The moment Yè Chényōu stepped into the village, the crimson light fell across the dilapidated houses. Roofs were mottled and beams cracked, as if they would shatter at the slightest touch. A gentle breeze carried the stench of mold and rot mixed with the metallic tang of blood, whispering warnings to outsiders: this was no place for the living. Moonlight penetrated the thick fog, casting the ground in a deep red, each step feeling as though he walked upon a blood-stained carpet. An oppressive sensation pressed upon him, as if the entire village held its breath, scrutinizing every movement he made.
He walked along the narrow paths, noticing strange runes and remnants of rituals scattered across the village road. The place was deserted, save for the wind and the occasional distant roar of some unseen beast. Every house exuded an uncanny silence, as though eyes lurked in the shadows, watching. Fear swelled in Yè Chényōu's heart, yet his obsession propelled him onward.
At the center of the village stood a prominent altar. Its ancient stone platform was streaked with dried blood, and the scattered candles emitted a cold, faint light. Around it were bizarre statues—some vaguely human, others monstrous and deformed, their outlines blurred and proportions unnatural. They seemed not carved for humans, but for some unknown entity.
At midnight, the village seemed to awaken. Faint red glimmers flickered behind the window lattices. Yè Chényōu crouched to examine the altar when soft footsteps reached his ears. He looked up but saw no human figure—only eyes flashing intermittently in the mist. At that moment, the blood moon rose high, and the crimson light intensified, as if the entire village had come alive.
A mother's eyes rolled back, her throat emitting a low gurgling sound; a child curled into a ball, scales appearing across their skin, arms twisting like tentacles. Yè Chényōu's heart raced. He wanted to flee, yet the mixture of curiosity and fear rooted him in place.
He gritted his teeth and cautiously approached a window, trying to observe more clearly. A father's hand slammed onto a table, claws tearing through wood with a shrill screech; the mother's twisted face gurgled as if chanting ancient spells, causing the air itself to tremble; the child's body quivered, scales glimmering an eerie green, the tail elongating like a winding spirit-serpent. Yè Chényōu's reason nearly shattered, but he still wanted to record everything.
Suddenly, the shadow of one household twisted into a floating black mist, then coalesced into a bizarre creature. Towering and covered in jet-black scales, its limbs ended in sharp blades. Under the blood moon, its eyes gleamed with a cold light, exuding both a strange elegance and formidable power.
In the shadows of the houses, the villagers' forms began to distort, limbs stretching unnaturally, skin and hair intertwining, as if blood and bones were being reshaped. The creatures stepped outside, bodies bending like swimming dragons, tails leaving sticky trails across the earth, bending even the air itself. Yè Chényōu held his breath, struck by an indescribable awe: these transformed beings moved with fluid, graceful motions, exuding an otherworldly beauty, as if creations that should not exist in nature. They roamed the village paths, performing some ritual, their low beastly roars resonating like ancient language, testing and warning intruders.
He tried to step back but realized the shadow beneath his feet no longer belonged solely to him—it had merged with the ground, the moonlight, the air, ready to be consumed at any moment. The blood moon seemed to grant the villagers their transformations; each metamorphosis was a profound trial of humanity and the Lingyu's rules. Only under the moonlight could they leave their mortal forms and reveal their true essence, resonating with the Lingyu's mysterious power.
Yè Chényōu noticed a pattern in their behavior: though fierce, they did not harm one another and never strayed beyond the village's perimeter. The village itself seemed like a miniature Lingyu, protecting some ancient law. He realized that the blood moon, the transformed beasts, and the runes were all expressions of Lingyu's power. Any mortal who wandered here would face these rules, their fear, desire, and instincts magnified to the extreme.
One transformed beast approached him slowly, its scales shimmering strangely in the moonlight, exhaling a wild, primal aura yet making no attack. It stopped several steps away, retreating slowly. Yè Chényōu's eyes scanned the transformed villagers; each motion precise, following some rhythm, yet imbued with an eerie beauty. His mind understood that these beings were no longer fully human. Every muscle in his body tensed; his mind blanked, yet strangely lucid. This was the Lingyu's trial—not just physical fear, but a challenge to mind and soul.
As night deepened, more villagers assumed beastly forms. Each movement precise, elegant, like dancers trained in some ancient art. Yè Chényōu watched them weave through the village under the blood moon, each breath resonating with the Lingyu's law: fear and reverence intertwined, beauty and cruelty coexisting. This was an independent space, governed by rules, blood, and unknown power.
At that moment, the statues on the altar trembled slightly, as if responding to the blood moon's light. Yè Chényōu realized the Lingyu was not merely an intersection of nature and illusion, but a domain with its own rules, will, and trials. As an outsider, he had been drawn into this system; every step could trigger an unknown reaction.
Under the blood moon, the desolate, eerie mountain village silently conveyed the Lingyu's law. Yè Chényōu walked along the village paths, each whisper and shadow marking his first contact with the Lingyu's dark power. His heartbeat, breath, and senses were reshaped, preparing him for the journey ahead. He looked up at the crimson moon, silently vowing that no matter how perilous the path, he would understand the village's rules and find a way to delve deeper into the Lingyu—even if it meant his soul might be forever consumed.