It was the hour before dawn in Hongzhen—that liminal hush suspended between the final breath of night and the first exhale of morning.
Outside the modest hut, the world held its stillness close. The soft gray of pre-dawn draped the land like a silk veil, and even the wind seemed reluctant to stir. The birds had yet to sing. The earth itself seemed to wait.
Then—"Waaah!"
A sudden, piercing cry shattered the quiet. It ricocheted off wooden walls like a blade through fog—raw, fragile, impossible to ignore.
On the woven mat, Hanya lay curled in on herself, her small frame trembling as sobs wracked her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks, catching the dim light of the lanterns.
It wasn't fear that rattled her. The sound came from deeper. This was heartbreak. Confusion. The desperate wail of a child who felt something slipping away, even if she couldn't name it.
Lian sat nearby, composed and quiet, but there was a heaviness behind his gaze. Sadness softened his expression. He rarely wore tenderness so openly, but he looked at her now with helpless affection.
"Hanya," he said, voice low and calm. "Quiet down."
But she didn't. Her sobs only grew more jagged.
"Waah... you don't want me! I don't want to go!" she wailed, her voice cracked and raw.
In one swift, unthinking motion, she flung herself into his arms. She clung to him as if he were the last solid thing left.
Her tears soaked into his robes as she cried out in Mandarin, voice muffled by sorrow, "Wǒ bù yào nǐ líkāi wǒ... bàba. (Don't leave me... Papa.)"
Lian froze. That word—bàba—struck deeper than any blade.
'Were I... too direct about her departure?' Lian thought in remorse.
Perhaps he'd been too blunt. Too cold in the way he had framed her departure. Regret bloomed inside him like a bruise.
He drew her close, wrapping one arm around her, as if he could shield her from a fate already set in motion.
"Hanya..." he whispered, resting his chin atop her head. "I'll never abandon you. But I can't risk your safety. Not here. Not now."
Sniffling, she leaned back to meet his gaze, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. "Is something bad going to happen?"
He nodded. Pride mingled with sorrow in his chest. She was young—but not foolish.
"Yes," he said softly. "Something bad will happen here."
Without hesitation, she straightened and pounded her tiny fist against her chest with all the brave conviction she could summon. "I'll protect you!"
Then—"Aw-ow!" she whimpered, pulling back from the impact, her lip quivering.
A rare, short laugh escaped Lian. He reached out and ruffled her hair.
"Hanya," he said after a pause, voice quiet but shifting. "What do you think of Rover?"
She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, a faint but vivid memory stirred behind her eyes—a quiet recollection of the young man who once shared the dinner table with Lian and the others.
Yet as the memory settled, her eyes narrowed with sudden hostility. "Rover is bad," she declared.
Lian arched an eyebrow. "Hmm? Why?"
"Rover will steal Hanya's Papa!" she declared with fierce certainty. "Bad Rover! Bad Rover!"
Lian stared at her—stunned, speechless. Then, despite himself, a tired smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
He hadn't expected that.
And yet… even with the ache spreading quietly through his chest, he knew—perhaps more clearly than he dared admit—that Rover was the only one he could trust.
The only one suitable for looking after her in this scenario, despite the unease, and the lack of trust that still lingered in Lian's heart.
Still holding her, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a secretive whisper, tinged with mischief. "I have a mission for you."
She sniffled, but her eyes lit up, curiosity rekindled. "A mission?"
She sat up straight. As the daughter of a mercenary—at least in heart if not in blood—she had long dreamed of being just like him. The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree, it seems.
"Really?" she breathed.
Lian nodded. "It's about Rover."
Her nose wrinkled. "Tch"
"Don't worry," he said, chuckling softly. "You won't be in danger. I just need you to keep an eye on him. Be subtle. Watch closely. See if anything feels… off."
He leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "I think Rover may be hiding something."
Hanya gasped. "You mean... a spy?!"
Lian smirked, pride flickering in his eyes. 'She's already forming theories.'
"Could be," he said with a shrug.
Then he rested a hand on her shoulder. "But if, at any point, you feel unsafe... remember me."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Where his lips touched, a faint, ethereal glow shimmered, then sank into her skin like a sigil, unseen by any but him—a silent promise of protection, and a whisper of parental love.
