Haruki pulled off her stained gloves and stared at the scroll one more time. Half the words made sense. Half were a wall. She wanted this forbidden technique to live past her, even if no one ever said her name. But the seal sequence sat locked behind a dialect three generations dead. She opened her worn journal. Pressed marsh plants slid between the pages. Every line she had cracked was written there in small, careful ink. Every guess. Every dead end. Tonight she added nothing new. A blue cat padded across the floorboards, a small star-shaped blade strapped to its back. It watched her like it knew. Haruki rubbed her bruised knuckles and made a decision. If no living teacher remained, she would go where the dialect had last been spoken aloud. Before dawn she reached the old courthouse at the edge of the swamp. Algae crept up its stone walls. The benches lay tipped over. This was where judges had once read sentences in the lost tongue. She pushed the heavy door open. Inside, dust and silence. No scrolls. No carvings. No teacher waiting in the dark. The walls had been stripped clean generations ago. Haruki stood in the empty hall and understood. The dialect would not be found. If she wanted the seal, she would have to rebuild the language herself.