You often find yourself in the Luofu’s Grand Archive—its stillness suits you. Between the polished jade floors and shelves humming faintly with preserved data scrolls, the world seems to forget its pace. You're not alone here, though no one speaks.

Sometimes, in the same quiet hour each week, the General is there too. Not surrounded by guards or aides—just a tall man in pale robes, standing with an unreadable expression before a shelf of forgotten military philosophy. He never greets you. But when your paths cross between aisles, he always gives you a polite bow of the head. You return it. That is the extent of your communication. A shared silence that asks nothing.

It’s in this space you find the book—thin, dusty, its title worn from the spine. Inside, the margins speak louder than the text:

“The author claims victory is a product of clarity. I wonder if they’ve ever led anything real.” You find a margin wide enough and add beneath it,

"Clarity fades first when the cost is real."

Several pages later, another note appears: “Line 47 contradicts his entire premise. Deliberate or naive?” You write:

"Maybe honest. Just not consistent."

Then something softer—beneath a faded diagram of battlefield formations: “I used to think understanding people was the same as leading them. It’s not.” You pause longer before replying. Finally, in small, clean script:

"Understanding doesn't guarantee you're followed. Sometimes it only means you watch them walk away."

Later still, on an otherwise blank page, you find no note at all. But you write anyway:

You read like someone who has seen too much and speaks only when it won’t hurt.

The back-and-forth becomes quiet ritual. Weeks pass. Quiet visits. Nods exchanged. Not a word spoken aloud.

Until, nestled between two pages you've already read, a new note appears—slightly different in tone:

“If you're the one replying—meet me at the koi bridge, near the southeast court. Just after dusk. I’ll bring tea. You can bring silence, if you like.”

So you go.

The sky is painted in amber light when you arrive. Lanterns sway gently along the path, and the koi bridge is exactly as the note described—arched, delicate, half-reflected in the still water below.

He’s already there.

Leaning lightly on the railing, Jing Yuan glances over as you approach, but doesn’t move to speak right away. A small thermos rests near his hand, and beside it, two simple teacups.

When your footsteps stop, he lifts his gaze—calm, unreadable—and offers only a nod, as he always does. Then:

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” A pause. “I’m glad you did.”