The interior of the passage was darker than the blackest midnight. In the air hung a faint earthy aroma, and dampness clung to the walls. Aside from the occasional drip of water from the low ceiling and the ever-present hum in Song Mingzhen’s spiritual sense, it was completely silent.

After the door shut behind them, the pair stood still for a moment, listening and watching, their weapons readied in case of a sudden attack. It seemed, however, that there was no intention to attack them here. Gradually, their stances eased, though their vigilance did not.

Neither dared speak, and Song Mingzhen reached for a light talisman only to hesitate. He could feel someone’s presence deeper within the cave, and a passage winding downward until then, sinking into the mountain’s base. Otherwise, though, it seemed they were alone. When even probing the surroundings for any gaps in his spiritual sense yielded nothing, Song Mingzhen ignited the talisman and shed light upon their surroundings.

The passage looked as if it were carved out of the rock and earth centuries ago and left abandoned until recently, the stone on either side rough and the ground thick with a layer of dust.

Though it seemed sound enough for now, it also wouldn’t be that surprising if the walls or ceiling began to crumble. It would be best to tread carefully.

Ning Feiyun’s gaze traversed the rough-carved walls, the dust on the ground where a few trails of identical footprints went in and out, up and down. He glanced up once he’d finished his assessment and turned to Song Mingzhen, then spoke in a low whisper, “I’ve never seen this passage on any maps, nor does it look like one that the mountain patrol maintains. The footprints here, though… they’re fresh. Some even from this very night, it seems. The one who left the instructions and illusions behind is no doubt waiting at the end of this passage.”

Before them, the narrow path stretched down into an abyss of hazy shadow that even the light of the talisman could not penetrate. A shiver ran down Song Mingzhen’s spine, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up. It felt unmistakably eerie, even though he knew it was most likely another illusion.

He didn’t reveal that discomfort, though, and simply nodded his head. “Good. Maybe now I’ll finally learn what’s been going on all this time.”

"We’ll both learn,” Ning Feiyun agreed— and the pair began their descent into the darkness.

The silence was a thick and heavy curtain, pierced only by the sound of their footfalls. There was an ache blooming deep within Song Mingzhen’s body, as though a flame had been lit using his insides as kindling. He felt as though they’d done this before, descending into a deep passage toward an unknown end… but when he tried to recall it, the memory felt obscured within a haze of mist…

It was just like the memories of his past.

Eyes widening, he stopped in his tracks and turned toward his companion.

“Ning-xiong,” he whispered, “Have you and I gone this way before?”

“This way?” Ning Feiyun frowned, then shook his head. “No, not this way, but…”

His voice cut off, and his face seemed to turn a shade paler.

“What is it?” Song Mingzhen asked.

A moment passed in silence, then Ning Feiyun shook his head again. “I’m not… certain. I can’t recall clearly.”

Unease filled the air, and Song Mingzhen sucked in a breath. What was happening here?

Ning Feiyun turned back toward the path before them. “Let’s just go ahead. Whoever is behind all this, we’ll get our answers there.”

His voice was even stiffer now than before, his shoulders tense, the grip on Shuangci’s handle so tight that his knuckles had turned pale in the talisman’s faintly flickering light. Song Mingzhen frowned, reaching up to press against an oncoming headache— something he was, by now, more than used to dealing with. He’d expected it to get worse the closer he came to answers, as though something within was preventing him from seeking the truth.

Now, though, it was as familiar as an old friend. He could push through the pain easily.

The opaque mist continued to obscure the path ahead, but each step they took forced it to retreat further, their presence breaking apart the illusion— it didn’t seem to be a particularly powerful one. The throbbing in Song Mingzhen’s head only increased the further down they went, and his insides felt like they were turning somersaults, tossed about by a combination of anticipation and anxiety. To stand here upon the cusp of knowing, and yet to know that once the line was crossed he would be unable to return to ignorance… it was intimidating.

