The sky was too blue.
A flawless azure dome stretched above, dotted with clouds drifting in perfect formation, never straying, never shifting.
And the birds… always flying in the same circle over the rooftops, never breaking pattern.
Yan Zhi stood on the cobbled street, staring at the city he once knew.
This city should have been alive—bustling markets, the scent of spices in the air, the laughter of street performers.
But now, everything felt… orchestrated.
He inhaled deeply.
"I just needed fresh air. After everything at the sect… I needed to see something real."
Yet the further he walked, the more wrongness clawed at him.
---
The marketplace was lively—too lively.
Merchants lined up in perfect symmetry, every movement measured, every laugh sounding identical. One fruit seller tossed an apple into the air, caught it, and repeated the gesture… again and again, like a machine running on a loop.
Yan Zhi approached a stall run by an old man.
"Uncle Luo, you remember me, don't you? Yan Zhi. You used to give me candied plums when I was a kid."
The old man lifted his head and smiled—a smile too flawless to be human.
"Good morning, welcome to the market. Fresh fruit, low prices."
Yan Zhi frowned. "I'm asking—do you remember me?"
"Good morning, welcome to the market. Fresh fruit, low prices."
The tone. The words. Identical.
Yan Zhi grabbed the man's wrist, shaking him.
The flesh beneath his grip was cold, damp—like rotting wood.
When he let go, the man's mouth stopped moving… but the voice still hung in the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"Good morning, welcome to the market. Fresh fruit, low prices."
Yan Zhi stumbled back. His chest tightened. This world wasn't simply wrong—it was wrong on purpose.
---
He fled the stall, bolting toward the city square.
There was a huge crowd gathered there, encircling something at the center. From afar, applause thundered, cheers rang, music played.
But as he stepped closer—
Silence.
Every figure froze in perfect unison.
Hands suspended mid-clap. Mouths locked in grins that didn't move.
And then, as one, a hundred heads turned to look at him. A hundred eyes—unblinking, empty—locked onto him.
Yan Zhi felt like an animal cornered on a stage.
"Why… why are you staring at me like that?"
No answer.
Only the crushing quiet, so loud it roared in his ears.
He spun and bolted into a narrow alley.
But no matter how many turns he took, no matter how far he ran… every path led him back to the square.
---
Panic gnawed at his composure.
He fell to his knees, panting, and noticed something on the ground.
His shadow.
It pulsed.
Not like a reflection of him—but like a living thing, liquid darkness writhing beneath him.
Then, it spoke.
Not in a foreign voice. Not his own either.
Something too close, like a whisper from the part of himself he had buried deep.
"Look closely. This isn't the world. It's a curtain."
Yan Zhi's gaze darted around. The empty eyes still bore into him.
"A… curtain?" His voice trembled.
"Tear it… or be devoured. Those are your only choices."
The shadow slithered across the wall, forming a dark path that stretched toward a narrow passage at the city's edge.
---
He followed. Step by step.
Behind him, the sound of footsteps—hundreds of them—echoed in unison, closing in.
The moment he crossed the threshold of that passage, reality shattered.
The city's walls cracked apart into shards of light.
The perfect sky split like glass, collapsing into black dust.
And beyond it lay… a boundless void.
Endless darkness, pulsing like the heartbeat of some colossal, unseen thing. Chains of pale light hung from the unseen ceiling, binding faceless shapes that twisted and writhed in the air like puppets on strings.
Yan Zhi stood frozen.
"So… this is the truth?"
"No," his shadow replied, voice low, almost amused.
"This is only the second layer."
"And you… are nowhere near ready for the third."
The shadow chuckled.
---
Then another voice emerged from the dark.
Soft. Warm.
And so painfully familiar it made his stomach drop.
"You finally made it here… Yan Zhi."
He froze.
That voice belonged to someone he trusted—someone who should never have been here.
His shadow whispered, almost like a warning:
"Be careful. Not every betrayal wears a stranger's face."
—To Be Continued.
---