Chapter 39 · The Wind Rises in Iron Valley, the First Spark Appears
Section 1 · After a Misfired Strike · Ash That Hasn't Yet Fallen
Three days had passed since the southern outpost of the Watchbone League was consumed by flames. TRACE's justification for the raid was "anomalous high-frequency memetic signals," but only they knew the truth — it was merely the Empire lashing out in blind frustration, cutting down a silent military soul without cause.
For three days, this wasteland had not truly cooled.
Jason stood with Zhao Mingxuan and Lisa, stepping past the skeletal remains of outer checkpoints, through charred tree roots and broken banners. For the first time, they stood at the heart of the valley's wind-swept edge — a place unacknowledged by official maps, yet long marked on black-market charts, ARGUS infiltration lines, and even the old Black Vine Society's records as simply: "The Watchbone Nest."
No one spoke. They all understood — this fire had been lit first by the Empire. But the true ignition point had yet to come.
Ash swirled in the wind like the final elegy of the Watchbone League's fallen spirit. Once the most stable forward base along the southern front, now only scorched ruins remained — rows of burnt cavalry armor jutting from the earth like relics of an obsolete faith.
Jason stood before a half-melted metal plate, holding a soldier's badge he'd picked up from the rubble. It was still warm, its paint melted away, leaving only two letters legible: "SO."
Zhao's voice came low:
"They said TRACE detected concentrated fire-signaling waves… but this was clearly their communication hub."
"They don't care whether it's true or not," Jason replied calmly.
"Once a meme goes rogue, anyone who can burn becomes fire."
He walked toward the edge of the scorched ground and saw someone still sitting beside a ruined radio set.
It was an old man, dressed in tattered remnants of the Watchbone uniform, missing one leg, still clutching a military logbook.
"You're…" Zhao started to ask, but Jason stopped him with a gesture.
The old man looked up. There was no panic, no fear.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"We are… observers," Jason answered.
"You came too late." The man murmured. "They mistook us for fire, but we hadn't even decided whether we wanted to be."
Zhao paused. "And now?"
"I don't know," the old man rasped. "But we won't bother proving we aren't anymore."
Jason looked at him, and in that moment, FuXi whispered softly in his mind:
[Image: Wind moving across heaven, family speaks. Words unheard, words become belief, belief becomes fire.]
He gently placed the badge atop the old man's notebook.
"If you choose to remember, remember this blurry moment. When people ask later, say this — the fire was a mistake. But we've decided — we won't hide anymore."
The wind continued to blow, unable to scatter the lingering heat of the scorched land, nor the smoldering ashes of faith already kindled.
Not far away, a small group of surviving Watchbone soldiers were gathering corpses. They shouted no slogans, made no declarations, but each time they moved a piece of burned armor, they positioned it facing north.
"That's… the direction of the capital," Zhao whispered.
Jason nodded. "They've chosen their way."
Lisa hurried over from a side alley, handing Jason a note.
"Intercepted underground comm. Just one line —
'This time we didn't claim to be fire, but they said we were. So we are.'"
Jason's eyes narrowed slightly. He said quietly:
"Fire isn't spoken into existence. It's believed into being."
He lifted his gaze toward the ash-choked sky above Iron Valley.
"They believe now."
Section 2 · White Robes Seep In · Drinking Wine, Testing Faith
Night fell, but the winds over the scorched earth did not cease.
Jason and his team didn't stay long. After completing initial observation and contact, they split into three groups to withdraw, marking several potential infiltration points. Phase Two of the Watchbone Engagement Plan was underway — deep social structure embedding.
Wells changed into a border supply merchant's cloak bought from the black market, covered in dust and oil stains. He looked every bit the part — a gray-market connection skirting war zones. He never liked this disguise, but tonight, he wasn't the tactical advisor of LightRay. Tonight, he was a "former" Watchbone corporal — discarded by time, forgotten by the Empire.
"It feels almost nostalgic," he muttered.
The system gave no reply, but the HUD flickered faintly, highlighting an operational location ahead:
A Watchbone Old Tavern — one of the last gathering places for ex-soldiers. Without command, without orders, but so long as the flag remained, so too did some semblance of identity among those who still raised their glasses together.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The tavern's light came from oil lamps. The walls were darkened with smoke, filled with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and dried meat. A ragged group of Watchbone members sat or leaned around the room, speaking in hushed tones — snippets like "the Empire delayed rations again" and "no signal from North Watch" drifted through the air.
