Ignition

"Right this way, Miss Shen. Our lady is waiting."

Mingyao said nothing as the woman led her through the building. Her steps silent, her posture composed, but her senses were sharp—alert, taking in every detail: the distant notes of guzheng music, the faint scent of sandalwood, the brush of silk banners lining the walls.

They reached a door on the upper floor. The attendant paused, offered a small bow.

"Here we are. Please go in."

Mingyao stepped inside.

The room opened like a stage: wide and sunlit, its edges softened by draped silks and painted screens. Artifacts and curiosities from far-off provinces lined the walls—calligraphy scrolls, carved jade ornaments, a porcelain crane perched on a pedestal. But it was the far end that drew the eye.

A balcony overlooked the city, and by its edge, seated with grace and poise, was Lady Gao her hands folded neatly on her lap.

Mingyao crossed the room as gracefully as she could. When she reached the woman, she clasped her right hand into her left palm and offered a respectful bow.

"Greetings, Lady Gao," she said, her voice smooth. From her sleeve, she produced a slender box, wrapped in plum-colored cloth. "I wasn't sure of your tastes. I hope this is acceptable as a gift."

Gao took the box with a slight nod, weighing it lightly in her palm. "A thoughtful gesture, Lady Shen. Please — sit." She gestured to the seat beside her. The sunlight bouncing off a jade ring at her finger as she moved.

"Would you care for some tea?" Gao asked. "It's oolong — from the eastern hills. Quite difficult to come by."

Mingyao's brow lifted slightly. "That sounds far too precious to pour for a guest."

"Come now," Gao replied, tone light, eyes sharp. "Will you refuse a hostess trying her best?"

Mingyao gave a soft sigh. "...If you insist."

"Pour for her," Lady Gao said with a nod to the servant behind them. "I'm sure Lady Shen will appreciate it."

The servant stepped forward, her hands even as she filled the cup. The aroma of roasted leaves curled in the air.

"Please, have a sip," Gao urged, watching closely.

Mingyao lifted the cup, inhaled its aroma. Then drank.

"It's good tea," she said simply.

Gao smiled. "Excellent. I thought it might suit your palate."

Mingyao set the cup down with a faint click. "If I may be blunt, I'd like to know why you invited me here."

Gao's expression shifted subtly. She turned her head and gave a slight nod to the servant, who bowed and departed, closing the doors behind her with a soft click.

"Before I answer that," Gao said, rising and turning toward the open balcony, "Tell me, Lady Shen. What do you see?"

Mingyao rose and stepped beside her, her gaze sweeping the street below.

Down below, the market churned with life — men shouting prices, oxen dragging carts laden with produce, children weaving barefoot through the crowd, laughter trailing behind them. A woman hunched over a bolt of silk, haggling, her hands tight around her coin pouch. Stalls bloomed like wildflowers across the square

"I see people," she said. "Going about their business."

"They rise before the sun. Sleep after the stars have returned. And still," her voice softened, "they go home with less than they deserve."

Mingyao didn't reply. Her fingers brushed the railing, cool under her touch. The tea still lingered on her tongue.

"I once knew a woman who made ink," Gao continued. "The finest in three wards. Her hands were always stained — blue, black, red. On rare days, gold. Calligraphers swore by her work."

She paused, turning back to her seat.

"And yet… every jar she sold bore her brother's seal. Not her own."

Mingyao's followed her, "She wasn't allowed to sign?"

Gao gave a wry smile. "Allowed? Yes. But the law is a door. And a door means nothing if no one shows you how to turn the handle."

Mingyao looked down at the tea on the table, watching the leaves settle in slow spirals. A silence stretched between them.

"It's been fifteen years since the edict," Gao said softly. "Women may own land, trade goods, open accounts. Yet how many do you see down there with stalls in their name? With contracts bearing their seal?"

Mingyao glanced again at the market. The bustle, now that she looked closer, had a pattern — and an absence. Men at ledgers. Men at scales. The women stood nowhere.

Gao leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "There is money flowing through this city like a river, Lady Shen. But only a few are allowed to sail it. The rest… drink from their cupped hands, if they can."

Mingyao met her gaze now. "And what would you have me do? Change the tide?"

"No," Gao said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Build a bridge."

A breeze drifted in from the balcony, rustling the silk drapes and stirring the papers on the table beside them. On one of the pages, faint inked lines revealed the beginnings of something — a ledger, a charter, perhaps. Nothing was written clearly yet. But the bones of it were there.