At last, the path leveled out, the walls opening up to a larger chamber. The last of that obscuring mist retreated, coalescing against the walls and dripping to pool upon the stone floor. Like rushing water, it flowed back toward the center of the room— and there, it gathered and dispersed into the form of a young woman with a delicate figure, clothed all in black and seated in lotus position. Her back was facing them, dark hair woven in a loose plait that ran down her back as she sat upright. She did not turn to greet them, nor move from where she sat.

“So, you’ve come after all,” she said— and both Song Mingzhen and Ning Feiyun startled a bit, because it was without a doubt Yang Anxiang’s voice that spoke, yet in a calm, self-assured way that neither of them had heard before. “You arrived more quickly than I expected.”

Ning Feiyun opened his mouth to speak. “Yang-xiaoniang—”

“No need to call me that anymore, don’t you think? After all, ‘Yang Anxiang’ is dead, remember?” she continued, and though her voice remained amicable, there was a faint undercurrent of bitterness running through it, twisting and intertwining with faint threads of satisfaction. “I see you’ve brought a friend with you, Jiangjun.”

“Jiangjun…” Song Mingzhen whispered, his fingers turning tremulous. “What… do you mean?”

Yang Anxiang snorted softly, and at last, she climbed to her feet, slowly turning her head. The person who stood before them now was entirely different from that pretty, flower-like maiden he’d met at the back of the mountain. Her face was unpainted and her hair and figure unadorned by jewelry, and she carried herself with a cool confidence, the corner of her lip twisting slightly as she met his gaze.

“Interesting, isn’t it? You didn’t hesitate to answer to that title, even though ‘you’ have never borne it yourself…” she murmured. “Or… have you?”

Ning Feiyun’s eyes flashed and he gripped his spear more tightly, raising it to point toward her. “Enough,” he said, his voice sharp and commanding now. “What is the meaning of all of this? If you lived, then who was it who died in your place? And what have you to do with my companion?”

Yang Anxiang smirked, raising a finger to tap it against her cheek and tilting her head slightly. “Hmm… you know, you’ve changed a lot since seven years ago, Ning-san-gongzi.”

“Seven… years…” Once again, Ning Feiyun became agitated. “What does that have to do with any of this? Moreso, what does it have to do with you?”

“Not much,” she shook her head, “I was nothing more than a bystander at the time, after all… back then, you tried to make yourself seem like a threat, but didn’t have the skills to hold your own. Now, it seems you really have become stronger. Look at you, actually speaking with authority!”

She flicked her fingers, and an illusory copy of her hand floated out, fingers brushing up against the side of Ning Feiyun’s jaw.

Ning Feiyun reacted immediately, spinning Shuangci upward to pierce through and scatter the illusion.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, darkly, “I suggest you stay quiet about whatever it is you think you know.”

Song Mingzhen glanced from one to the other, back and forth, his brow furrowing. Pain began to radiate between his temples once more, sharper than any he’d felt so far to the point where he thought he might actually collapse to the ground— but he remained standing. With some effort, he pushed through the pain, and extended his hand to block Ning Feiyun from approaching Yang Anxiang.

“It seems like you have secrets of your own, don’t you, Ning-xiong?” he mused. His lips moved practically on their own, the syllables flowing off his tongue unrestrained. “Actually, I’m rather interested in what she has to say. That is… unless you want to tell me first?”

He had tried not to get angry or upset, he really did. It was just that… ever since he woke up with his own past obscured from him, few people have been willing to divulge anything beyond the most minimal information. It was frustrating to no end, and he’d pushed aside that frustration for so long already… but now, the world around him felt like it was trembling, and within him the glow of crimson embers that had long seemed to be extinguished was flaring up once more.

On the precipice of finding the truth, how dare these two try to keep him from it?

“Enough secrets,” he said, glaring now toward Yang Anxiang. “You’ve called me here to tell me what all this is about, so do it— first, why did you call me Jiangjun?”

“Hm… I thought I remembered you being more perceptive than this. Why do you think? It’s because that’s what you should be called— after all, aren’t you our own Great General?”

