The narrow passage twisted further into darkness. The walls, slick with moisture, pressed close on either side, forcing Lin Mo to bend slightly as he moved. His candle flickered, struggling against the thick, curling fog that seemed to cling to the stone like living tendrils. Every breath he drew was sharp and cold, carrying with it the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic, almost like rusted blood.
He reached a fork in the corridor. One path descended sharply, its steps worn smooth by countless years of unseen passage. The other was almost entirely obscured by fog, a low archway framed with intricate carvings barely visible in the wavering candlelight. Symbols pulsed faintly along the walls, spirals and eyes intertwined in patterns that seemed almost organic, as if breathing.
"The eye… waits… beyond…"
The whisper slithered along his nerves, curling around his thoughts. Lin Mo swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had come this far, yet his instincts screamed to turn back. The fog here seemed almost aware, pressing in closer, teasing him with glimpses of shadows that flickered just beyond the candlelight.
He chose the archway shrouded in mist, feeling his way along the stone wall as he descended. The carvings beneath his fingers pulsed faintly in response to his touch, and the whisper grew louder, more urgent:
"See… remember… the eye watches…"
The passage narrowed further, forcing him to stoop. Cold droplets condensed on his forehead, dripping down into his eyes. His candlelight caught on something ahead—a fissure in the stone, jagged and irregular, splitting the wall like a scar. The blue glow emanated faintly from within, illuminating the edges of the crack with a ghostly light.
He crouched and peered inside. The space beyond was impossibly deep, vanishing into shadow. The fog inside the fissure swirled differently, almost as if it had its own rhythm, pulsing gently in time with his heartbeat. He could hear the whispering more clearly now, a chorus of voices threading through the stone:
"Sacrifice… memory… see… the eye…"
Lin Mo hesitated. His hand hovered over the candle, unsure whether to step inside. Every instinct screamed danger, yet a magnetic pull drew him forward. He finally lowered himself into the narrow fissure, the fog curling around him like cold fingers. The walls scraped his shoulders, and the stone floor was uneven, slick with moisture. Each step echoed softly, reverberating in the confined space like distant, haunted footsteps.
As he progressed, the blue glow grew stronger. Symbols appeared carved into the walls, spiraling and twisting, glowing faintly in response to his gaze. He traced them with trembling fingers, copying them into his notebook. Each line seemed to hum under his touch, a vibration that ran up his arm and into his chest. The whispers intensified:
"The eye… remembers… the forgotten… the watched… the sacrificed…"
The fissure opened into a larger chamber. The fog hung heavy, thick enough to obscure his feet, swirling around a stone pedestal in the center. Symbols covered its surface, glowing faintly blue, pulsating like a heartbeat. Around it lay scattered papers, broken and weathered, their inscriptions fragmented:
"…sacrifice… memory… watch… the eye…"
Lin Mo stepped closer, the candle trembling in his grip. As he knelt, he saw the faint shimmer of water pooled in a depression at the pedestal's center. The surface was unnaturally still, reflecting the candlelight and the blue glow with a spectral sheen. For a brief, terrifying moment, his own reflection did not look like him. The eyes staring back were hollow and ancient, filled with burdensome knowledge, and for a heartbeat he felt himself drawn into them.
A chill ran down his spine, and he gasped. The whispers crescendoed, surrounding him, pressing into his consciousness:
"See… see… remember… sacrifice… the eye watches…"
He gripped his candle tightly, knuckles white. Step by step, he traced the carvings around the pedestal, copying them into his notebook with painstaking precision. Each symbol seemed to respond, the blue glow pulsing in sync with his heartbeat, echoing the rhythm of his own pulse.
The air thickened further, fog curling into shapes that flickered like shadows of people, moving at the edges of his vision. He blinked, and the shapes vanished, leaving only the oppressive silence punctuated by the whispering chorus.
Then, the basin's surface shimmered violently. Images flashed in the blue glow: a man collapsing in the street, his lips moving silently; a child staring at the clock tower from a marketplace; his mother's face, twisted in fear and whispering words he could almost hear. These fragments collided in his mind, memories and visions intermingling with the fog, the symbols, and the whispers.
Lin Mo's chest tightened. He felt as if the tower itself were pressing down upon him, yet a strange clarity emerged from the terror. The symbols, the fog, the whispers—they were connected. He realized he was witnessing the workings of the eye, a force that observed, remembered, and perhaps demanded something in return.
"Whatever lies ahead… I must see it…"
He rose cautiously, stepping around the pedestal. The fog swirled, thick and restless, revealing a passage that seemed to lead even deeper. The whispers softened, almost beckoning:
"The eye… waits for you… see clearly…"
Lin Mo's grip on the candle tightened. His shadow stretched along the swirling mist, merging with the symbols on the walls. He took a slow, deliberate step into the passage, heart hammering, aware that there was no turning back.
The air was colder here, each breath a visible swirl of fog in the faint blue light. Every sound—drip of water, whisper, distant groan of stone—resonated with his own heartbeat. His mind raced with fragmented visions, yet he pressed on, driven by a mixture of fear and unrelenting curiosity.
The chamber receded behind him, swallowed in fog. The symbols and whispers remained, etched into his memory and burned into his consciousness. Lin Mo knew this was only the beginning. The eye awaited him deeper in the darkness, patient, eternal, and insatiable.
"I will see it… clearly," he whispered, stepping forward into the unknown.
