At dawn, they began to dig.
Zhou had found coordinates etched on the basin, buried under a layer of calcified dust. A precise spot just outside the platform. As they turned the earth, Yang felt the resistance deepen—soil turning to clay, then to something darker, heavier.
A sharp crack.
His spade struck stone. Not natural stone—cut stone.
Zhou brushed away the dirt with trembling hands. A slab emerged, carved in concentric circles, its surface stained dark brown.
Yang touched it. The surface was cold. And wet.
Then came the smell—iron, rot, and time.
The slab wasn't just buried.
It was sealed in blood.
Suddenly, the jade in Yang's pocket pulsed violently. He staggered back as heat surged through his chest. Zhou shouted something, but it was drowned by a low rumble rising from the ground.
The trees nearby shivered—then stopped moving altogether, frozen mid-sway.
Something ancient had awakened.