72: Chapter 73 Gray Stele Rat People

They were not human boot prints; there were no firm leather edges. Nor were they the messy claws of a Line-Guarding Beast; there were no sharp claw marks. The prints were extremely small, the forepaws rounded, and the tail drag was very shallow. It was as if something had scurried along the grey wall behind the well, so panicked that it had even scraped off a corner of a piece of patching material that hadn't yet cooled by the edge of the grey trench, causing it to roll to the ground.

Ning Yanqiu reacted extremely quickly. Almost the instant the footprints appeared, she raised her eyes, the royal court cold mirror fragment in her palm shifting slightly. The cold mirror light swept across the grey trench like a sharp blade—but she only caught a glimpse of a grey shadow, so fast it seemed to melt into the grey wall, shrinking away and vanishing in an instant.

"Alive."

Lu Jin's voice rang out faintly, his gaze already locked onto the direction where the grey shadow had disappeared. He had seen it more clearly than Ning Yanqiu: that thing was not from the seizing squad, as it was too agile; nor was it a native beast, as it was too cautious. It was as light as a speck of ash and hid extremely cleverly; it was clearly a creature that had been hiding in the dark for years.

He squatted down and picked up the piece of patching material with the scraped-off corner. With a light rub of his fingertips, his brow furrowed suddenly. Besides fresh grey stains, the material was also coated with a very fine white stone powder, delicate and even—it was something that would only be found on the hands of craftsmen who touched bricks, carved grooves, and repaired nails all year round, something that couldn't be washed off.

"Don't pursue yet." Lu Jin stood up, his tone resolute, without a hint of hesitation.

Ning Yanqiu looked up at him, a flash of realization in her eyes, and she immediately pressed: "You suspect these are survivors left behind by that group of craftsmen under the bridge?"

"Likely." Lu Jin nodded and flipped the old account board over.

The front was scarred by fire, reading "Three Surveys / Well Line / Continue Fire," but the back hid several shallow marks that they hadn't had time to examine closely before—they weren't words, but rather short carvings used for bookkeeping: rows of thin, short vertical marks, neat and orderly, with a tiny rat-shaped material-carrying stamp sandwiched in the middle, carved with extreme precision. On the far right, three crooked directional lines were pressed, the veins clear.

And the end of those lines pointed squarely in the direction of the Post Station, not the outer ring of the Fire Well.

In the Sea of Consciousness, Grey Pupil's voice was the first to ring out, his tone carrying a touch of clarity: "The well line isn't just used to continue the fire; it can also be used to send materials and personnel. It's a secret line hidden in the ash."

Wu Fu clicked her tongue, her eyes already showing shrewdness: "Survivors who can repair wells and roads—this is worth far more than a dead account board. What we lack is exactly this kind of skilled labor!"

Lu Jin didn't delay any longer, making an immediate decision to stabilize the Fire Well side first: he left two Bone-Armor Furnace Guards to guard the well rim, strictly preventing a counterattack from the seizing squad; he had four Work Rats continue filling the cracks at the well mouth, ensuring the fire sequence remained stable; and he dispatched one Night Wing to ascend to high altitude for surveillance, staring fixedly at the movements on the front slope and the right ridge to prevent any surprise attacks.

After doing all this, he tucked the old account board into his sleeve and said concisely: "Back to the Post Station. Those footprints were running towards the Post Station's underground."

On the way back, the two didn't take the main path, instead cutting back along the same back-well trench they had used to seize the Fire Well, then sneaking back into the underground of the Grey Stele Post through the side door under the bridge. The Night Wing scouted ahead, its vision pressing hard against the grey trenches and warehouse passages, but it didn't see that little grey shadow again—yet the further they went into the depths of the Post Station, the more white stone powder and tiny material-carrying traces appeared on the ground, dense and numerous, extending all the way along the warehouse passage.

The traces were not chaotic, nor were they new; it was as if someone had been secretly walking this path for many years.

