The embers of the Night of Sacrifice still lingered over the town. Yè Chényōu carried the fragments back to his small house. The wind outside brushed his face like invisible fingers, carrying the damp chill of decay. The town was so silent it felt oppressed by some immense presence, broken occasionally by a dog's bark that quickly vanished into the mist.
The windows of the house were tightly shut, yet a faint crimson light seeped through the door cracks, pulsing like a beating vein. He spread the tattered Classic of Mountains across the table. Candlelight flickered, casting the mottled characters and illustrations in shadow. Each page felt like a fragment of ancient fog, hiding secrets that words could not convey. When his fingers brushed the map fragments, they felt icy, as though a power seeped from the paper itself, lightly teasing his nerves.
"Lingyu…" he murmured. The word echoed in his mind, repeated by some unseen presence. The mountains and rivers on the map were not shapes of the real world—they were twisted, alive with a rhythm of their own. Peaks stretched sinuously; seas shimmered in dark green hues, as though breathing, calling to him.
Carefully, Yè Chényōu pieced the fragments together. A faint route emerged—leading into the misty mountains of the south, extending to a region marked as the "Forbidden Domain." Symbols and strange inscriptions accompanied each path, seeming both as ancient warnings and as summons.
He set down the candle and pressed his palm onto the map, closing his eyes. Instantly, the air stiffened; the room's temperature plunged. The low whispers returned, clearer than in his dreams:"Forward… forward… blood and dream…"A shiver ran through him, as if some invisible eye was piercing his soul.
Curiosity battled unease. He drew a deep breath and resolved to follow the route indicated on the map. He picked up a flashlight and some rations, ready to step outside. The night wind stirred again, ruffling the fallen leaves like silent fingers brushing his shoulder.
At the river's edge beyond the town, the water glowed with an eerie dark green under the night sky. Suddenly, ripples stirred across the surface, as if something lurked beneath. Yè Chényōu stared at the river, feeling an oppressive weight rising from deep within—like the Lingyu itself was testing his courage.
The whispers rose once more, and this time he caught more detail:"Only those who dare gaze into the abyss… can know the path to the Lingyu."His heart skipped a beat. The map was not merely paper—it was a doorway, a summons. Every touch was a conversation with the unknown, whose will was profound, unfathomable, and irresistible.
Yè Chényōu rolled the map carefully, clutching it in his hands. His eyes traveled past the river to the distant, mist-shrouded mountains. The peaks rose and fell in the night like living breaths. A mixture of urgency and exhilaration surged in his chest, as if the ancient whispers had set his blood alight. He knew that from this moment, he had stepped to the edge of the Lingyu. Ahead awaited not just strange creatures, but horrors and mysteries beyond comprehension.
He took the first step. The mist welcomed him like massive hands, swallowing the riverbank and the town. Glancing back, he saw the ritual fires extinguished in the darkness. Only the low murmurs remained, echoing in the night wind, reminding him: the secrets of the Lingyu had never fully revealed themselves to mortals.