The wind of the Qinling Mountains carried a damp chill, like whispers from an age long buried. It slid through cracks in the stone, seeping into bones, carrying the scent of moss and wet earth. The ridgeline rose like the back of a slumbering dragon, clouds coiling against its scales, shadows revealing jagged cliffs that looked like the beast's fangs. Though midnight had not yet come, the forest already felt like the throat of a bottomless well—swallowing light, breath, and courage alike.
"Time," Captain Lei murmured, lifting the flap of the camouflaged tent. His sharp eyes gleamed like steel under a dying fire. "We move now. Quiet. Success only—failure is not an option."
Li Muye tightened the strap of his headlamp, giving only a silent nod. His pack was not a soldier's rucksack, but a modified archaeologist's bag, bulging with coils of rope, climbing gear, and instruments of fine craft. The gloves on his hands were lined with thin steel mesh.
There were five of them in total: Captain Lei, always terse and precise; Old Yu, the kind of man whose foul mouth was louder than his courage; Zhou Zhan, a geographer from western Sichuan, eager-eyed and talkative; and a silent young man who called himself A-Chuang—his eyes cold, his manner like a wolf pacing at the edge of the fire.
Old Yu spat on the ground, steel probe tapping at loose stones. "Hell's gate, that's what this place is. Cave-in comes, and we'll be mud and bones before anyone finds us." He cursed again under his breath, though his eyes flicked sideways to Captain Lei as if seeking reassurance even while he mocked.
Zhou Zhan crouched, chalk scratching fast across the stone. "The strata aren't natural—irregular fracture lines, look here. These surfaces… cut, reinforced. It's artificial. Definitely tomb architecture." His hands gestured constantly, as though lecturing invisible students.
A-Chuang said nothing. He merely twirled a short blade in his palm, the whisper of steel against callus faint as a snake's hiss. His gaze swept across each of them in turn, but when it passed Li Muye, it lingered—sharp, measuring, predatory.
The wind came again, but warmer this time, rising from a fissure half-hidden behind black pines. The air carried the damp exhalation of the earth's belly. Captain Lei moved first, and the others followed, peeling back the veil of stone and roots to reveal a passage no record had ever marked. A tomb entrance, deep in the Qinling.
"Enough chatter." Lei's voice was cold as iron striking stone. He tapped the blueprint in his hand. "Stay on path. One step wrong, and you won't live to regret it."
Old Yu grumbled, jabbing his probe into the soil. "Yeah, yeah, always the drill sergeant. Hurry up already."
The ropes went down, iron ladders set firm. The belly of the mountain breathed damp heat, like a beast waking in its den. Their lights cut spears through the dark, painting the walls in shifting gold.
And the walls…
Lines emerged—dense, sharp, curling—runes carved like ripples left by a receding tide. Not the familiar spirals of Han artistry, nor the flowing clouds of Tang. These were jagged, abstract, strokes like knives stabbing into stone.
Li Muye froze, breath caught in his chest. He raised his phone and snapped quick frames, heart pounding under unseen fingers.
"Don't touch," Captain Lei said sharply, arm shooting out. His gaze cut like a blade. "We follow the main corridor. No detours. No mistakes."
The corridor narrowed, its walls packed earth clamped with fractured stone. The floor was paved with strange bricks, not smooth rectangles but octagonal tiles, edges uneven, raised on alternate corners.
Old Yu muttered and moved to step forward. Li Muye grabbed his sleeve, voice tight: "Don't. The highs and lows—they're pressure triggers. Step wrong, the whole place could collapse."
Old Yu sneered, shaking him off. "What the hell would a bookworm know?" He gave the brick a sharp tap with his probe.
Captain Lei didn't react, except to flick his chin toward Muye. "Show us."
Li Muye swallowed hard. He bent, weight shifting onto the outer edge of his soles, testing the raised corners like a cat on unfamiliar ground. The tile gave the faintest breath of movement, then stilled. His next step flowed to the second, then the third. Behind him, Lei followed in perfect silence, shadow gliding over shadow. Even A-Chuang's tread was light, his frame slipping like mist between traps.
At the end stood a sealed stone gate.
Dark, smooth, cool as black jade, its surface was etched with those same alien runes. There were no handles, only two square sockets on either side, each with a pinhole deep in its heart.
Lei crouched, angling his flashlight into one hole. The beam struck something inside—threads, taut as a spider's web. "Traps." His voice was low, steady.
"Phoenix-twine lock," Muye muttered, recognizing the principle from ancient manuals. "Corded counterweights inside. Snap the threads and you trigger a collapse, or worse—fire."
Old Yu's hand slipped toward his toolbag, where a jury-rigged nail-gun rested. "Then blast it open."
"Don't." Lei's glare froze him in place. His eyes shifted back to Muye. "Your call."
Muye's mouth was dry. He pulled thin foil sheets from his pack, folded one into a feather, and held it before the socket. A soft breath, and the feather was pulled inward, twitching with the hidden airflow. He recorded ten seconds of its quiver, then replayed on his phone, extracting the frequency curve.
"It's not hollow. Shallow cavity, tight channel. Cord runs through grooves too narrow for a blade. But—these marks around the runes…" His fingers hovered just shy of the stone. "They're not decoration. They're instructions."
"Instructions?" Zhou Zhan blinked behind his glasses.
"Read them," Muye said. "Correct order, gate opens. Wrong order…"
"Dead," Old Yu snorted, though his sweat betrayed him.
Lei's expression didn't shift. "Do it."
Li Muye steadied his breath, headlamp glowing against stone. His fingers hovered just above the runes—tracing without touching, letting his mind follow the strokes like paths on a map. Each curve, each hook whispered a direction, a sequence.