"A chamber," Gao said at last. "Where merchants may trade fairly — noble or common, man or woman. Where contracts are honored, disputes resolved, and interests guarded."

Mingyao tilted her head. "And why ask me?"

Gao's eyes didn't waver. "Because of your bank the golden alliance. You seem to know what it is to navigate a world not built for you. And because of that, people listen when you speak."

Mingyao let the words settle. Her thoughts turned inward—to her own ambitions. A chamber might be a useful tool for acquiring economic power, but it could pose a problem given the current political climate. Why was Gao so sure about this? Did she have someone backing her—perhaps one of the princes? Mingyao's thoughts swirled. She picked up her cup and took a sip.

"You ask for more than tea and pleasantries," she said finally.

"I do," said Gao. "But I offer more in return. A seat at the table. One you don't have to apologize for occupying."

Mingyao placed the teacup down gently. "You seem confident. Do you have other people in mind?"

"Naturally." Gao's eyes gleamed. "I wouldn't expect you to sign a blank page. But for you to truly sit at the head, you'll need to bring your own."

"At the head?" Mingyao asked.

"Yes. I see your potential."

Mingyao sat quietly for a moment. Did Gao expect her to bring the backing with her? Gao must have assumed that because Mingyao could open a bank on her own, she must has a powerful backer—hence the suggestion that she take the helm and capitalize on that support.

"You seem confident that I won't refuse your offer."

"I think you see the shape of what I'm building. And you have the eyes to see how it could serve you."

Mingyao stared at her eyes which beamed with confidence and ambition

"If we're to build this bridge, Lady Gao, then we must make sure it stands. Not just for us, but for those who come after. Even those whose names will never be spoken in rooms like this."

Lady Gao nodded slowly, her expression smoothing into something solemn. "Then we begin with stone, not sand."

-----

The doors closed behind her with a soft thud, but the echo of Gao's words clung to Mingyao like dust in her breath. She hadn't expected to leave that meeting with the weight of a revolution gently nestled in her lap.

The air outside was warm, touched with the golden hues of late afternoon. She adjusted her sleeves and walked toward the waiting carriage, her eyes distant, her mind occupied. The Silver Lotus Pavilion awaited — and with it, Mo Yan. A part of her longed to explain everything, to peel back the layers of her intent and show Mo the truth beneath her strategy. But another part, the colder part, knew that clarity did not always breed understanding.

She reached for the carriage door—

A sudden heat slammed into her, like a furnace igniting midair.

Mingyao's instincts flared. She twisted to the side, pivoting on one heel, her body tensing in anticipation — but there was nothing there. No attacker, no flicker of flame. The street behind her was ordinary: vendors packing up their stalls, a child tugging at his mother's sleeve, a beggar counting coins under the slant of a red awning.

"Miss, are you alright?" her coachman asked, concern clouding his eyes.

"I... Yes. I think I'm just a little tired," Mingyao murmured, schooling her breath as she forced a smile. Her hand lingered on the carriage door, reluctant now.

She climbed in.

But just as she moved to sit, something shoved her from behind.

She fell — hard — catching herself against the floor of the carriage, breath rushing from her lungs. Her gaze snapped back to the door. The coachman was standing there, completely unaware, his brows drawn in confusion.

"Are you alright, my lady?" he asked again, half-reaching inside before hesitating, unsure whether to help.

"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice trembled with effort as she pushed herself upright. "Just... tired, as I said. Let's go."

The carriage lurched into motion.

Mingyao closed her eyes, willing the thundering of her pulse to slow — but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The warmth from earlier surged again. It started as a slow burn behind her ribcage — like she'd swallowed fire and it was crawling through her veins. Her breath hitched. The heat intensified. Her skin prickled as sweat bloomed along her forehead. She clutched at her chest, where the fire seemed to burn brightest. It wasn't natural. It wasn't just heat. It hurt.

She tried to suppress a groan, but it slipped out — a strained, animal sound.

Her lungs seized. Her vision blurred. Each heartbeat became a drumbeat of agony.

Was she poisoned?

Her thoughts spiraled, clutching at fragments: the tea? No — Lady Gao had drank it too. The air? A Curse?

The world around her began to fade. Her senses dimmed — sound warping, smell vanishing, the taste of ash rising in her throat. Even her own body was slipping from her grasp, as though her flesh was melting from the bone.

Then —

Darkness.

When she opened her eyes again, moonlight sliced through the canopy above. Trees swayed like dancers in a trance. Crickets sang.

She sat up with a jolt — hand flying to her burned chest. It was —

Flat.

Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled as they skimmed lower.

