The scribes finished signing the first Black Lamp readings. Qinghe walked the bell field and checked each cord for slack. One thread had loosened near the center. She asked the attendant to retie it, then had another witness test the tension with a light touch.
The crowd waited while the cord was fixed. A few people called for the next art. The arena master asked them to hold their voices until the bell field was reset. Yan stood at the edge, calm and pleased by the first result.
When the cords were ready, he chose to repeat the sequence. The life cost entered his practice again, then reversed into more vitality. The concealment worked as intended. He moved through the field, passing closer to the cords than before. None of the bells sounded.
He walked to the recorder’s table and leaned toward the slate. “The ink’s drying on the last page.”
His voice seemed to come from nowhere. The audience laughed, then quieted as the clerk looked around. Yan stood beside him, still unseen. He could see the figures on the report and the wet ink at the bottom edge.
The clerk turned toward the sound and startled when Yan ended the concealment. “You were right there.”