Song Mingzhen’s eyes widened. The words pierced through him like blades through his chest. He’d had his suspicions, but… he’d purposefully ignored them until now. “What?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I…” he hesitated, his throat feeling tight.

Yang Anxiang raised a hand, and with a twist of her fingers like removing a cloth covering. Near the central platform, a small table appeared, upon which rested an incense burner. It was an ordinary-looking instrument, but there was still a faint sheen about it in Song Mingzhen’s perception.

“I’ve seen many things,” she said, “and know even more. Things which the great clans— and the one who claims to be your ‘father’— wish to keep you from learning. Things which your companion would like to keep secret… I can reveal these things to you, if you’d like.”

Ning Feiyun tensed. Song Mingzhen glanced toward him, then back toward Yang Anxiang.

“Your specialty is creating illusions,” he answered, stiffly, “how could I trust anything that you were to show me?”

Yang Anxiang released a faint chuckle, shaking her head. “Don’t you wonder why I’d go through all this trouble and risk for you? If I were trying to play a trick… I’d hardly have led you all the way out here. Besides”— she tapped the incense burner with the tips of her fingers— “this isn’t an illusion or trickery. It’s one of my clan’s techniques, the Fragrance of Memory.”

The Yang clan from Xuanlin were medicine-makers, and Song Mingzhen recalled seeing a mention of this technique before. It was one used to draw up buried memories… a certain kind of incense created by a medicine cultivator, which would send someone into a vision of a specific time and place within their memory should they enter meditation after inhaling the smoke combined with an environmental trigger of some sort. Still…

“Even if you say this, how could I trust you won’t tamper with it, having me see whatever it is you want me to see instead?” he asked.

Ning Feiyun’s shoulders became even stiffer, and he swallowed hard. “Ge, I don’t think we should…”

“You just don’t want him to know what you’ve done, do you?” Yang Anxiang cut in before he could finish, voice as cold as ice. “Even though he already knows. He only needs to remember.”

“How are you so certain?” Ning Feiyun shot back.

Yang Anxiang paused for a moment as though considering whether to answer, then crossed her arms. “I have my ways— but I can promise you, what I know is undeniably the truth.”

Ning Feiyun looked toward Song Mingzhen, still gripping his spear. He was beginning to look quite anxious, but Song Mingzhen couldn’t tell whether it was about Yang Anxiang’s intentions or the possibility of his own secrets being revealed.

It was difficult to tell Yang Anxiang’s true intentions, but sending a message to summon him here was a significant risk, one that she could have easily avoided. Whatever she wanted him to see… whether it was the truth or a lie, he likely wasn’t in any immediate danger.

And he was tired of secrets.

“Fine… I want to know,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I want to know what you’re hiding— but even more than that, I can’t help but be curious about why exactly you’re so sure I’m your old general.”

Yang Anxiang smirked, a hint of triumph flickering across her features. “So, you’ll have a look then? You know, the Fragrance of Memory can only show you the memories belonging to yourself— so whatever you happen to see, it’s surely something you’ve experienced.”

“And I’ll decide for myself whether I believe it,” he shot back.

She didn’t seem too concerned by that and with a snap of her fingers, used her spiritual power to light the incense. Then, she stepped down from the platform, gesturing toward it. “Go on,” she instructed. “I can’t say exactly what it will show you, but whatever you see should be enough to at least tell you who you truly are. The truth about the power you wield… even though I’m not sure how strong the effects are, or if you’ll be able to see the end of the war.”

“What do you mean?” he frowned, stepping up toward the platform despite Ning Feiyun’s protest.

“I mean that your memories aren’t intact— and even those that are buried were not forgotten simply due to strain or trauma. I can’t be sure how much the Fragrance of Memory will be able to draw up. Since you could conjure the Xuelian blades, though… it seems promising.”

Each of Yang Anxiang’s explanations added more layers of confusion. This time, though, he didn’t bother asking anything more and just took a seat on the stone platform.

“You shouldn’t trust her!” Ning Feiyun admonished, stepping forward again.

