The year was 2973 CE.
Though the world had long unified its calendars, old traditions clung stubbornly. In the Pan-Asian Federation, vast regions were designated as Historical Preservation Zones—lands untouched by the sprawling megacities, where the earth still whispered its ancient secrets.
Deep within the Qinling Mountains lay one such secretive vale.
"Are you certain there's anything here worth uncovering?" Li Wei's voice was sharp, carrying the impatience of a man who trusted instruments over intuition. He adjusted the drone hovering before the cavern entrance.
Wang Jian's shoulders stiffened. "Even if nothing is here, the mission brings us coin and reputation. Let us tread forward, then."
Chen Yu followed silently, hands resting lightly on the worn leather of his journal, its pages crammed with the forgotten tales of mortals and gods alike. Not for pride, not for display, but for understanding.
"See that ridge?" he said softly, his voice almost lost to the wind through the crevices. "Legends speak of a plateau hidden beyond these rocks. Travellers of old avoided it, leaving offerings… or perhaps abandoning rituals lost to memory."
Li Wei's brow furrowed. "You speak of superstition, of ghosts. We are here to chart stone and ore, not to hunt shadows."
Chen Yu only shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps these shadows are what those who came before wished to remain unseen, and the stone remembers them still."
The others mocked quietly, but Chen Yu's gaze lingered on the drifting shadows. There was a rhythm here, subtle, like a heartbeat beneath the earth itself.
The cave ahead yawned, jagged and narrow, dust choking the air, whispering of centuries-long collapse.
The group moved forward with mechanical precision. Chen Yu lingered near the wall, hands brushing along jagged rock, tracing fractures and grooves, comparing them in his mind to the ancient records he had studied. Something was not as it should be. The stone here bore traces of deliberate intent, unevenly worn as though the hand that carved it desired it to be read only by one capable of understanding.
He said nothing. He stepped lightly, observing. Unlike Li Wei, who scanned with devices, or Zhao Min, who muttered numbers to herself, Chen Yu listened to the stone. He let it speak through texture, angle, and shadow.
And then the earth gave a warning.
A partial collapse—a small tremor—enough to reveal the stone altar at the cavern's heart. It was unremarkable, circular and flush with the ground, yet its surface spiralled with subtle grooves, concentric and deliberate, like memories carved in stone.
Chen Yu's hands hovered over the surface. He did not reach for gain, did not rush in fear. He traced the spirals with fingers that trembled only slightly, as if sensing the pulse beneath the rock.
Around him, the others faltered. Dust rained down, wings of panic spreading through their veins. Wang Jian called for caution; Li Wei's instruments whined and sparked.
Chen Yu, however, felt nothing but curiosity and reverence.
Then the faint tug came.
Not a command. Not a threat. A quiet thread tugging at his chest, subtle yet insistent.
Not for strength, not for reward… something far older.
As the cavern echoed with dust and shifting stone, Chen Yu noticed the pattern the altar had long preserved. It had survived because it chose its observer, not because of strength or cunning.
And perhaps, he thought quietly, it had already noticed him.