Wells approached the bar, ordered a cup of "Copper Dregs," and handed over an old Watchbone seal. The bartender glanced at the crack in the emblem, asked no questions, and simply poured him a pot of pale golden liquid.
"You're not from around here," a gravelly voice came from beside him.
Wells turned. An old sergeant with gray-streaked hair and three blast scars across his face. No uniform, but a belt with a brass buckle hung at his waist — a symbol of old Watchbone officers.
"Eastern Front. Grey Moon Post," Wells replied, voice dry and believable. "Tired of running. Heard there were still some posts holding out here."
The old man didn't answer, just sipped his drink.
Wells went on, "These days… is fire a good excuse?"
A few tables around them paused. Someone glanced up, then quickly looked away.
"They called us fire when we weren't," the old man said finally. "We tried to deny it. They didn't believe us. So what we said didn't matter anymore."
"So do you believe it now?" Wells asked.
"I do," the old man said coldly. "Because I can't believe them."
The air tensed slightly.
Wells lowered his head, smiling faintly as if to himself.
"I met a kid once. He said he didn't start the fire, didn't spread it — just got called one. You know what he did after that?"
"What?"
"He started spreading it. Because he didn't want to carry the blame for nothing."
The old man was silent for a long moment.
"You know who you're talking to?" he asked.
"I do." Wells downed his drink, stood, and gently slid the medal across the table.
The old man looked down. It was an old-style Watchbone commendation — cracked, its serial number erased. The first four digits: G-144.
His expression shifted slightly.
"You're… from the Seventh Battalion at Guqiao Pass?"
"A veteran. Now a trader." Wells said lightly.
The old man said nothing. Slowly, he pocketed the medal and resumed drinking as if nothing had happened.
"When you leave," he murmured, "don't take the main entrance. There's a new notice pinned to the wall in the north alley — not ours. Not TRACE's. I don't know who put it there."
"You want to know?"
"I don't want to know." He looked Wells in the eye. "I just want to know… if it's going to burn, can it at least burn with rhythm?"
"You want rhythm?"
Wells leaned down and tapped the table three times — short, pause, double-tap.
One of the covert signaling rhythms used within LightRay:
"The wind has risen. Listen to its movement."
The old man showed no reaction at first. Then, after a few seconds, he said quietly:
"That rhythm… sounds familiar."
He stood, walked toward a corner, and called back softly:
"You, 'trader' — come back tomorrow night, same time.
Someone might want to talk about 'supplies.'"
The door creaked open. Wind rushed in.
As Wells stepped outside, the ARGUS system whispered in his earpiece:
[Earth Conceals Fire] — In silence lies the boundary between wind and flame. So long as hearts beat, fire will not die. Build the game in shadows. Don't rush to reveal your blade.
He looked up at the distant, flickering lights of the main road through Iron Valley, murmuring:
"The first layer… peeled away."
Section 3 · Mirror of Fuxi · Battle of Belief Nodes
Night thickened, and the air above the scorched land carried drifting embers like hanging flags of the old army, silently questioning how the living should respond to the dead.
Jason sat inside a derelict signal station near the Watchbone perimeter. A faded recruitment notice from three years ago still clung to the wall. Before him, several bio-sync terminals hummed quietly, with ARGUS operating in low frequency, monitoring real-time sentiment and resonance modules. And Fuxi hovered silently within his visual field — always present, always for him alone.
ARGUS's female voice reported:
[Regional emotional fluctuation index: rising; undefined belief memes × unknown origin × self-constructive structures forming.]
Jason nodded. "They're trying to understand 'fire' in their own way."
Lisa entered, placing a stack of intercepted Watchbone internal communications on the desk.
"We've tracked at least seven different small groups discussing the idea of reconstructing the Watchbone Declaration. Three have already begun asserting: 'We are not fire, but the Empire says we are. So we are.'"
Zhao flipped a page, voice grim:
"This isn't spreading — it's building. They're constructing their own definition of 'who we are.' This is more dangerous than mere transmission."
Jason said nothing. With a flick of his finger, a hexagonal "belief mapping chart" appeared on the Fuxi terminal — the core labeled Old Military Honor, radiating outward into five directions:
① Regretters: once loyal to the Empire, now abandoned
② Enraged: radicalized by comrades wrongly killed
③ Loyalists: still follow commands, reject fire speech
④ Observers: silent, waiting to choose
⑤ Mimics: imitate language out of fear
The most frequently flashing node was Regretters — those awakened by the language of fire, yet still hesitant to act.