Song Mingzhen held up a hand to tell him to stand back. His lips twisted into a half-bitter, half self-satisfied smirk. “I don’t trust her,” he said, “but you’re here too, right? I’m sure you won’t let her do anything to me.”

“Wait—” Ning Feiyun began, but Yang Anxiang stepped between him and Song Mingzhen.

“Didn’t you hear him?” she asked, “He wants to know. Who are you to keep him from the truth?”

Ning Feiyun’s face was pale, and he was still clearly anxious, but he didn’t advance any further, the conflict raging beneath the thin veneer of his expression holding him back from either acting or stepping down.

Song Mingzhen’s smirk widened even more as he fixed his gaze upon Ning Feiyun.

“If the truth really is such a dangerous, terrible thing, then we will face it when it reveals itself.”

Song Mingzhen couldn’t help it now— he himself felt as if he were about to fall from a precipice. No, it was like he was about to willingly leap into oblivion, to dive into the raging sea without knowing if he would ever resurface. Now that he’d come so far, he really didn’t know how he felt. The piercing headache that had plagued him all this time was more present than ever, yet he could barely feel it. He wondered if he were going mad… and decided that in the end, he didn’t really care that much.

If he didn’t go mad from this, then the mysteries themselves would drive him to it sooner or later.

Using Ning Feiyun’s own words against him, he was teasing the other man just as much as he was trying to reassure him. Now that he knew he wasn’t the only one here with secrets, he actually felt quite a bit less worried.

Ning Feiyun released a shaky breath and finally lowered his spear.

“Very well,” he said. “If I can’t stop you… then I’ll at least make certain that she doesn’t harm you.”

“Thank you.”

The smirk softened into a genuine smile, and he turned toward Yang Anxiang. “Have I inhaled enough of the incense smoke?”

“Yes,” Yang Anxiang replied, nodding. “It should take effect if you enter meditation now.”

“Good. Then, let’s see what all this is really about.”

He took a deep breath, quelling as much of the nervousness as he could before closing his eyes. Almost as soon as he had entered meditation, his senses began to spin, his head feeling light and his body heavy as lead. The fragrance of the incense smoke mingled with the cool dampness of the cavern, the crumbling stone and faint scent of moss, and then suddenly he felt the gentle kiss of a cool, late-spring night breeze across his cheekbones.

He opened his eyes.

The scene before him was no longer the interior of an underground cavern. Instead, he found himself leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, head tipped slightly back to gaze upward at the stars peeking through the leafy boughs.

At first, he tried to reach out and touch the tree behind him, or snag a leaf from one of the branches— to prove that this wasn’t simply an illusion— but he quickly found that he could not move his body, or even turn his head. All he could do was watch, listen, and take in the scents in the air around him. He felt suddenly trapped and confined, and anxiety began to well up within him. Though he knew it would wear off with time, he wondered exactly how long that would take. Ning Feiyun wouldn’t allow it to go on for too long, right?

He wouldn’t end up trapped within his own mind while his body remained catatonic again, right?

It was a little too late to go back now, though. He’d leapt into the flood-swollen river, and now could only follow it until its end.

Just as he was beginning to quell the rising panic, suddenly he heard the crunch of footsteps on leaves. Instinctively, he turned his head to look— and the “him” within this memory did the same, peering out from behind the tree.

Walking down a path through the trees, head turning from side to side, drawn spear held in one hand, was a younger Ning Feiyun, not yet so sure-footed or sharp as he now was.

“A-Qian!”

It was a strange sensation, feeling his lips move, hearing his own voice calling out— and though he too sounded far younger, it was undeniably him. To feel his own legs moving, carrying him out from behind the shelter of the tree without even

But… who was A-Qian?

The answer came in an instant— Ning Feiyun startled, spinning around to face him. Recognition flashed across his expression upon hearing the name. Could that be what he was called before coming to Yinshan, when he had still lived at Mengshan Temple?

It was the young Ning Feiyun’s response, however, that struck like a bolt of lightning from the heavens, shattering both doubts and hopes alike.

“Mo Yuan… what are you doing here?”