The blood on the hilt had already dried, sticking to his palm, but Chen Wuya did not wipe it away. He merely slowly loosened his fingers, letting the short blade slide back into the leather sheath at his waist with a soft click.
That stone wall had long since closed, as though it had never opened at all. Yet a faint tremor still lingered in the air, like some ancient pulse beating slowly beneath the earth. Bai Zhi remained before him, her sword not yet returned to its sheath, though its tip had lifted slightly and no longer pointed ahead.
"You said to hand over the token, or leave my bones buried here." Chen Wuya spoke in a low, hoarse voice, yet without a trace of retreat. "But when you left just now, you didn't make a move."
Deep in the shadows, the bronze-masked figure stood motionless, cloak hanging to the ground without the slightest stir.
"Because you aren't sure." Bracing himself on a broken pillar, Chen Wuya slowly lowered himself to sit, his left arm resting on his knee. He moved slowly, as though afraid of disturbing something. "The person who took away the fragment three hundred years ago—was he called a traitor by you too, just like me? Did he stand in this ancient castle as well, listening to the same threats?"
No one answered.
"But he didn't die." Chen Wuya lowered his head to look at the calluses on his palm. "He took it out. And you, generation after generation, stayed here—burning drafts, killing possessors, thinking that would seal away the Heavenly Machine. But it still found its way into the martial world, still got practiced by people, and still... chose me."
He raised his eyes toward the shadows. "You call this a calamity. But would a