By the time Lau Rhen left the tower, the rain had grown heavier. The scent of wet pine rolled up from the slopes, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the wards.
He walked without sound. Even his steps seemed absorbed by the damp stone.
The eastern stairs led down into the inner compound — a cluster of wooden halls and narrow courtyards, their lanterns dimmed against the weather. Water trickled along the eaves, dripping in slow rhythm onto the flagstones.
As he passed the training hall, a figure stepped out from the shadows.
"You've been on the wall again," said Xao Xao. Her robe sleeves were damp, her hair tied in a loose knot that had begun to unravel from the rain.
Lau Rhen tilted his head slightly. "And you've been avoiding sleep again."
"I don't sleep when the wards feel wrong."
Her answer made him pause. Most people couldn't sense the wards at all.
They walked together toward the northern courtyard, where the sound of rain softened against the moss-covered stones.
"You felt it too?" Lau Rhen asked.
"Not felt. Heard."
"Heard?"
She nodded. "Like someone was breathing behind the wards. Not the usual hum. Slower. As if it was waiting."
Lau Rhen said nothing. In the silence, water dripped steadily from the overhanging roof into the courtyard pond. Each drop sent ripples across the dark surface, distorting the reflection of the lantern.
Xao Xao watched him. "You think it's from the Off World, don't you?"
He gave the smallest nod.
They reached the edge of the courtyard. Beyond it, the rain blurred the entrance to the inner library, a low building guarded by carved stone lions whose eyes seemed almost alive in the lantern light.
"Why haven't you told the elders?" she asked.
"Because if I tell them," he said, "they will react. And if they react too soon, whatever is watching will learn how we respond."
She was quiet for a moment. "You talk as if this has happened before."
"It has," he replied. "And it will again."
The rain thinned briefly, and in that fragile quiet, Lau Rhen's gaze flicked toward the treeline beyond the compound walls. For the briefest instant, he saw it again — the pale figure. This time, closer. Its head tilted slightly, almost curious.
When he blinked, it was gone.
Xao Xao followed his line of sight, but saw nothing.
"Still there?" she asked.
"Always," he said.
They stood for a long moment without speaking. Rain began to fall harder again, masking the distant pulse of the wards.
Finally, Xao Xao pulled her robe tighter. "You'll be at the hall tomorrow?"
"If the rain allows," he said.
"Good. I need to show you something."
Without waiting for his answer, she stepped back into the shadows of the covered walkway, her figure swallowed by the dim lantern light.
Lau Rhen turned toward the library. The wards still pulsed faintly, irregularly — like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen.
He thought of Xao Xao's words. Breathing behind the wards.
That was not the description of a beast. It was the description of something patient.
And patience was far more dangerous.
***
The inner library was nearly empty at night.
No guards, no scribes, only the smell of old cedar and ink.
Lau Rhen pushed open the sliding door and stepped inside. The paper lanterns along the central aisle burned faintly, their light barely reaching the upper shelves. Rows upon rows of scrolls rested in silence, their silk wrappings faded with age.
A faint draft touched his cheek.
He frowned — the library had no windows.
He moved deeper, passing the section on martial scripture, then the weathered shelves of cultivation theory. Here, the air grew colder, the faint dust motes moving as if stirred by something unseen.
At the very back stood the Forbidden Cabinet, a heavy-latched structure carved from blackened elm.
It was locked, but the qi around it hummed faintly — wards older than the compound itself.
Lau Rhen crouched, placing his hand on the floor.
Yes — there it was again.
That same uneven pulse he had felt at the wall.
Only here, it was stronger.
He straightened, gaze sliding over the shelves to his right.
One section was slightly darker than the rest, as if the lantern light refused to touch it.
He stepped closer.
A scroll lay half-pulled from the rack, its silk cord loose.
When he reached for it, the air thickened, and the rain outside grew muffled, as though the world had shifted.
His fingers brushed the parchment.
It was cold — not the chill of stone or water, but the cold of something that had never belonged in this world.
The edges of his vision blurred.
The scent of cedar and ink faded, replaced by the sharp smell of wet earth.
When his sight cleared, he was no longer in the library.
He stood on a narrow path between terraced fields under a pale, unmoving moon.
Far below, lanterns glowed in a small village, their light trembling in the wind.
The Off World.
He had entered without invoking the rite — without the meditative crossing that every cultivator was taught.
This was not supposed to happen.
Somewhere in the distance, a faint melody played — a single bamboo flute, each note drawn out until it almost broke.
He turned toward it, his senses sharpening.
The qi here flowed differently than in his world — heavier, older, and threaded with a quiet hostility.
Yet beneath it all, he could feel something else.
A presence.
Watching.
A figure appeared at the bend in the path.
Xao Xao.
She wore pale green hanfu, her hair tied high, the style of an inner disciple.
She looked exactly as she did in the waking world — yet not. Her eyes here were colder, more guarded, and the way she stood suggested she had been here far longer than he realized.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.
He stepped toward her. "Neither should you."
She didn't answer. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of wet pine and… something else. Something like iron.
Her gaze flicked past him, toward the dark slope above the fields.
Lau Rhen turned.
At the crest stood the same pale figure he had seen beyond the compound wall.
It did not move.
It only watched.
The flute stopped.
And the night became very, very still.