Hanya touched the spot with her fingers. Her expression brightened. "I will," she whispered, as if swearing it to the stars.
Then, the moment arrived.
Lian lifted the Terminal. His hands trembled—not from the device, but from what it meant. This was a parting without assurance of reunion. He tried to steady himself, but emotion surged in his chest, rising like a tide he could not hold back.
'This is bad,' he thought. 'This... isn't like me.'
The Terminal pulsed. Hanya vanished into its light—absorbed into it, distant and untouched by the storm gathering behind Lian's eyes.
He did not move.
He stood for a long time, staring at the space where she had been.
"Who knew..." he murmured, drawing the Terminal close to his chest, fingers tightening around it like a keepsake. "...that I could grow so soft. That I'd act against my own nature."
And by the time the first light of dawn crept across the sky, Lian remained alone in the silence—no longer just a Threnodian untouched by feeling, but something else entirely: a human
A Resonator, who had entrusted the possession of his Terminal—and a fragment of himself—to another.
"I should perhaps…" Lian whispered, eyes fixed in the direction of Jinzhou, "... practice a bit more detachment." The words left him with quiet finality, as though spoken more to himself than the world.
And yet, beneath the surface, his heart cried out in silent prayer: 'Rover, please. I am entrusting you with a part of myself.'
A single tear welled at the corner of his eye, catching the early light before slipping down his cheek—unacknowledged.
In the direction Lian had once been gazing—toward Jinzhou—the dawn broke a little brighter, casting long shadows across the quiet outskirts of the city.
There, a gourd hovered silently in the air, its surface pulsing with soft resonance before descending into the open palms of a young man: Rover.
He caught it carefully, but the moment it touched his skin, an unprecedented weight settled in his hands.
'Heavy,' he thought, feeling the pulse of something far more than a simple object.
A single strand of navy hair unknotted itself, and floated from the Terminal. As it came loose, the gourd's unnatural weight lifted, returning to the ordinary heft of a Terminal.
Rover stared at it, understanding the gesture. Lian had entrusted him with something more than a companion—he had handed over a piece of himself.
'I will do my best,' Rover vowed, quietly, the words unsaid but sealed in his heart.
Just then, the gourd twitched in his hand—once, twice—before a ripple of light fluttered across its surface. To Rover's surprise, Hanya emerged of her own accord, her small form slipping out with a lazy yawn as if waking from a nap.
His brows lifted in astonishment. Ordinarily, Echoes couldn't emerge unless summoned by their Resonator. But Hanya had appeared freely—as if Lian had granted her independence... or as if she'd simply chosen it.
She stretched her arms high, blinked twice, and then looked at him with sleepy, assessing eyes.
"Good morning, Hanya," Rover greeted her with a warm, cautious smile.
She glanced at him, unimpressed. Her sides swelled into a pout, and she promptly turned her head away with a dramatic 'humph.'
Rover's eye twitched. The cold shoulder hit harder than he expected.
"Haah…" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He could already feel the headache coming.
And so the day unfolded—one burdened by the quiet weight of entrusted duty, the other by an unspoken, lingering worry.
For Rover, the morning passed in the company of a child now under his care.
For Lian, it passed in silence... mercifully spared the sound of a certain old man's habitual grumbling—if only for a while.
But peace, as always, was fleeting.
"Cheer up a little, lad," came Fu's familiar voice—gravel-worn, direct—as he settled beside Lian, having listened quietly to the younger man's story. He eyed him now, waiting for an answer, hoping for something more than silence.
Lian didn't respond at once. The murmurs of the restaurant carried on around them, a soft hum of cutlery and conversation.
The silhouettes of passersby drifted past, their shadows flitting across his face—drawing out lines that grief had only just begun to etch.
Fu sighed. 'If you're this reluctant,' he thought, 'why let her go at all?'
Lian's Terminal was gone. So was Hanya. Both now in the hands of a so-called trusted acquaintance. Yet here sat Lian, his silence louder than any protest—like something vital had been carved out of him and carried away.
Fu had seen that look before. More than once. His friends with daughters had worn it too—the half-smile that tried to mask the hollowness left by a parting they weren't ready for.
Another sigh.
