Yè Chényōu returned to the town. The moon was veiled beneath heavy clouds, and the settlement lay drowned in shadow. The air was oppressive, thick with the mingled scent of gunpowder and blood, choking every breath. At the town square, people had gathered in a ring, their faces calm yet hollow, torchlight flickering across their vacant eyes.
It was the annual Night of Sacrifice, said to safeguard the seal upon the Lingyu. Yet from the ancient fragments, Chényōu had already sensed it was no mere ritual. Last night's dream overlapped with the scene before him, and once more, the whispers stirred in his mind:"Blood and dream… forward…"
He stepped into the crowd, his footfalls light, yet each one struck like a muffled drumbeat. In the wavering firelight, the townsfolk's movements were stiff and unnatural. The priest raised the ritual implements, a silver blade flashing coldly in the flame's glow. The air trembled with a strange vibration, like the murmur of some vast creature stirring in the abyss.
Chényōu's gaze was drawn to the altar's shadow. It was no ordinary shadow—it writhed and stretched, alive in the torchlight. He instinctively stepped back, only to realize the fire's shadows stretched upward, merging with the darkness of the clouds above, forming a twisted colossal shape—as if some slumbering being watched him from the sky.
Suddenly, the heavens split with a black fissure—an abyssal eye glaring upon the world. Lightning cracked down, fire and storm entwined, while the congregation chanted in low, rhythmic voices, their ancient cadence chilling the soul.
Terror swelled within him, every cell shuddering at the sense of something unnameable about to awaken. His eyes fixed upon the altar's center—where the offering was no beast nor fruit, but a creature pitch-black, its gaze hollow, as though birthed from the dream's abyss.
The priest lifted the offering slowly. Chants and wind merged. Chényōu's mind flooded with visions: countless tendrils descending from the heavens, entwining the worshippers as the whispers sharpened—"Blood… dream… Lingyu… forward…"Sweat slicked his palms. His breath faltered.
Then the creature on the altar writhed violently, letting out a shrill, unnatural screech. In the flickering light, its form blurred, merging with the darkness. Its shadow spread outward, sprouting invisible tendrils that clawed toward the sky. The people did not panic. They continued their chant, as though long accustomed to dancing with the unknown.
Chényōu's scalp prickled. He knew—this was no mere sacrifice. The Lingyu was peering through, brushing against the edge of the mortal world. He clenched his jaw, forcing calm, imprinting every detail of the altar, the pattern of the symbols, the indescribable aura. Perhaps this was the first boundary between realms.
Suddenly, the wind ceased. Silence fell, heavy as death. The priest lowered the ritual blade. The offering lay still as stone, yet its shadow stretched on, alive. From the fragment in his hand, Chényōu felt a faint resonance. The whispers returned—but this time, they formed clear words:"When the dream breaks, walk into the Lingyu."
Drawing a deep breath, he raised his gaze to the sky smothered in cloud. A profound loneliness welled in his chest. From this moment, he knew he had been swept into the current of the Lingyu—there was no return.
In the distance, torches flickered, shadows writhed, and whispers echoed through every corner of the town. Clutching the fragment tightly, Yè Chényōu stepped from the crowd and vanished into the night and mist, his heart fixed on one thought alone:
To seek the Lingyu.To unravel the secret of the dream.