The lamp flame flickered once, casting a circle of pure, warm amber light across the clean face of the Broken Slate.
Yan Zhiqiu lifted the heavy slab of hardened shale with both hands, holding it upright before the lantern, aligning its finished northern edge with the sight-vanes of Qiao Ming’s Folded brass star-compass.
For ten heartbeats, neither of them breathed.
The tiny carved grooves—now fully cleared of dried salt water, blood-scabs, and void-ozone—caught the focused beam of aligned lamplight. It reflected a complex sharp-angled pattern of nested circles, streaming halls, and linked vaulted chambers against the dark soapstone wall behind the table.
It was an exact, one-to-one correspondence.
The curved hall engraved on the lower third of the slate matched the curved slope of the Ascent of the Quiet Tide. The eight streaming chambers lined up exactly with the eight-sided wind-gates of Entry hall 378 where Empress Yan Huaisu stood. And the central glyph—the inverted bell surrounded by eight rays—corresponded down to the fraction of an inch with the soapstone arches of Entry hall 003 where their hearth was burning.
“It is not a copy,” Yan Zhiqiu whispered, her voice trembling with an awe that seemed to shake the very foundations of her soul. “It is the master template. The builders carved this House by following the very lines that are resting in my hands.”
