Rain whispered through the leaves as Chen Wanli stood before the mouth of the Sealed Gate, a jagged crack in the stone beneath the city's underbelly. Moss covered most of the carvings, but he knew what lay behind it:
A crypt.
A prison.
And within it, the Devouring Vessel—a curse too ancient to name, buried by the Northern Sect at the cost of hundreds of lives.
He placed both palms against the stone. The runes lit up in pale green, resisting his presence before slowly relenting.
"Just a peek," he muttered.
"No farther."
Inside, the air grew colder with every step. Walls wept condensation. Bone dust clung to his boots. And at the chamber's center—
A coffin, suspended by soul chains, still humming with divine seals.
Wanli's breath caught.
"This wasn't dormant."
The chains trembled.
Someone had already tampered with it.
A sigil had been scratched onto the stone—a twisted variant of the lotus, dark and inverted.
He stepped back, heart racing.
"They've already begun the ritual."
"Jiaojiao is the key."
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