Tap. The stone murmured back.
First stroke—click.Second stroke—click.Third stroke… his sweat ran cold. He had read a "return hook" as a "rest mark." A mistake.
He stopped. Drew back, heart hammering like a drum. Forcing his thoughts into order, he rewrote the rune in his head, redrew its intention. Then, slower, steadier, his finger traced again.
On the seventh mark, the stone gave a sound like a string loosening. A hidden counterweight rolled deep inside, settling with a distant thud. Dust sifted from the cracks.
"Open," Muye whispered.
The gate shifted a breath, its mouth parting by inches. All five pressed shoulder and arm to the cold slab, and with a groan like the mountain itself waking, the gate yielded. A gust of stale air surged out, heavy with rot and age. Their lights pierced the darkness, revealing a narrow chamber.
Along its walls, alcoves held masks—bronze visages with hollow eyes and snarling mouths. Each was carved with the same inhuman runes.
"Ritual masks," Zhou Zhan whispered, notebook trembling. "Not for men. For gods."
Old Yu gave a dry laugh. "Gods my ass. Just more junk metal." He strode ahead, lamp beam shaking.
At the far end loomed another gate, set with a polished black stone, smooth as a mirror yet swallowing all light.
The moment Muye's eyes touched it, his shadow twisted—moving out of rhythm. His breath caught.
"Stop!" Captain Lei barked, seizing Old Yu's arm. "Half-light only!"
They dimmed their beams. The shadows shrank, but the black stone still pulsed with something deeper. Muye knelt, fingers brushing the floor—wet, cold, shallow grooves carved across the stone. A channel, barely a finger's depth, lined with tiny pegs slick with something metallic.
"Don't cross," he said quickly. "Mercury, gas, or worse. And that stone—it feeds on shadows. If your shadow moves wrong, it triggers."
"How do we pass?" Zhou Zhan's voice cracked.
"Borrow a shadow," Lei answered flatly.
Muye pulled reflective sheets from his pack, planting rods into the grooves. Angled carefully, they bent the beams, weaving an artificial net of light. The consuming shadow was dragged sideways, pinned like an insect under glass.
One by one, they crossed. Captain Lei first, gliding with the surety of a soldier. Old Yu second, muttering curses but keeping steady. Zhou Zhan stumbled, nearly crying, but made it through. A-Chuang stepped silent, his eyes once again brushing Muye's neck with that same predatory weight.
Muye brought up the rear. Halfway across, a phantom wind licked at his spine. The black stone's shadow shifted, as though something else leaned against his own.
"Move!" Lei's bark cut the silence.
Muye lunged forward—just as a faint twang echoed from the lintel above. He threw himself flat, hand hooking a peg at the groove's edge.
Thwip!
Arrows of stone needles shot across the passage, sparking against the reflective rods. The light-net shattered. The devouring shadow inhaled once, then stilled, as though disappointed.
"Who touched the cord?" Lei's voice was iron.
Silence. All eyes slid toward A-Chuang.
The youth lowered his gaze, voice calm, almost bored: "Not me."
Lei's stare lingered, then cut forward. "We move. Now."
The second gate yielded easily, no lock to fight them. Carved upon the wall beside it was a line of runes clearer than any before, glowing faintly in their beams. Not words of sound, but of concept. Muye felt his knees weaken beneath their weight.
"They're not written for men," he whispered.
"For who, then?" Old Yu's sarcasm cracked, but even he dared not laugh.
The chamber beyond was vast. Its ceiling arched high, supported by four bronze pillars carved with beasts. Something liquid sloshed within the columns—water, or sand, or something alive.
At the center stood a square dais, its surface a polished slab of jade. In its heart, a circular hollow no wider than a fist, etched with threads fine as cicada wings.
"The main chamber?" Zhou Zhan's voice wavered.
"No," Muye murmured, stepping closer. He pressed an ear to the jade, and there it was—a pulse. Slow. Steady. Like the heartbeat of something buried alive.
He reached a hand toward it.
"Don't."
The word rasped like gravel. For the first time, A-Chuang spoke, his voice raw, torn as if from long silence. His hand tightened on a small cloth bundle hidden in his coat. His knuckles bulged white, veins like ropes.
"Not for you," he said.
"For who, then?" Old Yu barked.
A-Chuang didn't answer. He stepped forward, blade flashing once in the torchlight.
"Stop!" Lei's shout cracked the chamber.
But A-Chuang pressed on, palm hovering over the hollow. Muye lunged, hand slamming down at the same instant.
Their skin met stone together.
Hummm—
Light erupted.
The chamber vanished. The mountain fell away. Only rain of radiance remained, falling like cold fire across their skin. Each drop seared, branding lines of power into Muye's veins, inscribing not words but structures.
Lei hurled himself forward, but an unseen force threw him back as if striking a wall of air. Old Yu cursed, reaching for his gun, but Lei crushed his arm down: "No! You'll kill us all!"
Muye convulsed. The light seared, then froze, then melted into fire racing through his blood. Across from him, A-Chuang's eyes burned, narrow slits lit with unnatural gleam. Between their palms, the hollow opened wider—like an eye awakening.
And from the depths of bone, of stone, of silence, a voice spoke.
Not in ears. Not in air. But inside the marrow itself.
"Descendants… do you accept my path?"
The pillars blazed. Runes like constellations ignited across the walls. The jade pulsed, echoing like ten thousand feet marching in unison.
Muye's tongue locked. His body trembled. The voice pressed again, colder, hungrier:
"If you refuse… tonight, all returns to dust."
He saw the corridor, the masks, the devouring shadow, the countless blades. He saw every path had led here, to this single question.
His breath tore ragged from his lungs.
"I—"