He shook his head.
Not in refusal.
Not in confusion.
But in a kind of quiet determination that surprised even himself.
For a brief moment, the fog in his mind cleared enough for him to remember the weight of Chen's gaze earlier, the tremor in her hands, the way Yulan looked as if she were bracing against a storm she didn't understand.
He stepped closer.
"I want to sit with you both," Ming said simply.
Chen's breath caught. Yulan brightened a little, scooting aside on the wooden bench so her father could sit between them. Ming lowered himself slowly, fingers brushing the railing as if grounding himself to the world.
Lantern light played across their faces.
Crickets sang from the garden's shadows.
For the first time in weeks, the silence felt warm rather than hollow.
Chen folded her hands in her lap. She wanted to speak, to ask him what he remembered, to cling to the possibility that he was back. But she knew better. Asking would only hurt them both.
Instead, Ming broke the silence first.
"Chen," he said. "Earlier… I made you cry."
Chen lowered her gaze. "No, you didn't. I—"
"Don't," Ming said gently. "I know your eyes too well."
Yulan leaned against his shoulder. Ming looked down at her, and something in his eyes brightened with a rare sharpness.
"I may forget things," he said softly, "but I know this: you two are the reason I wake each morning."
Chen's throat tightened. She lifted a trembling hand toward his cheek. Ming closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.
A moment later, his voice dropped.
"And I am… afraid. More than I tell anyone."
Chen's hand shook. "You don't have to be. We will face whatever comes together."
He opened his eyes. There was worry in them. And love. And something else, flickering like a flame in a storm.
"Promise me you won't carry this burden alone," Chen whispered.
He nodded once. "I promise."
Yulan hugged him tighter, and he wrapped one arm around her small shoulders.
For a few breaths, the world held still.
As if time itself paused to grant them mercy.
But peace never lasted long in the imperial palace.
A breath later, a guard approached from the shadows, kneeling deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said. "Pardon my intrusion. News has come from General Han's estate. It concerns his son… Ling Kun."
Yulan perked up. "Ling Kun? Did something happen?"
The guard hesitated, glancing between Chen and the emperor.
Ming straightened. His clarity remained, a rare gift of the moment.
"Speak."
"The young master Ling Kun has awakened an early-stage sword resonance during training at the Academy of Huaxian Arts. He is requesting an audience… with Your Majesty."
Chen raised her brows. "At this hour?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. He insisted that it could not wait."
Yulan jumped to her feet. "Father, let me go greet him! He's my age, and he always gets into something ridiculous. He probably tried to cut a waterfall again."
Ming blinked. "A… waterfall?"
"He likes to test things," Yulan said as if that explained everything. "Last time he tried to split a stone tablet to see if it was 'worthy enough to split back.'"
Chen pinched the bridge of her nose. "That child will give his father a heart attack."
Ming exhaled a soft laugh. "Let's go meet him then."
Yulan grabbed his hand immediately.
"Papa, come. Kun always cheers everyone up. Even Mama."
Chen looked up sharply. "Even me?"
Yulan nodded. "He said adults who forget how to laugh should be pestered until they remember."
Chen blinked, then unexpectedly snorted.
"That… sounds exactly like Ling Kun."
Ming rose, steadying himself. Chen stepped to his other side, ready to offer support if needed but not making it obvious.
Together, they walked toward the Moonlit Courtyard.
Lanterns swayed in the evening wind.
Servants bowed as they passed.
The palace seemed less ominous now, less suffocating.
And waiting in the courtyard, balancing on one leg atop a stone lantern while spinning a wooden sword in one hand, was a boy with wild black hair and eyes bright as morning stars.
Ling Kun.
Eight years old.
Imperial born.
General Han's only son.
Sword fanatic.
Bright, boundless, a force of nature in human form.
When he saw them, he grinned and called out:
"Your Majesty! Aunt Chen! Yulan! You all look too serious. Did someone steal your laughter? I came to return it!"
Yulan groaned. "Kun, get down from there! You're going to break your skull."
Kun hopped off effortlessly, landing in a crouch with perfect balance.
"I am a disciple of the Sword Heavens! My skull is unbreakable!"
"Kun," Chen said tiredly, "please don't test that theory."
He grinned wider.
Then his expression shifted suddenly: bright excitement giving way to a solemnity far too mature for his age.
"Your Majesty," he said, stepping forward. "I need your blessing. Something awakened in me today… something powerful."
Ming studied the boy. The moment held weight.
"What awakened?" Ming asked.
Kun lifted his wooden sword. The courtyard's lantern flames flickered.
"My resonance with the Manual of the Flowing Sky," he whispered. "And… I think I saw something. In the swordlight."
Yulan frowned. "Saw what?"
Kun swallowed.
"A shadow rising over Huaxia. Something terrible. Something that wants to devour memory itself."
Chen's blood froze.
Ming's hand trembled at his side.
Yulan stepped closer to Kun, voice small.
"Kun… are you sure?"
Kun nodded.
His carefree smile did not disappear, but for the first time, it trembled at the edges.
"I don't know what it means," he admitted. "But someone needs to know. Because whatever I saw… it looked straight at me."
And far above them, the lantern flames flickered again.
As though something unseen had brushed past.