Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The stone chamber was so quiet that only the sound of dripping water could be heard. The frost on the surface of the ice coffin slowly condensed, peeled off, and condensed again, like a living tomb that was breathing on its own.

Yang Hui approached.

He stood before the ice coffin, less than an arm's length from the transparent ice. He looked down and saw Yan Lingji's face—closer and more real than he had seen in the Heavenly Secrets Technique. The ice separated them by temperature and by time. Her features were still, not even her eyelashes moved, like a painting imprinted on the ice.

He looked at her for three breaths, then looked away to look at the chains.

Two dark gold chains emerged from the sides of the ice coffin, their surfaces covered with intricate runes. He crouched down and touched one of the chains with his fingertip—the moment his fingertip touched the metal surface, an extremely fine chill pierced his skin like a needle, creeping up his finger and stopping at his wrist.

He withdrew his hand; his fingertips had turned white.

He stared at the runes for a while. They weren't characters—not any kind of writing he recognized—but rather some kind of twisted symbolism, winding and coiling across the surface of the chain. They flowed slowly in the blue light, like living things. Yang Hui looked at them for a long time, finally understanding that they were "not static."

Every so often, the runes would change in a very subtle way—not rearranged, but "deepened." It was as if the chains were continuously drawing something from the ice coffin and feeding it back into themselves, making them stronger. It was a self-circulating restriction. Without breaking this cycle, any external impact would be reflected back by the chains' own icy power.

The Heaven-Asking Sword could cut through it. But he wasn't sure if the icy backlash from the sword would simultaneously shatter the last vestiges of life in the ice coffin when it severed the chains.

He needs to first identify "where the chains are weak".

He straightened up, took a half step back, and placed the Heavenly Questioning Sword horizontally on the ground beside the ice coffin. The moment the sword touched the ground, it emitted a very low hum—like metal responding to a call from somewhere. Yang Hui ignored it. He closed his eyes, placed his left hand on his chest, and touched the rolled-up bamboo scroll through his clothing. The bamboo scroll of the Heavenly Secrets Technique was slightly warm in his arms—warmer than before, like a ball of charcoal sealed in cloth. He took a deep breath, then tore open that "barrier."

Everything before his eyes vanished.

The stone chamber, the ice coffin, the chains, the icicles on the walls—all faded to grayish-white lines, like a painting submerged in water. In their place, a beam of light appeared.

The light unfolded before his eyes, traversing the entire stone chamber. It was as thin as a silkworm's thread, emitting a pale golden glow, one end connected to the chain runes on the ice coffin, the other extending into the depths of the stone wall, disappearing into the darkness. The light flowed, very slowly, like a river. He followed the light—and saw that each rune of the chain left a "node" in the light, like a dam on a river, layer upon layer blocking its path. There were countless nodes, at least dozens of layers, each layer reinforcing the next.

But at the end of this light, near the base of the stone wall, there was a "knot." The knot's shape was different from the surrounding nodes—it was larger, darker, and gray, like a bruise. Looking at the knot, Yang Hui suddenly understood: it was the "starting point" of the entire restriction. When Blood-Clad Marquis set up this chain, he first buried a wisp of icy energy at this location as a "root," and then wove all the runes upwards along this root. If he wanted to break the chain, the only way he wouldn't need to dismantle all the runes was to cut it off at that "root."

He tried hard to remember the location of the knot—it was behind the third icicle at the base of the rock wall, covered by a thin layer of frost, and could not be seen at all without careful observation.

Then he withdrew his gaze. The lines of the Celestial Mystery slowly dissipated before his eyes, and the stone chamber, the ice coffin, the chains, and the icicles on the walls regained their color. He found himself kneeling on the ground. During the time he was lost in thought, his body had lost its support, and he was kneeling with his hands on the cold stone floor. A fine layer of cold sweat seeped from his forehead, instantly turning into frost upon contact with the chill of the stone chamber. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and the frost melted into water droplets that clung to his brow bone.

His heart was beating faster than usual. He counted his pulse—a third faster than normal, as if something had been pulled away from him, pushing the rest forward a little faster.

He stood up. The bamboo scroll in his arms was no longer hot, but warm, like a stone that had been handled by someone.

One year. This was the first time he had used the Heavenly Secrets Technique to exchange for it. He didn't know how many years he had left, but he didn't look back. He bent down, picked up the Heavenly Sword from the ground, stood up, and walked to the base of the stone wall. He used his fingers to brush away the thin layer of frost behind the third icicle—he found it. There was a dark mark there, like a burn scar that had been frozen over, embedded in the surface of the stone wall, not deep, but palpable.

He raised the Heaven-Asking Sword.

The sword trembled slightly in his hand, like a beast that had been caged for too long finally smelling the air. He glanced down at the black sword—ten years. He had held it for ten years, never fully drawing it. Guiguzi said, "Asking Heaven, asking Heaven, is asking Heaven itself. When you draw your sword, if there is even a trace of 'seeking' in your heart, the sword is empty."

He didn't ask for anything. He knew he would die—not just "might die," but "definitely die." He just wanted to break the chains binding the person in the ice coffin before that happened. He had no other desires, only one thing: to cut the knot.