Fuxi whispered in his mind:
[Hexagram: Volcano Traveling — Heart stirs, action delays. Crowd surges like tide. If the guide hesitates, unity breaks. If too swift, chaos follows.]
Jason responded softly:
"So we borrow, don't lead."
Zhao frowned. "What does that mean?"
Jason placed his fingertip at the center of the map.
"We don't need to teach them what to believe. We only need to let them think the belief was born in them."
ARGUS chimed again:
[B-zone market tagged with fire symbols × E-block sings "Morning哨回响" song × Residual troop gathering rate up to 43%]
Lisa's eyes flickered.
"We're not lighting fires anymore?"
"We're just echoing," Jason said calmly.
"They don't need a leader — they need confirmation. That fire was always inside them. Just no one dared strike the match."
He stood, walking to the edge of the signal tower, crouching beside the scorched bricks. He took out a small tactical pen and etched a single line.
Zhao approached.
"What did you write?"
Jason whispered:
"Not a slogan. A question."
Etched into the brick:
"If I don't say I'm fire, would you call me one?"
Zhao pondered.
"This isn't igniting... it's lighting minds."
ARGUS suddenly blared:
[Alert: Similar slogan found on C-North Wall × Style imitation × Spread time difference under 5 minutes × Preliminary conclusion: NOT OUR SOURCE]
[Conclusion: Fire-belief structure has entered 'meme mimicry' stage × Spontaneous evolution begins]
Fuxi added:
[Meme mimicry = Group accepts a linguistic logic as consensus → No central source needed]
[Philosophical prompt: If fire hides in mouths, it burns in hearts. One needs not speak fire — spontaneous flames burn fiercest.]
Jason said nothing more. He placed the brick upright, covering it with ash.
"They won't ignite anything tonight," he said.
"But they'll dream of fire."
And that… was more powerful than any call to arms.
Section 4 · Signature in Smoke · Trial Flame Ignites
Iron Valley's nights always carried a metallic tang.
Though the Watchbone district had lost formal command, it had not fully collapsed. In the twilight, behind the ruins, near an old grain storage building, a dozen young figures in gray cloaks slowly arranged fragments of scorched armor into a semi-circle before the wreckage.
They wore no caps, bore no ranks. They were simply the ones left.
"Is this it?" a thin youth looked up at the gray sky, uncertainty in his eyes.
An older man brushed a cloth clean and draped it over a charred suit of armor.
"They gave us no honor guard. So we give them fire."
"But isn't this exactly what they called fire?" the boy hesitated.
"They called us fire," the man said firmly, standing.
"We lit nothing. But they burned us. So this place became a place of fire."
In a corner, a little girl scrawled a sentence on the broken wall with chalk:
"We didn't say we were fire. But you did. So we are."
No one told her to write it. She'd only seen a forwarded image of the line Jason had written yesterday — and she wrote her response.
At the entrance, a former Watchbone sergeant stood in shadow, watching them — these were not men led by command, but by anger, fear, shame, or something more complex.
He turned, pulled out a communicator, and typed slowly:
"Visible fire has emerged from the people. Not lit by us. Cannot be stopped."
—
On the other side of the ruins, Jason watched from above.
Zhao approached, whispering:
"That girl's writing has been captured and shared across five districts. It's becoming the next fire meme — faster than the 'Dual Fire Convergence' phrase."
Jason didn't look back.
"Fast, because they think someone else lit the match. Slow, because no one dares admit they wanted to light it themselves."
Lisa handed over an ARGUS node analysis:
"Since last night, approximately thirty-five non-organized Watchbone groups have initiated belief discussions. Eight have formed consensus behaviors — three or more writing fire phrases, wearing matching cloth bands, carving symbols."
"Who organized it?"
"No one," Lisa said, her tone complicated.
"They're mimicking a nonexistent organization."
Jason remained silent.
Fuxi whispered:
[Hexagram: Fire-Water Unfinished — Waters move, fire hidden. Nothing complete yet. Ride the wave, don't force it.]
He nodded.
"So we don't chase the crest. The wilder the wave, the clearer we must remain."
He gazed at the quiet crowd below — like a silent enlistment ceremony without drums.
