The morning in Shunbei was wrapped in grey mist, curling like secrets through the stone streets. Wenyan rose before the first bell tolled. In the dim light, he studied Baoqin's sleeping form, curled beside Lianfang on the mat, her small hand still clutching the jade talisman Madam Suyin had given her.
He stepped out quietly, the old floorboards creaking under his weight. Outside, the city felt hushed, as if holding its breath. Perhaps it was the weight of the truth they now carried—Baoqin's bloodline, the ancient phoenix myth, and the unspoken dread that someone else already knew.
Lianfang joined him minutes later, hair tied tightly, eyes alert.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"Only with one eye," she murmured. "I keep thinking of that scroll. The Ritual of Returning Flame... it sounded like sacrifice."
Wenyan didn't reply immediately. His jaw tightened. "If that's what the Order wants, then we have to stay ahead of them. Suyin said the last archive is beneath the Temple of Hidden Spring."
Lianfang gave a short nod. "It's supposed to be ruins now. Sealed after the fire ten years ago."
"Then we'll unseal it."
They gathered Baoqin and left through the narrow alleys while the city still slumbered. The temple was near the eastern edge of Shunbei, where old stones rose like broken teeth from the earth. Ivy clung to fractured pillars. The grand entrance, once adorned with cherrywood doors, now bore only charred stumps. The scent of ash lingered faintly, even after all this time.
Wenyan paused before the threshold. "The catacombs lie beneath. Suyin said there's a hidden descent near the altar."
They moved quietly, stepping over shattered roof tiles and scorched prayer scrolls. Inside, the air was cold and dry. Statues of forgotten gods loomed from shadowy alcoves, their faces cracked and eyeless.
It was Baoqin who tugged gently at Wenyan's sleeve and pointed toward the central altar.
"There," she whispered.
Behind the altar, half-concealed by fallen beams, lay a trapdoor—its frame scorched but intact. Wenyan knelt and pressed against it. With a low groan, it opened, revealing a staircase plunging into darkness.
"I'll go first," Lianfang said, already drawing her short blade.
They descended into the deep. The air grew colder, damper. Each step echoed like a whisper through time. The stairway ended in a long corridor lined with stone tablets etched in archaic script. Some bore symbols of fire, others of feathers and eyes. At the far end stood an archway with a rusted gate.
Wenyan pushed it open, the screech loud in the silence.
Inside, they found a vast circular chamber. A domed ceiling stretched high above, its surface etched with constellations no longer known. Dozens of scrolls lay preserved in niches. In the center was a basin filled with dark water, and above it hung a polished bronze mirror, suspended from an iron chain.
"What is this place?" Lianfang breathed.
"A memory vault," Wenyan said, recalling something Suyin had once described. "The Order used mirrors to store knowledge... memories passed through generations."
He stepped toward the basin. As he looked into it, the water rippled—though no one had touched it. Then the mirror above flickered, and an image bloomed upon its surface: a girl, not unlike Baoqin, standing before a ring of fire-robed figures. Her expression was defiant… and afraid.
Baoqin gasped. "She looks like me…"
Wenyan narrowed his eyes. "Could this be… your ancestor?"
The image shifted—revealing the ritual. Chanting. Fire. And then—a scream, a flare of golden light bursting from the girl's chest.
Lianfang pulled Baoqin away. "Enough!"
But the mirror kept changing—now showing cities burning, temples falling, blood poured over ceremonial stones. And then silence. The last image: a single red flower blooming in a barren field.
Wenyan exhaled shakily. "That's what the Order wants to repeat."
Lianfang's voice was steel. "Over my dead body."
Baoqin clung to her. "I don't want to be a phoenix. I just want to be me."
Wenyan knelt, holding her gently. "You are you. That's all that matters. Whatever this bloodline means, it doesn't define who you become."
As they collected what scrolls they could carry, footsteps echoed in the corridor behind them.
Wenyan froze. "We're not alone."
From the shadows stepped three figures—hooded, robes marked with the sigil of the Celestial Order. One raised his hand, revealing a jade ring etched with a phoenix feather.
"The ember has been found," he said softly. "Come with us, child. It's time."
Lianfang stepped between them, blade drawn.
"Not a chance."
Wenyan joined her, eyes like sharpened obsidian. "You'll have to get through both of us."
The lead cultist smiled sadly. "So be it."
And then the catacombs exploded into motion.