At this moment, the basement of the Post Station had already been cleared out by Wu Fu's people. The set of old rat-shaped folded wings was still piled to the side, covered in a thin layer of ash; Ning Yanqiu kept the royal court cold mirror fragment in her sleeve, the coldness in her palm already retracted, but the grey seam behind the collapsed wall on the far left was looser than before.

As soon as the four Burrowing Spear Rats approached the grey seam, a very light series of rustling sounds came from behind the wall—click, clatter—as if someone had hurriedly dragged wooden pieces, stone cups, and small wheels away to hide them, even holding their breath.

Lu Jin immediately raised his hand, steadily stopping the Burrowing Spear Rats that were about to drill inside, his voice kept extremely low: "Everyone, take half a step back. Don't push too hard."

Wu Fu was immediately unhappy, retorting in a lowered voice: "We can hear movement inside, and you want to back off? If they run away, it will be hard to find them again!"

"They are afraid of you." Lu Jin's tone was flat, yet it hit the vital point. "Only if we back off will they dare to come out."

Wu Fu rolled her eyes, and although unwilling, she retracted half of the nest silk wrapped around her fingertips; Grey Pupil also lowered the fire on the priest staff, extinguishing the only lamp in the basement, leaving only a circle of dark red embers that barely illuminated the path ahead.

Once the fire was lowered, the movement behind the collapsed wall indeed quieted down, losing its earlier panic, leaving only extremely light breathing hidden behind the grey seam, as if it existed yet didn't.

Lu Jin slowly squatted down, took out the old account board from his sleeve, and without pushing it into the grey seam, simply placed it steadily on the ground at the opening. His voice was not loud, but carried an unquestionable steadiness, without a hint of coercion: "Fished out from the bottom of the well. We have taken over the Fire Well above. If there are still people below who can repair roads and wells, come out and see if this board is yours."

Behind the grey seam, silence descended instantly; even the sound of breathing seemed to stop.

After a long while, a tiny grey claw cautiously reached out from the grey seam, its fingertips hooking the edge of the account board, then it suddenly retracted half an inch, timid and fearful, as if it wanted to take it but was afraid of a trap, vigilant to the extreme.

If Qiao Ye were here, he most likely would have already rushed over, but Lu Jin didn't move, and neither did Ning Yanqiu. They just stood quietly in place, even holding their breath, without the slightest urge—they didn't want to force these people out; they wanted to make them come out willingly.

The grey claw behind the grey seam paused for two breaths, then finally gathered its courage and carefully dragged the entire account board inside, its movements so light it was as if it were afraid of breaking some precious treasure.

A moment later, behind the collapsed wall, a point of extremely weak grey-white light slowly lit up. It wasn't the scorching heat of fire, nor the cold chill of mirror light; it was soft and faint, as if someone were slowly polishing a mirror surface with fine stone, revealing a cautious probing.

Ning Yanqiu's eyes focused, and she whispered: "Cold Mirror Sand—that's the abrasive used by the Ning Family's mirror camp to polish mirrors. How could it be in their hands?"

As soon as she finished speaking, the pile of scattered ash behind the collapsed wall slid away on its own, revealing a small door even lower than the secret passage under the bridge. The door was not high, only enough for the rat group and thin people to bend over and enter. Behind the door was not a simple cave, but a lower level of the grey warehouse that had been hollowed out bit by bit. The space was not large, but it was organized, revealing traces of long-term habitation.

There were people inside.

Not just a few; it was a group.

They were all grey-furred, short-backed, and thin, wrapped in tattered linen, animal skins, and grey curtains stripped from the Post Station, barely covering their bodies; what they held in their hands were not knives, spears, swords, or halberds, but mostly small stone hammers, measuring rulers, fine chisels, and transport wheels—all the belongings of craftsmen. Some even had short grey wooden frames tied to their backs, as if ready to carry materials at any time.

The younger ones in the front, seeing Lu Jin and Ning Yanqiu, and the two tall Bone-Armor Furnace Guards behind them, almost instinctively shrank back, their ears pressed flat, their bodies trembling slightly, their eyes full of fear, not even daring to raise their heads.

They were not afraid of any one person; they were afraid of people, of fire, of all outsiders with deterrent power, of those who had once captured them as forced labor and driven them to repair roads as if their lives depended on it.