The passage opened into a vast chamber. Fog coiled across the stone floor in thick, undulating layers, curling around Lin Mo's ankles as though alive. The blue glow from the basin at the center pulsed rhythmically, each pulse resonating with the whispering voices that now enveloped the room entirely. He held his candle high, but its light barely pierced the heavy mist, creating only a faint halo that seemed to struggle against the gloom.
The pedestal in the center rose slightly above the floor, carved from stone and etched with intricate symbols that pulsed faintly in sync with the basin's blue glow. The air itself seemed charged, vibrating with a force Lin Mo could feel deep in his chest. Every step closer made his heartbeat quicken. The whispers became a chorus, layered, insistent, penetrating:
"The eye… the watcher… remembers… the sacrificed…"
Lin Mo knelt beside the basin, tracing the carvings with trembling fingers. Each line throbbed with energy beneath his touch, sending shivers up his arms. The candlelight flickered violently, throwing shadows that danced like specters across the fog-covered walls. The whispers intensified, threading through his mind, mixing with memories that weren't fully his: flashes of streets empty of life, a child staring up at the tower, a woman screaming silently—fragments merging, indistinct yet urgent.
A pulse of blue light surged from the basin. Lin Mo instinctively recoiled, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant—it was electric, like a current running through the marrow of his bones. The whispers coalesced into words he could almost understand:
"See… see clearly… remember all… the eye watches…"
The water in the basin shimmered violently. Shapes emerged, silhouettes of figures moving, twisting, fragmented. For an instant, he saw the face of the man who had collapsed in the street, but it shifted into his mother's face, and then into his own younger self. The images overlapped, fractured, impossible, yet they demanded his attention, pulling his consciousness toward the basin's glowing center.
Lin Mo's pulse raced. He clenched the candle, forcing himself to focus. The carvings, the fog, the blue light—they were all connected. He realized he was not merely observing; he was interacting. Every line traced in his notebook, every step closer to the pedestal, seemed to resonate with the chamber itself, as if the symbols were alive, feeding on his attention, his memories, his will.
"The eye… sees all… sees you… waits…"
A sudden, sharp vibration ran through the floor. The fog swirled violently, coiling around him, lifting in ghostly tendrils that pressed at his limbs. The whispering became deafening inside his skull, repeating:
"See… remember… sacrifice… remember…"
Lin Mo's knees shook. He dropped to the floor beside the basin, gripping the edge of the pedestal. His reflection in the water shimmered, distorting violently. For a terrifying moment, he felt as though he were being pulled into it, as if the eye within the basin sought to absorb him, to learn him, to remember him.
The whispers merged with visions: streets stripped bare of people, shadows twisting into faces, his own memories laid bare, dissected, mirrored in the rippling blue light. The candle flickered violently, shadows stretching impossibly long across the walls. Every instinct screamed to flee, yet some deeper part of him—a spark of will, of curiosity—held him fast.
He drew a deep, shaking breath. Step by step, he reached for the carvings etched into the pedestal. The stone pulsed under his touch, sending waves of pressure up his arms. The whispering voices began to harmonize with his heartbeat. He realized the eye was not merely watching—it was communicating, testing him, seeking to see if he could endure, if he could understand.
The chamber's blue light grew brighter, the fog thickening into almost tangible waves. Lin Mo felt the pulse of the basin like a hammer against his chest, echoing in time with the whispered commands:
"See clearly… see everything… the eye waits…"
Images burst in his mind: a child staring at the tower, a man collapsing in terror, his mother's whispered warning—all overlapping, mingling, distorted, yet forming an incomprehensible pattern. He gasped, clinging to his candle and the pedestal, his teeth clenched, his mind teetering at the edge of panic.
Then, in a sudden, blinding surge, the fog parted just enough for Lin Mo to see a figure within the glow. It was not a person but a shape—a void, an eye suspended in the center of the chamber, vast and impossible, staring directly into him. The whispers became a voice, singular and clear:
"You have come… to see… to remember… to understand…"
Lin Mo trembled violently, yet he did not retreat. His candle flickered against the overwhelming blue, shadows and fog bending around him, merging with the symbols on the walls, the basin, the pedestal. The eye's gaze pierced him, probing his thoughts, his memories, his fears. Yet, in that moment of terror, he understood: he had to endure, he had to see clearly, or he would be consumed by the eye's indifference.
"See clearly… see the truth… see the price…"
The pulse in the basin matched his heartbeat exactly now. The whispers receded slightly, leaving a weighty silence behind. Lin Mo's knees pressed into the damp stone floor, candlelight trembling, sweat running down his temples. He could still feel the eye's presence, vast and watchful, and the fog swirled around him like a living, breathing entity.
He straightened, voice barely audible over the hum of the chamber:
"Whatever waits… I will see it… clearly."
The chamber seemed to acknowledge him, the blue glow dimming just slightly, the fog settling into slow, rhythmic currents. The whispers had not vanished—they lingered, patient, waiting—but Lin Mo's resolve hardened. Whatever this eye was, whatever the tower demanded, he would witness it. He would see, remember, and endure.
With that thought, he took a deliberate step forward, deeper into the chamber, toward the unknown that awaited beyond the pool, the pedestal, and the eye itself. Every shadow, every symbol, every whisper pressed around him, yet he moved with unflinching determination.
The fog and the blue glow enveloped him completely, but Lin Mo's solitary figure remained visible, a lone observer against the ancient, watching darkness. The first chapter of the tower's mystery had reached its peak, and yet the story of the eye—of the fog, the whispers, and the sacrifice—was only beginning.