The air was still recovering from the collapse of the literature hall.
The last remnants of drifting scripture faded like dying fireflies, leaving only the stone corridor ahead—dim, quiet, ancient. The scent of old ink had not fully vanished; Shaurya could still feel its warmth settling on his sleeves like dust from a long-forgotten library.
He lifted the stone box in his hand, its weight strangely comforting.
Lin Shu leaned closer, whispering, "Open it. I'm curious."
Shaurya nodded.
As the disciples and elders gathered, he broke the golden seal binding the box. A soft pulse of light escaped, followed by a gentle breath—like the lingering exhale of the Guardian Spirit who bestowed it.
Inside rested a single scroll.
Thick. Heavy. Bound with metallic-red thread.
Its energy felt… alive.
Shaurya unrolled it slowly.
Lines of runes swirled across the parchment like shifting shadows, forming and unforming patterns.
Elder Wan stepped closer, breath catching.