He still didn't understand all of it. The Echo testing. The decision to separate. If Hanya was so unique... why hadn't Lian simply gone with her?
He bit back the questions. Now wasn't the time. Besides, if the young man was to be believed, he had his own mission to tend to.
Curious about this so-called reluctant duty, Fu asked, "So, what exactly is this commission that's keeping you stuck here, eh?"
Lian's expression shifted—just barely. The corner of his mouth lifted into what might have passed for a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Well, it's a bit complex," he began. "You see, I—" Lian stopped. His eyes squinted. Shoulders stiffened.
Fu noticed too. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "...!!?"
Lian rose in a single motion, his entire posture taut as resonance thickened in the air.
Fu stood as well, his brows drawn tight. "What is this?"
Then the sky above Mt. Firmament fractured.
Light shattered like glass. A vast dome of translucent energy surged into being, encasing the mountain's peak. A low, resonant pulse rippled outward, distorting the air with a soundless roar. The earth vibrated. Breath halted.
Time faltered.
Birds overhead froze mid-flight, wings caught mid-beat. A leaf reversed its fall, spiraling back toward the branch it had left. The world skewed—unnatural.
Fu shivered, not from wind but from the bone-deep warping of time itself.
The mountain stuttered between frames—one slope trapped in perfect stillness, the other crumbling with accelerated decay, like fire devouring old parchment.
Screams, silences, fragments of moments collided and split apart. It was as though reality had been slashed open, and the mountain bled time.
"Tch." Fu clicked his tongue, voice low and edged. "Looks like the Sentinel really was abducted—"
He froze as he saw Lian's eyes widening. "Wha—!"
Fu clamped a hand over Lian's mouth, his other raised in warning. "Shh!"
The air held still around them, stretched taut with something unseen. "Keep it quiet," Fu said, his voice low and sharp.
"That's crazy," Lian muttered behind Fu's hand.
Fu slowly released him, glancing around as if the very wind might carry secrets.
"There were rumors," he murmured. "Whispers from the Magistrate that the Sentinel was missing... but when nothing changed, people brushed it off as fake news."
He turned toward the fractured horizon, where the sky still shimmered in convulsions. "But with this... whatever that was just now—it's starting to look real."
Lian's expression darkened with understanding.
Fu studied him carefully. "Be cautious, lad," he said at last, tone serious. "There's more at work here than either of us know."
Lian gave a quiet nod. But his thoughts were already running far ahead. 'I hope those heroes show up soon,' he thought, a bit of impatience seeping in them.
Although, everything was unfolding exactly how he and the Loong had planned.
Not far from Hongzhen, two guests arrived, their expressions heavy with unease. One exhaled sharply, ruggedness bleeding into every breath.
"Jinhsi, are you alright?" Changli asked, concerned.
Jinhsi nodded, though her breath remained ragged. "Yes, teacher."
She turned her gaze toward Mt. Firmament, eyes narrowing. "It seems… something has happened."
Changli's gaze followed Jinhsi's, settling on the Loong-shaped peak of Mt. Firmament. Though not a Resonator of Jué, she could still sense the disturbance in the Resonance—like a ripple through still water.
And yet, what unsettled her more than the mountain's unrest was something else—something more personal. Her hand slipped behind her back, fingers unhooking the Terminal from her lower waist as her eyes flicked toward its screen.
She frowned slightly, the barest pout forming on her lips. 'Why isn't she answering?'
Meanwhile, in the mainland Huanglong, Rover felt the gentle buzz of Lian's Terminal against his side—wave after wave of incoming messages.
'Looks like mercenaries get a lot of requests,' he mused dryly.
He didn't pry—neither into the sender nor the content. With a calm swipe, he silenced the notifications and let the holographic screen fade.
As for the mercenary in question, he said nothing. Strange things had begun to stir around them in a very wrong manner.
Time itself seemed to ripple, its flow disrupted, distorted, as though it had become the epicenter of whatever was unraveling.
Unbeknownst to most, this disturbance was no accident. It was Lian and Jué's meticulous plan.
Quietly, without fanfare, he had removed the first seal—the one that had long kept the Temporal Disruption from rupturing outright—from the affected region—setting into motion what had long been being held back.
To be continued...