The villagers' fields stretched out behind them, golden with late summer grain that swayed in the morning breeze like a sea of fire-tipped waves. Crickets hummed unseen, and the last cicadas of the season sang their shrill farewell from the treetops. It should have been a comforting sound — the voice of a land still alive, still warm with harvest and plenty.
But as Xu Liang, Prince Rong Yue, and Wei Zhen crossed the final ridge, the world itself seemed to shift. The sun, bright and unwavering only moments ago, dimmed as though veiled behind a film of smoke. The air cooled sharply, enough that their breaths misted faintly in the light. A metallic tang seeped into the air, iron and old rainwater mixed, clinging to the tongue like the taste of blood.
"We've crossed the threshold," Wei Zhen murmured, his keen eyes narrowing. He reached out, brushing his sleeve against a low-hanging branch. When he drew back, frost glittered faintly where the silk had touched the wood. His lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "The road is showing itself."
Indeed, before them stretched a path that had not been there before. Slick stones gleamed wet with mist, each one etched faintly with lines that shimmered in and out of sight. The trail wound westward into a forest that had not existed on the horizon an hour earlier. Its trees were pale and leafless, their bark etched with cracks that resembled lines of human faces — mouths gaping, eyes hollow, brows furrowed in anguish.
Xu Liang steadied his breath. His illness weighed heavy on his body, fever burning in his veins, yet here the ache seemed strangely dulled. Instead, a prickling sensation danced across his skin, as though unseen eyes traced every movement. He glanced toward Rong Yue, who kept close by, one hand never straying far from his sword.
"Do you feel it?" Xu Liang asked softly.
Rong Yue's expression remained carved in steel, unreadable but unyielding. His eyes, however, burned with wary fire. "I feel every spirit watching," he said. His voice carried like a promise, sharp and steady. "If any of them dares to touch you, I'll cut the road itself apart."
Wei Zhen gave a dry chuckle, though the sound held no warmth. "A noble sentiment. But this is the ghost market's path. Steel won't move it. It yields only to those who know how to bargain — or those willing to pay more than they should."
As they walked, omens revealed themselves. A lantern flickered in the distance with no bearer. Shadows moved between skeletal trees, too quick and too deliberate to be tricks of light. Once, Xu Liang paused, sure he had heard whispers brush against his ear. But when he turned, he found only mist curling around his ankles, coiling upward like fingers reaching for his throat.
The path narrowed until the three were pressed shoulder to shoulder. Above, the sky had dimmed into the color of ash, the light bleeding away as if the sun had been snuffed out. Yet far overhead the moon shone sharp and white, its edges like a blade even in full daylight.
Time dissolved. Minutes, hours — they lost meaning beneath the oppressive silence. Then at last, the path spilled into a clearing where a gate awaited: a massive arch of blackened wood, its surface carved with talismans that writhed faintly, as though inked with living veins. Beyond it, dozens of lanterns glimmered in the mist, their faint glow outlining the shape of a hidden city.
"The ghost market," Wei Zhen said, his voice low, almost reverent. "Once we step through, every word, every gesture carries weight. A misstep here can bind you in bargains you never meant to make."
Xu Liang's gaze lingered on the lanterns beyond the gate. His body trembled — not from fear, but from the nearness of something inevitable. "Then let us step carefully," he murmured. "My cure waits on the other side."
Rong Yue's hand brushed his arm, firm, protective, steady as stone. "We'll face it together."
The three passed beneath the arch. At once, the air shifted. Scents rushed over them in a wave: smoke and herbs, ash and iron, sweet incense mixed with the sour tang of rot. The haze broke, revealing the ghost market in full.
Rows of stalls stretched into the mist, their canopies draped with bone-white cloth. Merchants hunched behind their counters, faces hidden or half-hidden. Some had eyes like burning coals; others wore porcelain masks, cracked and expressionless. Their wares glowed faintly — talismans painted in human blood, jars of hearts that twitched as if still alive, silver bowls of incense that burned without end.
The dead were already watching.
Wei Zhen moved to the front, his steps slow and deliberate, his eyes sharp. "The market is never in the same place twice," he murmured. His tone was one of one who had walked here before. "You don't find it. It finds you. And if it has appeared, it means it has already judged your desperation."
Xu Liang said nothing. Each breath scraped his throat raw, but he held his silence, conserving what strength he had. Rong Yue stayed close, hand brushing the hilt of his blade as though sheer resolve could carve a safe path through this place.
The stalls seemed endless. Above, lanterns swayed in air where no wind stirred. Somewhere, faint laughter echoed, hollow and brittle as breaking bones. And always there were whispers — some in tongues too old to be remembered, others calling their names in voices that should not have known them.
Then a boy appeared from between the stalls, his skin pale as ash, his eyes blind yet too bright. He tugged at Xu Liang's sleeve with skeletal fingers.
"You're dying," the boy whispered, voice hollow as a reed flute. "Do you want my lungs? Still warm, still strong. I'll trade them for your name."
Xu Liang faltered, but before he could answer, Rong Yue stepped forward, steel in his gaze. His presence alone was enough to send the boy stumbling back into the crowd, laughter trailing after him like smoke.
Wei Zhen's brow lifted. "You'll need a cooler head here, Your Highness," he warned. "Threaten too freely, and the whole market will turn its eyes on us. And eyes here weigh heavier than chains."
"Let them stare," Rong Yue said coldly. His gaze softened only when it flicked back to Xu Liang. "We aren't here to feed the dead."
Xu Liang steadied himself. His gaze lingered on the stalls — on the jars of organs, the talismans, the endless offerings of things stolen from both life and death. Beneath the fever's haze, his voice hardened with iron.
"We're not here for lungs. Or charms. We're here for the one thing none of these shadows will give freely, a cure."
Wei Zhen's lips curved in a blade-sharp smile. "Then we'll need to find the market's true master. The one who deals not in flesh or trinkets — but in debts of fate."
As he spoke, the market seemed to shift. Lanterns flickered. The whispers rose louder, closer, as though the market itself had heard their intent. A hush rippled through the stalls, and even the shadows grew still.
Somewhere deep within the market's heart, a presence stirred, one that knew Xu Liang's illness, his name, and the price it would demand.
And it was waiting.