Wu Fu looked at this scene, and the shrewd light in her eyes changed—it wasn't greed, but curiosity, the kind of amazement one feels upon finding a treasure: "They really are all alive, and they are survivors who know the craft!"

But her exclamation scared the group of Grey Stele Post rat-folk in the front into retreating another half step, trembling even more violently, their small stone hammers almost falling to the ground.

Until a long, thin stone ruler slowly extended from behind the crowd, tapping three times on the ground, not too heavily or too lightly, the rhythm steady and carrying an unquestionable power.

The restless crowd finally quieted down, no longer scurrying, but still keeping their heads down, their bodies tense, vigilantly staring at Lu Jin and the others.

Subsequently, a grey-maned rat-folk, so old his back was hunched, slowly walked out from behind the crowd. He was not tall, nor strong. One ear was missing half, with burn scars remaining on the edge. His beard was mostly white, and the corners of his eyes were covered in fine cracks from years of choking on ash, making him look exceptionally aged.

Yet his hands were shockingly steady—his left hand leaned on that long, thin stone ruler, while his right hand held a small, polished stone hammer. The hammer body was smooth, clearly used for many years; around his waist hung a ring of thin measuring plates, short nails, and an old work badge worn so smooth the text was illegible. There was not a trace of weapons on him.

This was no battle rat; this was a genuine craftsman, an artisan capable of repairing roads, wells, and mirrors.

He walked to the edge of the collapsed door. Without looking at Lu Jin and the others, he first bent down to pick up the old account board. His fingertips traced along the traces of the fire-damaged characters, slowly rubbing them. His eyes were full of complexity—there was nostalgia, pain, and a trace of imperceptible sorrow.

A moment later, he looked up. His gaze first fell on Lu Jin, then slowly moved to the edge of Ning Yanqiu's sleeve—where only a corner of the royal court cold mirror fragment was exposed. The cold white mirror light was faint, yet The Old Craftsman's gaze stopped instantly, a flash of extremely bright light crossing his cloudy eyes.

"Mirror camp disk..." His voice was very hoarse, raspy like sandpaper rubbing, as if he hadn't used it to speak with outsiders for many years. Every word carried the weight and vicissitudes of time.

Ning Yanqiu didn't hold back. She pulled the royal court cold mirror fragment straight from her sleeve, revealing half of it.

The moment the cold, white light of the mirror emerged, the murkiness in The Old Craftsman's eyes instantly dissipated, and his body gave a slight jolt. A hint of reverence crept into his gaze.

"It really still recognizes people." The Old Craftsman murmured, his tone filled with deep emotion.

As soon as he spoke, a slight commotion rippled through the group of Grey Stele Post rat-folk behind him. Some quietly looked up at the fragment in Ning Yanqiu's hand, their eyes filled with reverence. Clearly, they recognized the object and knew its origins.

Lu Jin didn't press on the topic of the fragment. He leveled his tone and got straight to the point: "The Fire Well account board—did you keep those records?"

The Old Craftsman lowered his head to look at the old account board in his hand once more. His fingertips traced over the charred handwriting again and again as he slowly nodded. "Yes. The well-line account board used to hang at the bottom of the Fire Well. It tracked materials, manpower, and who went down to refuel the fire. We didn't dare mess up a single entry."

As he spoke, his gaze slowly darkened, and his voice dropped. "Later, the road collapsed and the Fire Well turned on us. Many people couldn't make it out in time. This board fell down with them and was buried in the ash. I never expected you'd be able to dig it up."

He didn't say much more, but Lu Jin heard it clearly enough. Hidden within those words wasn't just a simple collapse, but countless people who never returned—a history of suffering buried in dust.

Ning Yanqiu looked at him, her tone softening as she asked quietly, "Have you been hiding beneath the Post Station all this time?"

