Gu unlocked the restricted shelf after the library opened. The red-wrapped text sat behind two damaged manuals, its paper cover tied with string that had grown brittle. Yan waited while Gu set the books on a clean desk and checked the catalog number.
“This is the fragment I mentioned,” Gu said. “The catalog says it came from a military collection. The title is Nine-Death Blood Ignition Art.”
Yan looked at the title through the open cover. “The missing leaves?”
“Several pages are gone. We don’t know where the final breath pattern went.” Gu untied the string without pulling at the paper. “We’ll read the warning first.”
The first page described a single circulation that burned a month of lifespan and left the practitioner too weak to stand. The words were cramped and stained. A second line warned that a failed route could stop the heart. Gu read it aloud, then placed a red warning slip beside the text.
Yan counted the surviving leaves without lifting them from the desk. The first three were numbered; the next number jumped ahead by four. A torn stub remained where the missing section had been sewn into the binding. The final page ended halfway through a breath count, its lower edge ragged and darkened by water.
“Do we know whether those pages were lost together?” he asked.
“The binding suggests they were removed or torn out as a group. The catalog only records that the manual is incomplete.” Gu turned the cover and inspected the old stitch holes. “We can’t assume the missing pages held only commentary. They may have contained the part that controls the force.”
Yan read the paper’s faded heading again. “The warning says one circulation, but the surviving lines don’t say what counts as one.”
“Exactly. The missing breath pattern could change the route and the duration.” Gu placed a narrow paper marker at the torn section without touching the brittle edge. “We need another copy or a complete reference.”
Yan did not touch the page. “What does the art do before the cost takes effect?”
“Blood-colored qi surges through the limbs. The method was made for short bursts of force in battle.” Gu turned to the next surviving leaf. “But the last breath count is missing. Without it, we don’t know how the qi leaves the route.”
“Could the remaining lines still be studied?”
“Yes, as a fragment. Not as instructions to practice.” Gu tapped the warning. “The cost is extraordinary, and the missing breath is not a small omission.”
Yan read the surviving lines. They described the sensation of qi rising along the arms, then vanished where the page had torn away. The diagram beside the prose used marks different from those in the Ashen Marrow text. He could not tell where the force was supposed to release.
“The strength sounds useful,” he said. “But the surviving page doesn’t explain the whole route.”
“Correct.” Gu watched him. “You asked to study it, not activate it. Do you still want to copy what remains?”
“Yes. Keep the warning on the same page.”
Gu placed a sheet of copy paper beside the fragment. Yan copied the title, source, and the warning first. He wrote that one circulation was said to burn a month of lifespan and leave the practitioner unable to stand. Then he copied the surviving description of the surge, marking the missing breath pattern as an unknown rather than trying to fill it in.
“Don’t connect the lines across the gap,” Gu said. “Someone could mistake your copy for a complete route.”
Yan drew a thick divider and wrote “fragment ends here; final breath absent.” He added the catalog number and the military source note. The red warning slip remained beside the copy, attached with string so it could not be separated.
Gu searched the catalog for another reference. The first entry led to a military manual returned years ago, but its shelf was blank. He checked the neighboring numbers and found a transfer note showing that it had been moved to restricted stacks after an inspection.
“Do you remember which shelf?” Yan asked.
“Not exactly. The transfer note gives a number and date.” Gu compared the mark to the current shelf map. “It should be in the older east cabinet. We can search that shelf instead of opening every box.”
Yan wrote the reference on a separate slip. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, when I can unlock the cabinet and compare the covers. If the manual is gone, the catalog may tell us who borrowed it.”
They searched the current shelf for a second copy but found none. Gu opened the cabinet only far enough to check the labeled spines. A few military texts had faded titles, but none matched the transfer number. He left them in place and closed the door.
At the catalog desk, Gu compared the transfer note to a list of confiscated texts from the same year. The number had been copied twice, once in ink and once in pencil. The pencil mark looked like a seven, but the ink could have been a one. They checked both shelf paths in the catalog. One led to a set of troop ledgers; the other led to a box of manuals returned after an inspection.
“The date confirms the inspection set,” Gu said. “We can search that box tomorrow. The transfer note doesn’t prove the manual is still there.”
Yan copied both possible numbers and marked the uncertain digit with a question mark. “I’ll keep both possibilities instead of choosing one.”
“Good. If we select the wrong shelf and find nothing, that does not prove the source is gone.”
They checked the ledger’s neighboring entries for a borrower’s name. The line was faded but blank. No one had signed the text out. The catalog trail narrowed the search, but the missing manual remained a lead, not an answer.
“What if the other manual is also incomplete?” Yan asked.
“Then it remains incomplete.”
“And we still do not practice.”
“Correct.” Gu retied the red wrapping around the fragment. “Curiosity doesn’t restore missing pages.”
Yan returned the copy to his notebook. The warning stayed on the same sheet as the surviving method, and the missing count was clear. He felt curiosity about the force described in the text, but the lifespan cost and missing release made no sense to test by guesswork.
At the end of the session, Gu checked the manuscript back into the shelf. The hinge stuck, and Yan held the cabinet door while Gu turned the key. The lock clicked into place.
“The cabinet has lost its final breath,” Yan said.
Gu tugged the handle once. “The cabinet has a stiff hinge.”
“Maybe it needs a complete copy.”
“It needs oil.” Gu tucked the key into his sleeve. “We’ll bring oil tomorrow.”
They left the room laughing at the old lock. The fragment remained wrapped and secured, its warning still attached to the copied lines. Yan had learned what the art claimed to do and why no one should attempt it from the pages they had. The next step was finding the reference, not testing the danger.