The night air was unnaturally still.
Yang Xiang stood once again before the old well, its weathered stones draped in tangled vines and moss. The moonlight filtered through the branches above, casting fractured shadows across the clearing. The jade token in his hand—infused with something beyond comprehension—glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He crouched down, fingers grazing the rim of the well. An immediate chill shot through his fingertips, seeping into his bones. It wasn't just the cold of old stone—it felt aware.
"What the hell is buried down there…" he muttered.
Behind him, Zhou Wenqing approached, holding the weathered volume they had recovered from the ruins of the temple. Its pages trembled slightly in his hands—not from the wind, but as if resisting being opened.
"I've translated part of the glyphs," Zhou said, voice hushed. "They aren't entirely Taoist. Some of them resemble… Sogdian script. But twisted. Corrupted."
Yang turned, frowning. "Sogdian? That's Central Asian."
Zhou nodded. "Yes. But mixed with pre-Han dialectic structures and something even older. There's mention of a gate, and a keeper. The text warns: 'He who drinks the silence of the well shall awaken the ones beneath.'"
Yang's fingers instinctively tightened around the jade.
A sudden gust of wind slammed through the clearing, whipping through the trees like a scream. The glow from the jade flared—then died.
From within the well came a sound. Not the echo of water. Not a whisper.
It was breathing.
Slow, ragged, wet breathing.