Why did Qin Zhao have that feeling—something's about to happen?
Because he had seen it once before: when a city truly tips into disaster, it is often quieter than you would ever imagine.
It was the night the walls were breached.
At first, everyone thought they'd heard wrong.The noise beyond the city came like distant thunder, rolling for a long time before it finally reached the ear. Then came a second sound, a third—only it wasn't thunder. It was cannon.
Dust sifted down from the eaves, as if someone on the roof had scattered a handful of rice. But when it hit the ground, it wasn't rice at all—it was grit.
Neighbors peered out through cracks in their windows and saw only firelight jumping in the distance.Someone said, "It's nothing. The government troops will hold."Someone said, "It's nothing. The gates are thick."Someone said, "It's nothing. The Forbidden City is still there."
All those it's nothing—that night—were like a string of charms people muttered to themselves. The more they repeated them, the more it sounded like fear.
Qin Zhao was in the back courtyard of a shop, delivering something. He hadn't even made it out the door when a voice at the street corner shouted, "They've opened the city!"
In the next heartbeat, the crowd collapsed as if struck by an invisible hand—not scattering, but caving in.
He saw a soldier at once, armor thrown on any which way, running as if he were fleeing death itself. The man was gasping, and all he managed to spit out was this:
"Don't run for the main road! Don't run toward the light!"
The words drove into Qin Zhao like a nail.
On the main road people shoved forward desperately, packed so tight it was as if they meant to press the man in front straight into the city wall—believing that if they could only force their way through, they would live.
In the bright places, torches flared—like a sign pinned to your own chest: I'm here.But the night never lacked for eyes.
Qin Zhao didn't join the crush. He turned and slipped into the narrowest alley he could find. The alley stank—black, slick—like an intestine leading down into the earth. As he ran he heard a deep, blunt boom behind him—like a wall coming down, or a gate.
He didn't dare look back.
He only remembered throwing himself beneath an overturned wooden cart, holding his breath, pressing his face into the mud. Beside the cart, a few scattered copper coins rolled and clinked—mocking him:
The life you're hiding for, sometimes isn't worth as much as a handful of cash.
Outside, the footfalls were a snarl—crying, shouting, cursing. Through the gap beneath the cart he saw torches bobbing, and in their light, rows of unfamiliar silhouettes.
They moved steadily—too steadily for men "storming a city."It looked less like battle than taking possession.
He couldn't make out what they were saying. He caught only one phrase, the consonants hard—like stone striking iron.
And in that instant he understood:
The city was not simply "taken by assault."It was being taken over.
And once it was taken over, the people inside it would be forced to learn a different way to live.
He was trembling when he saw a pair of eyes.
In the darkness by the wheel, someone else was hiding too. A conical hat sat low, but beneath it were eyes so cold they seemed carved from winter—eyes with no tears, no panic, only a clarity that bordered on cruelty.
That person looked at him once—neither saving him nor harming him—and made a single motion:
a hand reached down and gently pinned the copper coin that was still ringing.
The clink stopped.
The dark went so silent it made him want to cry.
Those eyes met his again, as if saying:
Live. But don't expect anyone else to live for you.
Then the figure retreated soundlessly into deeper shadow—like a drop of ink dissolving into ink, vanishing without a trace.
After that night, Qin Zhao learned two things.
First: when you run, don't ask whether it's right—ask whether it keeps you alive.Second: the point of surviving is not to keep your head bowed forever, but to wait for the moment when you can finally lift it.
So today—when the drums began, when the razors were laid out, when the crowd was driven up against the wall—
he understood better than anyone:
One more step back, and he would be back under that cart.
And he didn't want to hide again.