The second scroll refused to be silent.
Even in the stillness of Xiao Mo's study, ink would not stay on its parchment. Symbols shimmered, faded, reformed—never settling, never yielding to mortal hands. But to him, it whispered in fragments. Not words. Feelings.
Pain. Betrayal. Fire.
It was as if the scroll remembered what he had done in that other life—and it wasn't sure whether to trust him again.
"Stubborn thing," he murmured, tracing a trembling line of characters with his brush.
Yuan Sijun sat beside him, one leg propped up, cleaning a blade with steady hands. "You're talking to it now?"
"I think it likes the attention," Xiao Mo replied dryly. "Or maybe it wants me to remember more before it opens."
Sijun's eyes softened. "You've remembered a lot already. Too much."
Xiao Mo didn't answer. His hand hovered over the parchment again.
For a moment—just one—symbols aligned into a phrase:
"The Heart is the Gate."
His breath caught.
And then, the scroll flared with sudden light—just for an instant—before fading back into stillness.
It had spoken.
But what did it mean?
—
In the Grand Court, Chancellor Li Weiyuan was already moving the next stone across the board.
A sealed order reached the Ministry of Rites.
Another was sent to the Imperial Guard.
The third—wrapped in crimson silk—found its way to the northern citadel, where a certain Commander Zhao, once a friend to General Yuan's father, now answered only to the Chancellor.
The words in the letter were simple:
"When the Heart reveals itself, extract it."
The rest was burned.
—
Xiao Mo was not allowed outside the palace anymore.
Not by imperial decree—but by the Chancellor's shadow games. At every gate, guards waited. At every corner, watchers stood too long in place.
"I feel like a criminal," Xiao Mo said one morning.
"You're more dangerous than one," Sijun said, handing him tea. "You have truth. And they fear what truth might do."
Xiao Mo stared at the scroll on the table. "I don't even know what I'm becoming."
"You're becoming yourself."
Xiao Mo looked at him then—really looked. "And if I lose that self? If the memories take over? If I'm not just Xiao Mo anymore, but something older—something other—will you still stay?"
Sijun's jaw tightened.
Then he set his teacup down and leaned forward.
He cupped Xiao Mo's face with both hands. "Listen to me. I don't care if you remember ten lifetimes or a thousand. If your eyes change, if your voice shifts, if even your name turns to ash—I will stay."
Xiao Mo blinked, throat tight.
Sijun kissed his forehead. "You're mine, Xiao Mo. Not the world's. Not fate's."
Xiao Mo clutched his sleeve. "Then don't let me go."
"Never."
—
That night, the scroll pulsed.
Xiao Mo sat awake long after the candles burned out. The phrase "The Heart is the Gate" repeated in his mind like a heartbeat.
He opened his palm—and a spark lit the air.
Not fire.
Memory.
He felt the scroll's essence. It responded not to his mind—but his soul.
And when he bled a single drop of blood onto its edge—
The second scroll opened.
The chamber trembled. Glyphs danced across the walls. Light painted the ceiling with an ancient map.
He fell backward, gasping.
And in his vision, a new memory bloomed:
---
He stood before a massive palace—the Sun-Marked Palace—its towers gilded in flame. In his past life, he had buried a scroll there, within the tomb of an emperor who tried to claim divinity.
"The third lies beneath a false god's crown."
The voice again.
"But beware—the world remembers your betrayal."
He collapsed.
—
Yuan Sijun caught him before his head hit the floor.
"Mo!" he shouted, voice trembling. "Wake up!"
Xiao Mo opened his eyes. "The third scroll… it's beneath the Sun-Marked Palace. The Emperor doesn't know—but the Chancellor might."
"Then we go," Sijun said. "Now."
"But if we leave the capital—"
Sijun looked toward the door.
"We'll be fugitives."
And still, neither of them hesitated.
—
In the highest tower of the inner court, the Chancellor stood before an enchanted mirror, one hand resting on a black-tipped cane.
The mirror shimmered.
An imperial spy knelt within the vision. "They plan to leave. Tonight."
The Chancellor smiled coldly.
"Good. Let them run. The Heart must reveal itself in desperation."
He turned.
And in the corner of his chamber, in a glass case etched with seals, sat a broken scroll.
One of the seven.
One the world believed lost.
The Chancellor's Oath
Before he became Chancellor Li Weiyuan, the man who ruled the court with precision and fear, he was a boy in a monastery far from the capital. The year was jagged with famine. The Empire teetered on collapse, and every noble played their game with knives behind fans.
But Weiyuan had seen something no noble dared approach.
He had seen truth.
—
He was fifteen when the Keeper visited.
Mo Tianxian was already a living myth then—a youth of otherworldly grace, with silver in his hair and the scrolls spinning behind him like constellations. He came to the monastery in silence, passing through gates that should have sealed him out.
Weiyuan had stood in awe, hidden behind a carved pillar.
He hadn't expected the Keeper to look so… human.
And yet, when Tianxian turned his gaze on him, Weiyuan felt it—the universe seeing him back.
"You watched," Tianxian said.
"I study," the boy replied.
"A good answer," Tianxian murmured. "But truth isn't just studied. It's carried. Burned into the soul."
Weiyuan had felt it then. That quiet invitation. That dangerous possibility.
"Will I ever be like you?" he asked.
Tianxian had only smiled.
"Do you want to bear the cost?"
—
Years passed.
The Empire demanded stability. The scrolls vanished. The monasteries burned. And Weiyuan rose through the ranks with a mind like cold iron. He learned how easily people bent. How fear made kings kneel. How truth could tear worlds apart.
But he never forgot that moment.
Or the feeling of being seen.
He told himself it was admiration.
He told himself it was power he wanted.
But when the scrolls resurfaced—when a boy with storm-colored eyes and Tianxian's voice appeared in the court—he remembered.
And he panicked.
Because Weiyuan had once believed in the Keeper.
Had once loved him, in the quiet, buried way a boy loves the moon.
And that boy had been left behind. Unseen.
Now, the Keeper had returned. Not as a savior.
But as a boy reborn—gentle, wounded, defiant.
And Li Weiyuan could not bear it.
He would control it.
Or he would destroy it.
Because if Tianxian's soul walked the world again, it would remember him—and the moment he had chosen fear over faith.
And Weiyuan… was still afraid.
Terrified of being seen.
Terrified of the truth.