The road to the Daba Mountains was winding, narrow, and at times unnavigable. The GPS signal died miles before they reached the coordinates Zhou had traced on the map. From there, they followed the trail on foot, ascending into dense fog, trees gnawed by age and silence.
It wasn't on any modern map. The locals refused to speak of it. Some simply stared blankly when Yang mentioned "an old shrine near the cliff ridge." Others muttered folk curses and walked away.
By late afternoon, they reached it.
The Unfinished Shrine wasn't so much built as it was abandoned. Stone columns rose from cracked foundations, many half-carved. Moss had reclaimed every surface. The air here was thin—not just physically, but spiritually—as though the place had been scrubbed of meaning and left hollow.
Yang's first step inside the circular platform sent a dull hum through the ground.
"This isn't just a shrine," Zhou whispered. "It's the fifth anchor point."
Near the center stood a stone basin filled with stagnant rainwater. Beneath the algae-covered surface, something shimmered—like etched silver beneath glass.
They cleared the water carefully, revealing a carving: a mirror framed by five symbols. Yang's fingers traced one—a spiral, identical to the one on the jade.
"Each symbol represents a binding ritual," Zhou said. "But this one… this is incomplete."
"Or never activated," Yang muttered.
They camped nearby that night. The fire sputtered against the cold. Zhou dozed with his notes curled against his chest. Yang couldn't sleep. The silence around the shrine was absolute. No birds. No insects. Not even wind.
Then, faintly—barely audible through the tent wall—he heard a sound.
Stone shifting.
And beneath it, a voice.
But not in any language he knew.