"…It's back," she whispered — her voice cracking into a boy's timbre. "I'm—back."

But something was wrong. His — his — voice wasn't the same. It was too light. Too… young. He looked at his hands—they were smaller. Limbs shorter.

He was a male, yes—but a child, not the young man he remembered.

He scanned his surroundings.

It wasn't the city. There were no lanterns, no stone paths, only dirt and moss and the rustle of unseen animals in the dark.

How did I get here?

He crouched low, searching the ground for footprints, anything to orient himself. He had to find the main path. A sign. Maybe he could make his way back to civilization.

The earth trembled beneath him.

His head snapped up, heart pounding. The vibrations were growing stronger.

Leaves whipped past him in sudden gusts. From between the trees, a battle revealed itself—no, a storm of force and fury masquerading as two human forms.

They fought like gods.

One was a woman, her silhouette framed in wild black hair, her limbs dancing in perfect harmony with the forest. Trees bent to her will. Roots surged from the ground like serpents. Vines twisted and lashed like whips.

The other, a man, was all stillness and then motion—evasive, calculating. His hands flicked and the very stars seemed to shimmer in response. When he moved, the trajectory of everything bent—branches missed by inches, roots unraveled.

The two figures danced across the forest, each movement shattering the calm like ripples in a still lake. A man and a woman—cloaked in light and shadow, their faces hidden by distance and raw power.

First, it looked like combat. Then it became war.

The woman raised her arms, and the forest obeyed. Trees twisted, branches unfurled into spears, vines lashed like whips. The forest lived beneath her will. Mingyu threw himself flat as roots tore through the earth near him.

The man was fast—unnaturally so. The air around him bent. Attacks meant for his heart struck only air. Then he moved—his hands forming a gesture that drew the stars down into a radiant array. Glowing sigils painted the sky, divine geometry spiraling overhead. The world rippled.

The ground split.

Mountains rose.

Mingyu staggered backward, trying to stay upright as the very terrain changed.

They fought on cliff, in air, in light. Every strike echoed like thunder. The woman shattered the peak with a blow, molten rock spilling as she forced an eruption.

The man answered—he lifted a single finger. The skies cracked open. Rain poured, fierce and unrelenting. Fire died, and the mountain drowned. They stood now on water, yet neither sank.

Mingyu could barely stay afloat. The waves tossed him like a twig. Still, he watched, unable to look away.

What are they? Gods? Monsters?

The world spun again. Darkness pulled at his limbs.

He was sinking. The surface above grew distant, unreachable.

He heard a voice—faint, but familiar.

"Your Majesty? Your Majesty—?"

He clawed toward the sound, but the weight of the flood held him—

And suddenly, he was back.

The forest. The one from the beginning.

A younger Xiulan crouched in front of him, her face pale but fierce. She whispered something he couldn't hear.

Then the trees screamed.

They moved, like serpents uncaged. Mingyu turned—and saw the woman again. Her eyes locked onto his. Cold. Ancient. Furious.

Xiulan leapt in front of him.

The trees pierced through her before Mingyu could cry out. Her body jerked. Blood bloomed in the moonlight. She didn't scream. She just looked at him—terrified. Protecting him even now.

Then she was gone.

The scream died in his throat.

Mingyu couldn't breathe. He remembered this. The grief. The guilt. It clung like frostbite.

But this time, he understood.

"This is a dream," he whispered. "A memory. A message."

The forest blurred.

He awoke with a gasp, the air sharp in his lungs. His eyes darted, panicked—only to find familiar walls, a wooden bed, blankets thrown askew.

Back in her body—a teenage girl once more.

Beside her, slumped on the bed, was Yue Ying. Exhausted. Her silver hair was damp, and cold towels lay discarded on the floor. The scent of herbs and fever medicine still lingered in the air.

Mingyao rose slowly, legs trembling beneath her. She walked to the window. The moon hung above the pines, pale and solemn.

She whispered, almost without realizing:

"The secrets will be revealed."

Turning back, her eyes scanned the room again—no sign of Mo Yan.

Her heart sank.

"She's still mad at me," she murmured.

She moved to sit beside Yue Ying, her body heavy but her mind sharp. Just as her knees touched the bed—

Yue Ying jolted upright. Her hand snapped to her side, as if reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.Eyes wild, breath sharp.

Then she saw Mingyao. And everything softened.

"You're awake," she whispered. "...Master."

Before they could say more, the door burst open.

A young disciple stood in the threshold, chest heaving."Sect Master—Pavilion Master! A woman is here. She says she has urgent news."