The morning mist still clung to the streets as Yè Chényōu walked along the damp stone path toward the town's library. The air carried the smell of soil and moldy paper, as if foretelling that some long-forgotten secret awaited him.
The library was old and cavernous, its yellowed lamps barely holding back the darkness. Endless shelves loomed like a labyrinth. His gaze was drawn to a pile of scattered fragments—ancient pages, yellowed and torn, their edges frayed as though they had endured a thousand years of wind and frost. Each page exuded a faint, acrid stench of decay, whispering to him—or mocking him—for daring to pry into forbidden things.
He crouched, touching one fragment with his fingertips. The words were blurred yet barely legible:"The Gate of Lingyu—opened only by blood and dream."The line struck his heart like a hammer. Last night's visions surged back—colossal beasts, twisted symbols, hollow eyes—all merging into a silent summons that sent chills down his spine.
As his fingers slid along the page, an illustration emerged: mountains piercing the clouds, rivers winding like silver serpents, mist rolling thick. In its haze, faint outlines of beasts took shape, grotesque and beyond description. His chest tightened—the contours were eerily similar to the landscape he had seen in his dream's fog.
A gust rushed through a broken window, rattling the pages with a hollow, rustling sound, like whispers echoing from antiquity. Holding his breath, he heard it—faint murmurs at the edge of hearing:"Forward… forward…"His heartbeat thudded like a drum.
He lifted his head. From the depths of the library, darkness welled up like a tide, and within it he felt invisible eyes fixed upon him. In the corner, a shadow twisted unnaturally, and a figure—belonging to no known creature—flitted by. His chest tightened. Yet in his hand, the fragment glimmered faintly, as if guiding him down a path unknown.
Forcing himself calm, Yè Chényōu tucked the fragment away, though questions swirled in his mind. Did the Lingyu truly exist? Were these ancient words and cryptic sigils mere delusions of men—or the call of a power long buried in time?
He walked deeper down the corridor. The light grew dimmer, the air thick with a rancid stench that suffocated the breath. Between the shelves, pages turned on their own, as though some unseen entity was watching, probing. He felt, with a chill, that every motion of his was being recorded by an unfathomable gaze—and perhaps prepared for sacrifice.
Leaning against the wall, the fragment in his hand trembled. Glancing down at the illustration of the mountains, he saw the mist upon the page stir, blurring into tendrils that stretched from the valleys—like spectral limbs curling across the parchment. Then the whispers returned:"Blood and dream… only through blood and dream… forward…"
Sweat dampened his grip, though he could not tell if it was fear or fascination pulling him onward. Yè Chényōu knew he could not turn back. The secret of the Lingyu was unveiling itself in silence, and he—he was but one chosen witness.
Night deepened. Within the library, the wavering light cast shadows that writhed like living things. His breath grew ragged, and an unfamiliar loneliness welled in his chest. The fragments, the parchment, the dream's whispers—all wove together into an unseen net, tightening around him.
Softly, he muttered:"Lingyu… I must find you."
From the shattered window came the tide-like surge of wind, laced with murmurs deep and low—like voices of unknown beings from the mountains and seas, answering him in secret.
Darkness and mist, dream and reality, entwined into an inescapable vortex.