CHAPTER 7: ROOTS OF MEMORY
The silence after the Stalkers dissolved was heavier than the mist. Prince Yan Ling leaned heavily against the gnarled plum tree in the walled garden, each ragged breath a struggle. Blood smeared his pale lips, stark against his white hair. He wiped it away with a trembling, ink-stained hand, his gaze fixed on the three greasy smudges fading on the wet flagstones. Zhi'er stood frozen by the garden door, his palms still stinging from the phantom impact, his mind echoing with the image of the little girl in the sketch – *Ling'er*.
"They're probing," Yan Ling rasped, pushing himself upright with visible effort. His grey eyes, though clouded with pain, scanned the oppressive fog shrouding the lake. "Jiang Xi knows I'm weak. He knows I guard something here." His gaze flickered, almost imperceptibly, towards the small, dead-looking bonsai tree in its plain clay pot. Zhi'er followed the look. The single river pebble Yan Ling had placed at its base seemed like a tiny monument.
Zhi'er couldn't hold back. "Who is she?" The words burst out, sharper than he intended. He stepped away from the door, his heart pounding. "The girl in the sketch. Ling'er. The Garden's Heart."
Yan Ling went very still. Not the stillness of calm, but the stillness of a trap about to spring. The air around him seemed to thicken, the damp cold deepening. He turned slowly, his ancient eyes locking onto Zhi'er's. The weariness vanished, replaced by a terrifying, glacial intensity. "Where did you see that?" His voice was low, devoid of its usual rasp, colder than the lake mist.
"The studio," Zhi'er stammered, shrinking back slightly under that gaze. "The abandoned one. There was a box… a jade hairpin… and the drawing. It said 'Ling'er – The Garden's Heart'." He saw the flicker of raw pain in Yan Ling's eyes before the ice reformed. "Is she… your daughter? Where is she?"
For a long moment, Yan Ling said nothing. The only sound was the drip of moisture from the skeletal trees. Then, the terrible pressure eased, replaced by a profound exhaustion deeper than before. He sagged, leaning heavily on his cane again. "Curiosity is a blade, Zhi'er," he murmured, his voice regaining its familiar rasp, but laced with a new bitterness. "It cuts the holder as often as the target." He walked past Zhi'er, not towards their rooms, but towards the dead bonsai. He stopped before it, his back to the boy. "She is… beyond reach. Safe. As safe as I could make her in a world I broke."
"But *where*?" Zhi'er pressed, emboldened by the shift, driven by the image of the girl's grey eyes – Yan Ling's eyes. "Is she hidden? Why? What happened?"
Yan Ling reached out a trembling hand, not touching the bonsai, but hovering near its bare, grey branches. "The fall of Heaven shattered more than crystal spires, Zhi'er. It shattered lives. Futures." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "To protect a blossom from the frost… sometimes you must bury it deep. So deep it sleeps, dreaming of a sun it may never see." He finally touched a branch, the gesture unbearably tender. "She is the root. The deepest root. And her sleep… is the last wall."
He turned then, his face etched with lines of grief Zhi'er had never seen before. "Speak of this to no one. Not the sketch. Not the name. Not even in your thoughts, if you can master them. Jiang Xi hunts for any crack, any whisper. If he learns of her… if he finds the anchor…" He didn't finish. The implication hung in the air, colder than the mist. "Forget you saw it, Zhi'er. For her sake. For yours."
The weight of the secret settled on Zhi'er like a physical burden. He nodded mutely, the thrill of discovery replaced by dread.
---
Later, in the chill dampness of their chamber, Yan Ling pointed to the small inkstone. "Sit. Draw the circle. Then the inner ring. Focus on the boundary. On the space within. Silence the storm inside your own mind first."
Zhi'er dipped his finger in the rainwater pooled in the inkstone. The memory of the door holding, of his will shaping the boundary, was fresh. He traced a circle. It was smoother this time. He focused, pouring his churning thoughts – the secret, the fear, the image of the girl – into the act of defining the space. *This is the boundary. Inside is quiet.* He traced a second circle inside the first, concentrating on making it perfect, a contained space within a space. The water held its shape, beading clearly.
As he finished the inner ring, the inkstone chimed again – that same underwater bell sound. But this time, it was louder, resonant. The water within the circles shimmered violently. Instead of collapsing, it seemed to *thicken*, turning a murky grey. A face began to form in the murk – not Ling'er's, but a man's face, contorted in silent agony, mouth open in a scream Zhi'er couldn't hear. It was Prince Jian.
Zhi'er recoiled, breaking his focus. The water splashed across the stone, the image vanishing instantly. He gasped, heart hammering. "It… it showed him! Your uncle! He looked… in pain!"
Yan Ling's face tightened. He picked up the inkstone, examining it closely. "This stone," he said, his voice grim. "It was his. He used it here. In this room, likely. It remembers his final hours. His… distress." He set the stone down heavily. "Memory stains aren't just shadows in corridors, Zhi'er. They soak into objects. Into places. The Suppression weakens here, near the lake's depths and the anchor point. Echoes grow loud."
"What happened to him?" Zhi'er asked, shaken. "The hunting accident?"
Yan Ling's expression was unreadable. "Hunting accidents rarely involve psychic terror etched into stone." He looked towards the window, towards the mist-shrouded lake. "He was getting close. Close to truths Jiang Xi buried. Close to *her*. And he paid the price." His hand clenched briefly on his cane. "The past isn't dead here, Zhi'er. It's wounded. And it bleeds."
---
High above, perched on the slippery tiles of the boarded-up tower, **Xiao Hong** ignored the biting wind. She held a small, intricate brass compass in her palm. Instead of a needle, a sliver of crimson crystal floated within, suspended in viscous oil. It wasn't pointing north. It was vibrating, pulsing with a faint red light, oriented downward, towards the walled garden below. She focused her will, a trickle of her suppressed Quasi-Immortal Qi flowing into the device. The crystal sliver steadied, its light intensifying, pointing unerringly towards the center of the garden – towards the vibrant golden chrysanthemum, the ancient plum tree, and the small, dead bonsai tree beside them.
A cruel smile touched Xiao Hong's lips. The **Resonance Compass** never lied. The energy signature was faint, incredibly well-hidden beneath layers of sealing art, but distinct. Ancient. Powerful. *Protected*. Not a weapon cache, not a scroll… something *living*, yet dormant. Something radiating a profound, slumbering power that resonated with the very fabric Yan Ling sought to suppress. *The Garden's Heart.*
She carefully marked the spot in her mind, memorizing the angles relative to the tower and the water gate. Jiang Xi would be pleased. The anchor point was found. Now, they just needed the key to unlock it – or the means to shatter its cage.