The Old Craftsman didn't answer immediately. He first looked back at the group of rat-folk huddled in the ash storage, his eyes filled with heartache and helplessness. Only then did he slowly speak. His tone was calm, but every word struck at the heart: "We have no choice but to hide. The people above want fire, want roads, want bridges. When a road breaks, they drag us off to fix it. Fix one section, then the next. Day and night. If we die in the ash or are swallowed by fire, no one remembers, and no one cares."

As he spoke, there was no anger, no accusation—he was practically calm. But the calmer he sounded, the tighter one's chest felt, the more one's body stiffened. It was the numbness of being oppressed and devastated for years, until even anger had been worn away.

A very young Grey Stele Post rat-folk in the back couldn't help but chime in, his voice trembling with tears: "Once the fire is bright, we get taken away and never come back..."

An older rat-folk next to him immediately reached out and pulled him back, eyes filled with panic. Clearly, they never dared to speak such truths to outsiders, fearing it would bring about their doom.

Lu Jin didn't rush to apply pressure. Instead, he raised a hand, signaling the two Bone-Armor Furnace Guards to step back two more paces. He even had the Red-Eyed Rat at the door withdraw, leaving only two Work Rats standing by the wall. The Work Rats carried no slurry buckets or material hammers; their front claws were empty, their ears lowered—they looked docile and harmless, posing no threat at all.

"We aren't here to capture road craftsmen." Lu Jin's voice was steady and carried clearly to the ears of every rat-folk. "The Grey Stele Post belongs to me now. If you're willing to come out, the repairs for the Post Station, bridge lines, and Fire Well will all be your work. We'll provide the materials and a place for you to settle. This isn't forced labor, and we certainly won't force you to pave the roads with your lives."

At these words, The Old Craftsman's hand, which was gripping a stone ruler, visibly paused. A flicker of disbelief flashed through his murky eyes, followed by the slightest hint of hesitation. For so many years, they had heard nothing but deception and threats; no one had ever spoken to them like this.

"You've taken the Fire Well and seized the Post Station, yet you won't capture people to fix the roads?" The Old Craftsman looked up, meeting Lu Jin's gaze directly. His eyes were full of probing and a trace of imperceptible suspicion.

"I want the roads, and I want the hands to build them." Lu Jin's tone was firm, without a hint of ambiguity. "But what I want is for you to work willingly, not out of desperation, and certainly not by sacrificing your lives."

Wu Fu suddenly snorted. Her tone wasn't friendly, but her words were brutally honest: "If you really only knew how to hide, that side-line under the bridge wouldn't have lasted until today. To have craftsmanship like that, your hands shouldn't be rotting away in this dark, sunless ash storage, wasting your talent."

Her words weren't pleasant, but they hit the mark. What these rat-folk cared about most was their own craftsmanship—their own hands that could repair roads and wells—not being treated as coolies or stepping stones.

Sure enough, several of the Grey Stele Post rat-folk slowly raised their heads. The fear in their eyes had faded, replaced by a touch of being moved. Their gazes toward Wu Fu were no longer filled with complete vigilance.

The Old Craftsman looked at Wu Fu again, his gaze falling on the Work Rats behind her. For the first time, a spark of true vitality appeared in his eyes. He took a slow step forward and asked softly: "Are these... the Work Rats you raised?"

Wu Fu lifted her chin, her tone tinged with pride: "Of course. They can apply slurry, connect grooves, and drag beams. It's just that they're still inexperienced and haven't been properly trained."

The Old Craftsman didn't reply. Instead, he squatted down and stared at the slurry pattern a Work Rat had dropped on the floor while patching the wall. The more he looked, the brighter his eyes became. He gently tapped the edge of the slurry mark, his tone carrying a note of certainty: "In this slurry of yours, the fire was introduced half a line too early. It's fine for patching a wall, but if you used it to repair a bridge, it would definitely crack later on. It wouldn't last long."

Wu Fu immediately frowned. Her first reaction wasn't offense, but surprise. For so many years, no one had ever been able to spot the issue with her slurry mixing at a glance. This old guy truly had real skill!

"You know how to do it?" she pressed, the pride in her tone fading into a hint of urgency.