He drew his sword.

The Heaven-Asking Sword was truly unsheathed for the first time. The instant the blade left the withered, wooden scabbard, the air in the stone chamber emitted a very low tearing sound—like cloth being ripped open from the middle. The blade was revealed. It wasn't silver-white, but a dull, almost non-glossy blackish-gray, with very faint lines on it, like a dried-up riverbed. The moment it slid out of the scabbard, Yang Hui felt the weight on his wrist lighten—as if the sword itself had "floated," lifting his hand upwards.

He aimed the tip of his sword at the dark mark at the base of the stone wall. Without gathering power or withdrawing his stance, he simply released the last layer of control in the direction of the Heavenly Sword's most natural "momentum".

The tip of the sword landed on the knot.

There was no loud noise, no explosion. The instant the sword touched the mark, the entire dark golden chain flashed brightly—a surge of blue light, like a lit fuse burning to its end in an extremely short time. Then, all the runes on the chain flickered simultaneously, like a lamp struggling one last time before it died. Then they all went dark.

The dark golden chains slowly detached from the sides of the ice coffin. The runes on the chains lost their luster, like water evaporating completely from a dried-up riverbed. The chains fell to the ground without a metallic clang—they landed like a withered vine, silent and weightless.

Yang Hui sheathed the Heaven-Asking Sword. The moment the sword disappeared back into its scabbard, the tearing sound in the stone chamber vanished. He hung the sword back at his waist and turned to look at the ice coffin. The surface of the ice coffin had no cracks or breaks, but it was "no longer so bright." The luster of the transparent ice surface had dimmed, like a light source slowly fading after losing its core support.

Then he heard a sound—a very faint sound, like a thin thread snapping—coming from inside the ice coffin.

He approached the ice coffin. Through the ice, he saw her fingers twitch. Not her whole hand, but her index finger, which curled slightly, like a sleeping person unconsciously curling their fingers. Then, her chest—the area covered by the red robe—rose and fell very faintly. She was breathing. The seal had been broken, and she was breathing on her own.

Yang Hui looked at her face. Her lips were still bright red, but the red was no longer "solidified" as before; it was as if something was slowly flowing beneath that bright red.

He crouched down, and across the ice, placed his palm where it met her cheek. The ice was cold, but his palm was warm. He didn't speak. He simply pressed his palm against the ice, as if shaking hands with that person across ten years of frost.

Sounds came from outside the stone chamber—the guards on the first floor were changing shifts. He heard footsteps and voices.

The time had come. He had to take her away.

He tucked the iron skewer into his robes, then knelt down, reaching his arms into the edge of the ice coffin to lift Yan Lingji from the loose, shattered chains. Her body was light—lighter than he had imagined, but far too light; he could support her with one hand. In his arms, she was like a boneless leaf, cool and still. Her head rested on his shoulder, her long, wet, icy hair clinging to his neck.

He carried her outside.

As he passed through the third bronze door, he squeezed past her sideways, preventing her from being scraped by the doorframe. When he passed through the crossbowmen's passageway on the second level, he no longer crouched—he was carrying someone and couldn't crouch anymore. He walked steadily, each step landing firmly on the stone slabs, neither too light nor too heavy, his footsteps as even as someone walking home at night. The crossbowmen were still standing, awake, and holding their crossbows. But no one shot at him. Not because he was fast, but because the moment the barrier was severed, the chill of the entire chain surged back for a moment, and a sudden gust of cold mist rose from the third level, enveloping the entire passageway. The crossbowmen couldn't see anything in the cold mist, only feeling an unprecedented chill surge up from the depths of the ground, causing them to instinctively take a step back. When Yang Hui walked through the cold mist, they only saw a blurry shadow—like a person carrying something through the fog. When the fog dissipated, the person was gone.

He walked through the first level as well. The jailers were changing shifts; the new ones yawned and prepared to sit down, while the replacements groggily sheathed their swords and headed towards their cells. He slipped between them, like a gust of wind through a slightly ajar door. He climbed the stone steps, pushed open the trapezoidal floorboards above, and emerged from a side room. The moonlight was dim, the clouds thicker. He carried Yan Lingji over the back wall of the General's Mansion, and the moment he landed in the alley outside, he felt the body in his arms move slightly.

He looked down at her. She didn't open her eyes. But in his arms, her breathing was deeper than before, not just a slight movement of her chest, but as if her whole body was slowly melting from ice, beginning to take on a "living" form. He quickened his pace, walking towards Zilan Pavilion. A figure stood in the shadows at the alley entrance—Han Fei. He emerged from the shadows, saw the person in his arms, and didn't ask, "Did you succeed?" or "Are you injured?" He only glanced at the spot where the chains had come loose and said:

"Let's go. The back door of Zilan Pavilion. The fire is already lit."

Yang Hui followed him. The night wind blew in his face, and he could smell the lingering chill and rust on his body. The woman in his arms curled up slightly in his embrace, as if searching for a warmer position.

He glanced down at her wet, messy hair, then continued walking.