"Tonight," he said softly,
"Watchbone is no longer the old army. It has become a mirror — reflecting those who wanted to be fire, but were afraid to say it."
—
Meanwhile, TRACE was secretly interrogating a captured youth on the eastern side of the zone.
"Why did you write that line?"
"Because… I wanted them to remember us."
"Who told you to write it?"
"No one… we just wanted to say something."
TRACE officer frowned.
"You know that's a 'fire phrase,' right?"
The youth shook his head, then asked:
"If I say I'm not fire, how do I prove it?"
"If you don't write it, don't say it, don't believe it."
"But you already struck us."
Silence filled the room.
The recorder noted:
[Subject exhibits typical 'fire meme mimic personality' — does not affirm self as fire, but due to enforced attack, adopts fire identity.]
The chief investigator furrowed his brow.
He understood now — they could no longer control who was fire.
Because now, if you were called fire, if you said even one word of fire, if you didn't deny it —
you were fire.
And that… was beyond the Empire's power to extinguish.
Section 5 · Among the Ashes · The Return of the Messenger
At 3am, the wind blew low through the streets, and fine dust rose like thin fog. The northern Watchbone quarter had sunk into brief silence — like a city waking from a nightmare, still tasting the fire in its dreams.
Jason sat in the back of a wrecked pickup truck, staring toward the old water tower. On the ARGUS terminal, red dots converged steadily. He could see the fire belief evolving — no longer dependent on a single messenger, but crafting its own language, rhythm, and sense of belonging.
Zhao crouched nearby, muttering:
"It feels a bit like the early Gray Wing days. But more uncontrollable."
"Not uncontrollable," Jason said evenly.
"Hyper-controllable. When people begin believing what you never said — you're no longer their leader. You've become their reflection."
Footsteps approached.
Lisa arrived with a stranger — a man with half his face covered, wrapped in a makeshift plastic poncho. On his shoulder was a symbol — a half-burnt wheel of flame.
"Ember Gang," Lisa said briefly.
The man nodded, voice hoarse:
"I'm not here representing any group. I'm here to return something."
He handed Jason a metal fragment wrapped in oil paper. When unfolded, it revealed an engraved scrap of steel, scratched and graffiti-covered, bearing a message:
"Ignition Protocol Page 3 has entered circulation."
Jason took it, his brow tightening.
That was a backup copy from the old Gray Wing hideout — part of a "fire strategy simulation document" meant for core use only. Even though LightRay and Spark had fragmented, no order had ever been given to release this "playbook of deception."
"Where did you get this?" Zhao asked softly.
"The black market," the man replied.
"But rumor says it was released by your people."
"We didn't," Lisa said immediately.
Jason didn't deny it outright.
He stared at the metal plate and said slowly:
"So… fire has begun rewriting itself."
The man nodded, pulling out another handwritten sheet. It listed derivative logic patterns of fire meme propagation — including three types of belief attribution:
If you remain silent but are misjudged — you are fire.
If you protest but are doubted — you are more fire.
If you embrace it but are condemned — you become fire's symbol.
"These are our own conclusions," the man said without reverence.
"No one believed we were fire. But now everyone thinks we were lit by you… so we did."
Zhao's expression grew complex.
"You're here to join us?"
"No." The man shook his head.
"We're just here to warn — your fire is no longer yours alone."
Lisa's eyes narrowed.
"What are you going to do?"
"We're doing nothing." The man grinned faintly.
"We're just lighting a match someone dropped on the ground."
With that, he turned and disappeared into the night, vanishing down the old aqueduct east of Watchbone.
Jason watched him go, saying nothing for a long time.
Fuxi whispered:
[Hexagram: Wind-Fire Family Becomes Revolution — When belief becomes law, fire becomes rule. People precede authority. Change overtakes control.]
ARGUS synchronized:
[Watchbone meme update × Affiliated belief clusters emerging × Ember Gang shows "Fire Identity Adoption Tendency" × Forecast: Fire structure entering "multi-source worship × unclear origins" phase.]
Zhao asked quietly:
"Can we still pull it back?"
"We never intended to," Jason said, slowly rising, gazing into the distance.
"Fire was never ours. From the beginning, it was meant to make others feel — they could light it too."
He spoke softly:
"At the moment you strike the first spark, you must accept that all future flames may burn outside the map you control."
Far off, a new graffito appeared on a ruin wall:
"Who isn't fire? Who dares to say they're not?"