The Old Craftsman didn't answer directly. Instead, he picked up his stone ruler and drew three extremely fine lines on the ground. He tapped the middle one with his fingertip, his tone steady: "The heat must go here first, then the slurry follows. Secure the base, then patch the surface. Otherwise, once the top heats up, the bottom will be empty. No matter how good the slurry is, it'll be useless."

Wu Fu stared at the three lines on the ground. Her expression changed instantly. She didn't say anything, but she was already convinced in her heart—this old guy really knew his trade. He understood more than all the Work Rats under her command.

Ning Yanqiu stepped forward half a step and raised the royal court cold mirror fragment in her hand a little higher. The cold, white light of the mirror grew brighter. She asked softly: "Do you recognize this?"

The Old Craftsman stared for a long time this time, his gaze locked tightly onto the fragment. It was so long that the group of Grey Stele Post rat-folk behind him slowly quieted down, leaving only the occasional faint dragging sound in the ash storage. The atmosphere grew exceptionally heavy.

"I do." His voice was even lower, tinged with reverence and a trace of sorrow. "The royal court cold mirror fragment didn't use to hang under the bridge. It hung within the front Mirror Wall. It was a treasure used by the Mirror Battalion to set paths and break paths. How glorious it was back then."

He paused, his tone filled with deep emotion: "Later, the Mirror Wall shattered, and the Mirror Battalion scattered. People left or died. Only this fragment remained, still recognizing craftsmanship, still recognizing us artisans from those days."

After speaking, his gaze finally fell on Ning Yanqiu's face. His eyes held a mix of probing and certainty: "This object isn't meant for perimeter sentries. It was originally meant to be placed at the front to set directions, cut off enemy paths, and seal off small sections of airspace. It was the most precious item of the Mirror Battalion."

Ning Yanqiu didn't speak, but her hand gripping the fragment became visibly steadier. A flash of relief crossed her eyes, along with a trace of imperceptible excitement.

She had heard too many twisted versions of this from the Ning Family—claiming the fragment was useless trash for perimeter sentries, saying the Mirror Battalion's skills had long been lost. But now, from the mouth of an old craftsman who had survived by hiding beneath the Grey Stele Post, she had heard the truest answer. She had heard the glory that belonged to the Ning Family and the Mirror Battalion.

The Old Craftsman looked at Lu Jin again. His gaze suddenly stopped on Lu Jin's palm, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Lu Jin hadn't deliberately revealed his fire, but the lingering traces of the black fire that suppressed the Priest Well and the Fire Well in his sleeve had never fully dissipated, carrying a domineering and ancient aura.

The Old Craftsman stared at that spot, his expression slowly changing. It was as if, from "recognizing the fragment," he had suddenly recalled something even older and more distant. The probing in his eyes turned into shock, mixed with a deep sense of complexity.

He didn't continue talking about the fragment, nor did he immediately agree to emerge. He simply turned around slowly and crawled into the deepest, darkest pile of old ash and broken beams in the ash storage.

The group of Grey Stele Post rat-folk behind him instinctively tried to stop him, calling out in hushed voices: "The Old Craftsman—"

"Don't move." The Old Craftsman replied with only two words, his tone firm. The small stone hammer in his hand had already fiercely dug through the thickest top layer of ash.

Ash fell away layer by layer, slowly revealing a section of grey-white stone cylinder. It wasn't large, only the thickness of a palm. Both ends were sealed with scorched black wax, the wax layer already cracked. On the outer wall was pressed an ancient fire pattern—a rustic design that bore some similarity to the old ring-fire patterns in the Fire Well.

The Old Craftsman carefully pulled out the stone cylinder. He first used his sleeve to wipe the ash off it until it was clean, then slowly turned back and handed it to Lu Jin.

That hand, which had held the stone ruler and small hammer with such unwavering steadiness, was now trembling slightly. Even his voice carried a tremor. In his eyes, there was no longer just probing and defensiveness; there was also a flicker of old fear and old doubts that hadn't surfaced for many years, along with a faint, barely perceptible glimmer of hope.

"This..." He looked up at Lu Jin, his eyes filled with complexity. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word: "Was left behind by the person who carried that same black fire."