The vellum crackled in Jingshuang’s grip, his gaze fixed on the familiar strokes. The characters for ‘Jianyu Pass’, ‘Sunken Oasis’, ‘Sunderpeak Cleft’ stood stark across the surface, tracing an exile’s route. The official order bore Fang Zongming’s seal, but the margin notes detailing supply cuts were written in Yanqing’s brushwork. Jingshuang raised his head, torchlight catching the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “Your sire’s seal,” Jingshuang said, voice flat and strained, “but these routes… they match your hand. The exact brushstrokes you used to draft the camouflage screens at the border.” Yanqing leaned against the rough timbers of the granary, cloth around his forearm soaked dark with blood. He pushed off the wood, ribs aching, as Jingshuang held out the sheet. Yanqing took it, fingertips brushing the censor’s cold skin. The vellum felt brittle, yet the sloping strokes carried an unsettling familiarity. It was his own script, clear and measured, laying out the precise checkpoints that led straight to Gushui. “This makes no sense,” Yanqing said, rubbing the heel of his thumb over the ink for banishment. “I never drafted these routes.” Jingshuang studied him closely, dark eyes narrowed. “The capital called you a wastrel. But this is logistics. Forward deployment. What were you coordinating with the Revenue Ministry?” Yanqing shook his head. Behind his temples, a steady pulse throbbed. He reached up, grasping the carved jade disc hanging at his collar. The stone felt unnaturally warm against his skin. His fingers ran along its grooved spirals—not merely decorative ridges, but topographic contours matching the northern ravines. Ever since waking in this body, fragmented memories had broken into his sleep: scorched crops, the reek of ash, screams echoing through empty streets. He had assumed he had simply inherited a ruined shell. But the contours on the jade were deliberately mapped. He pressed his thumbnail into a small notch hidden in the whorl. It refused to budge. The gash along his forearm throbbed, soaking red through the bandage. Relying on sheer impulse, he brought the medallion down, pressing its carved rim against the edge of the laceration. Fresh blood seeped over the mottled green mineral. With a dull click, a hairline seam split along the rim of the stone. A hollow chamber slid outward like a lacquer drawer, revealing a tightly rolled slip of treated silk, bound with dry lotus thread. Jingshuang stepped forward, eyes tracking the mechanism. “A hidden latch?” Yanqing eased the slip out. The fiber smelled of sulfur and dried camphor. Across the surface ran hurried brushstrokes, ink flaking at the creases, matching his hand precisely. He read aloud, keeping his tone under the wind: “‘To my past self, should this reach you. The cycle failed. Gushui fell. The Xichuan Uprising consumed the western territories. Revenue hoarders kept the granaries locked while the provinces starved. I watched the empire turn to ash. There was nothing left to salvage.’” Yanqing halted, his throat dry. “He lived through the famine. He survived it once before.” Jingshuang stared at the characters, brow knotting. “An earlier attempt? What madness is this written in?” Yanqing read on, tracing the fading lines: “‘I manipulated the exile orders myself. The reputation as a useless wastrel ensured no imperial spy would monitor my deployment to Gushui before winter. Fang Zongming thought he was ridding his household of an embarrassment; he was merely clearing my road to the frontier.’” Yanqing’s voice dropped as he deciphered the lower margin: “‘The provincial granary at Fengyi is a decoy. The real hoard, thirty thousand piculs that could sustain the region through winter, is cached under the Shaded Weaver Temple, three days east beneath the jagged ridgeline. Guarded by the Revenue Ministry’s personal detachment, the Scarlet Spears. They carry orders to ignite the storehouses if inspectors approach.’” The slip slipped between Yanqing's fingers, caught against his knee. The haul they had barely pulled from Fengyi was only a temporary buffer. The bulk of the stolen harvest remained hidden miles away, waiting to be turned to cinders. “The Shaded Weaver shrine…” Jingshuang murmured, fingers resting on his sword hilt. “Stashing grain outside the provincial registry entirely. Zongming knows how to hide ledger trails.” He looked out through the opening toward the grey horizon. “Three days on horseback through the crags.” A stray flake drifted through the gap in the lintel, settling on the wood and dissolving into a wet grey dot. Then another drifted down, settling cold against Yanqing’s collar. The temperature had plummeted within the hour. Jingshuang squinted east toward the jagged treeline. Above the distant ridge, a black column of soot rose against the pale sky, smearing the ridge in greasy haze. It rose straight from the gorge where the shrine stood. “They aren't waiting for an audit,” Jingshuang said, unhooking his scabbard. “The garrison already lit the lower bins.”

The Loop of the Jade