoes. The lake was a vast, flat presence to their right, muting sound. To the left and ahead, structures rose, breaking the wind and creating pockets of softer noise: the rustle of a cloth banner, the creak of a well pulley, the faint snuffle of an animal in a pen.“Houses,” he said slowly. “To the left. Smaller ones, close together. A larger building ahead, with an open space before it. The ground slopes up behind it.”Wen made a soft sound of approval. “Good. You use what you have. Many who come