Zhou Wenqing froze, his knuckles whitening around the ancient book. "Did you hear that?"
Yang Xiang didn't answer. His body was rigid, every muscle wound tight like a spring. He leaned over the well again, trying to listen.
Nothing.
And then—
Gurgle.
A slow, mucus-thick sound echoed up the shaft, as if something far below was awakening, struggling through centuries of slumber and rot. Yang jerked back.
Zhou dropped the book. "We need to leave. Now."
"No." Yang's voice was low. "We're too close."
The wind stopped. Dead silence followed. Even the cicadas had gone quiet. Zhou bent to pick up the book, but it had landed open—on a page with a blackened handprint. Not ink. Not paint. A burn mark.
Before either of them could speak, the jade token flared again. This time, it wasn't green. It was red. Blood red.