Yè Chényōu left the village under the blood moon, his boots sinking slightly into the moist earth, which creaked faintly in the night wind. The moon was hidden behind heavy clouds, leaving only a few pale streaks piercing the darkness, casting twisted shadows across the trees like claws reaching toward the sky. He followed the winding path, each beat of his heart echoing like a knock upon the gates of the abyss.
In the distance, the river flowed silently, its surface like a black mirror, occasionally reflecting the lingering blood-red light at the horizon. The wind swept over the water, producing a low, mournful wail, as though something beneath the surface was moving slowly. Yè Chényōu halted, a creeping sense of oppressive fear rising in his chest—this river seemed to flow not only with water, but with some ancient, unknown consciousness.
He tilted his head, listening. A faint, strange sound reached his ears—not the wind, not the water, but something between a whisper and the resonance of water brushing against rock. It seemed to tease his memory, brushing against glimpses of monstrous forms from his dreams, silently recounting some ancient story.
Suddenly, moonlight pierced the clouds, illuminating a vague figure on the river's surface. It was immense, partially submerged in the dark water, a hybrid of fish and human form. Its smooth scales shimmered with a ghostly green light; long tendrils swayed with the current, writing symbols in the air as though tracing ancient sigils. Its head was elongated, eyes reflecting the shadows of the river's depths, pupils absent—only the interplay of darkness and light. It slowly lifted its head, sending ripples across the water, ripples that twisted like flowing letters, intricate and incomprehensible.
Yè Chényōu felt his throat tighten, his breathing shallow, unable to move an inch. The creature's tendrils traced arc-like symbols in the air, sometimes pointing, sometimes warning. He sensed an indescribable pressure—not hostility, but a proclamation from the depths of time, an ancient and inevitable order.
"…Cross…" The whisper seemed to surge from beneath the water, vibrating his chest, fragmented by the current so that its full meaning eluded him. He almost understood, yet his fear was magnified infinitely. Tendrils skimmed the surface, creating ghostly ripples, each one etching ineffable symbols deep into his consciousness.
The creature slowly rose, water sliding from its semi-transparent scales, exuding an aroma of ancient wood and deep water. Yè Chényōu felt as if the entire world were watching him. Its head tilted slightly, long whiskers swaying, simultaneously guiding and probing. His reason wavered; he realized this was a test, an unavoidable scrutiny.
As Yè Chényōu attempted to step closer to the riverbank, the creature's gaze suddenly locked on him. Shadows churned beneath the surface, and the tendrils traced one final, profound arc. The whispers ceased, leaving only the rolling of the water and the sighing of the night wind.
Then it spoke—low, resonant, as if echoing from the abyss:"…The trial begins at Nanshan."
Yè Chényōu shuddered. Beneath the blood moon, river and shadow intertwined, and he felt an irresistible summons rising from the depths—the trial of Nanshan awaited, not far from here.
He stood at the riverbank, the wet mud clinging to his boots, shadows and dim reflections playing across the water. A chill river breeze brushed his face, carrying the scent of wet earth and decay. His gaze pierced through the rising mist over the river; twisted shapes within it seemed ready to reach for him. The river churned darkly, faint green lights flickering beneath the surface like countless eyes watching, sending his heartbeat racing. The reality of the Lingyu was far deeper, colder, and more unpredictable than any dream he had ever known—no safety, no rules, only unknown threats and oppressive weight.
He inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air mixed with soil and river mist. His fists clenched slightly, knuckles whitening. The wind stirred fallen leaves along the riverbank, twirling them into a path that seemed to guide him toward Nanshan's darkened trail. He stepped forward, each footfall sinking into the mixture of mud and leaves, producing soft creaks, forming a strange rhythm with the surrounding silence.
He knew this was no dream, and there was no turning back—the trial of Nanshan awaited, and he had to walk step by step into this unknown darkness.