Time stopped following its usual rhythm. Hours no longer mattered. Fear measured everything, and it moved with the sounds above them.
At first there was chaos, and screams cut through the night, steel clashed on steel, and bodies fell to the ground.
Eventually, that storm faded, but it left behind something worse, be drunken laughter, shouted orders, and the sharp crackle of fire filled the streets.
Every so often, a single cry of pain would rise, linger, and fade, leaving only a silence that felt heavier than the noise before.
They hid in the cellar, pressed together in the damp darkness. The world shrank to that small room. Every footstep on the floorboards above was a jolt of horror and fear, and each sound fed their imagination, making the worst possibilities feel real.
No one dared breathe too deeply, and even the slightest movement seemed dangerous.
Twice, soldiers crossed the floor above them.
Boots thudded and the noises that followed made Bai Shu's stomach tighten.
Furniture was shoved aside. Wood cracked under heavy weight. Pottery shattered as Lian's carefully stored jars were smashed.
Something scraped slowly across the floor, dragging a heavy object. Each noise seemed deliberate, but both searches were brief.
The soldiers moved on, careless and impatient. The cellar door, hidden beneath rice sacks and firewood, remained untouched.
It was luck, not planning, that kept them safe.
Eventually, the house fell silent.
The quiet did not bring relief. It felt heavy, dangerous, as if it could break at any moment.
Outside, the street no longer echoed with screams, but distant groans of collapsing beams carried through the night, and the smell of smoke drifted downward. No one moved until Lian finally spoke.
"We cannot stay here," she whispered. Her voice was rough but steady. "The fire could spread, or they could come back later and search more carefully. We need to see what is left."
Old Wu and his wife remained frozen, their eyes unfocused, but Lian's words pulled Bai Shu forward.
Slowly, they moved the sacks aside and cleared the trapdoor. The wood felt cool beneath his hands as he climbed the stone steps.
He opened the door just enough to listen, and when nothing followed, he pushed it fully open and stepped into the house.
The sight made his chest tighten. Mud streaked the floor, furniture lay overturned, and the careful order of their home was gone.
The kitchen table had been shoved aside, and a wedding vase, a gift from Lian's parents, lay shattered beyond repair. It was destruction without thought or purpose.
Strangely, Bai Shu felt distant from it. These were painful losses, but they were only objects, and his mind was still numb from the horrors he had already witnessed.
Then he smelled the smoke more clearly.
It was not just burning wood. The familiar scent of ink and paper was gone, replaced by something bitter and thick. A sick feeling settled in his chest as he moved toward the back of the house, his steps quickening, but still quiet.
He stopped in the doorway.
The library was gone.
Where the shelves had stood was a mound of black ash and charred remains, still glowing faintly with heat. Smoke clung to the ceiling, and the air pressed against his skin.
The books had not been scattered or stolen. They had been dragged together and burned deliberately, as if destroying them had been the goal all along.
Bai Shu stepped inside, his sandals crunching on the ash. The remains of bamboo scrolls lay twisted and hollow. Fragments of pages curled inward as if trying to protect words that no longer existed.
His inkstone had melted into a warped lump, barely recognizable, then he sank to his knees.
The fear that had carried him through the night finally broke, replaced by a deeper pain that settled into his bones. The terror of hiding in the cellar had been shared by many, but this loss was his alone.
He reached out and touched a scroll he had spent five years copying by hand. It crumbled immediately, dissolving into dust that floated away on the smoky air.
Everything was gone.
The work of his life, the words of the past, and the belief that knowledge could endure violence had all turned to ash. He felt foolish for ever believing that patience and learning could protect him from fire and steel.
Lian stood behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were wet, but her voice remained gentle.
"Bai Shu," she said. "They are things. We are alive."
He shook his head slowly and did not turn to look at her.
"They were my life's work," he said. "Years of effort, burned like it meant nothing."
His hands were black with soot, and ash clung to his skin as if marking him. Beneath the weight of grief, something else began to form. The fear he had felt in the cellar had been the fear of a helpless man. What grew now was sharper and colder.
Anger.
He had trusted reason and watched it fail. He had hidden and still lost everything that defined him.
The scholar who believed in order and patience felt distant and unreal. The fire had not only destroyed his books. It had destroyed the man who believed in them.
As Bai Shu stared into the remains of his library, he understood that he would not leave this place unchanged. The gentle scholar of Anping was gone, scattered among the ashes, and whatever rose from this loss would be shaped by it.
Lian said " We need to leave before they notice us"
Bai shu said with a smile " They are drunk wasted they will not notice but still we got to leave" He grasp her hand ' I only have her and I need to protect her"
The line between hero and villain is not always drawn in blood.
Sometimes it is written quietly, in what remains after the fire has burned out everything, leaving only one thing to the fate.
But fate is harsh and unforgivable for some.