As Wang Lee descends further, he's hit with the sharp scent of damp earth and stone. Chill air seeps through every crack, carrying an edge of ice that leaves gooseflesh on his skin. When the stairs finally give way to a stone floor, the room beyond is revealed: small and square, lit by the soft silver of moon-glow.

  Runes carved into the walls flicker to life as the light falls upon their patterns: ancient sigils with no discernable meaning. In the center is a massive, circular array carved into the floor—its lines eerily familiar.

  Wang Lee unfurls the scroll with deliberate slowness, his eyes scanning the inked words—each one a dagger twisting deeper. His jaw clenches as he reads:

  "Some years ago... Prince Jiyin's prophecy was read: he will die between twenty and thirty. Yesterday night he collapsed."

  A pause—then, like poison on parchment: "If this is fate's doing... then our mission nears completion."

  Without hesitation, Wang Lee dips the entire scroll into a nearby bowl of water. The paper dissolves in seconds... but where it sinks to rest at the bottom are not just wet fragments. Red beans float to surface among them—the same shade as dried blood.

  Wang Lee lifts the beans from the water and places them on a cloth to dry, taking care that each one is accounted for. His hands work quickly, nimble fingers tying the cloth into a parcel. The beans are arranged methodically in each corner, almost obsessively, before he tightens the cloth like a vice and stands.

  With a final tug of the cloth, Wang Lee places the beans directly between the runes of the array—the very center, where raw energy hums the loudest. He stands in the midst of the intricate sigils and begins to chant, his words falling like drops of water into a pool. Power responds to his call, the array flaring to brilliance with his voice:

  "Shenwei Xiéxiè Jie." (Seal of Divine Blood)

  As the last words of the chant fade, the air around the array shivers—then stills. Wang Lee steps back, eyes narrowing as he looks at the empty space where the red beans were a moment ago. All that remains is a damp corner of cloth and a faint scent of ozone.

  He reaches out, fingers grazing the array's edge. Power still hums beneath his touch, but the weight of that moment hangs in the air like the toll of some far-off bell... or the whisper of a countdown.

  Wang Lee carefully pockets the cloth parcel with the beans, tucking it away like a priceless relic. He takes a deep, steadying breath, the enormity of what he's just done hanging heavy in his chest. Then, with a last glance around the small room—still lit by his soft lantern-light—he walks to the exit and begins the climb back to the surface.

  The climb feels longer this time—the darkness pressing on all sides like a living thing. The lantern in Wang Lee's hand throws long shadows before him, dancing over the ancient runes carved into the stone walls like warnings. The faintest sounds echo through the tunnel, whispers of old magics, ancient secrets... or something else, hiding just beyond reach. With every step, the exit grows closer, the forest above a silent promise of freedom... but something tells him it's not over yet.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  (The next morning)

  The palace wakes to a hushed, suffocating dread. Prince Jiyin remains motionless—two days now without food, water, or so much as a flicker of his lashes. The healers move in and out of the Imperial Study with increasing urgency; their faces pale as they exchange grim glances.

  Servants whisper behind hands while guards stand stiffly at every corridor—all on edge for the first time in years.

  "The prince won't wake..." A kitchen boy murmurs to another, "They say he's fading."

  A flurry of activity spreads through the palace like a wave: maids rushing in their finest uniforms, hands shaking with nerves or fear; guards taking up positions along the hall, hands gripping swords so tightly their knuckles grow white; and Master Liu hurries through the chaos, his usually calm face tight with worry.

  The atmosphere is electric—thick with tension, and everyone moves as if expecting something to happen at any moment.

  The village buzzes with anticipation, its inhabitants packed so tightly that not even a shadow dances on the cobblestones. Children cling to their parents, their breaths bated with a mix of fear and fascination. Old men lean heavy on wooden canes, their eyes wide as if expecting some divine being to appear before them.

  Every face is expectant, every heart racing as the moment of something monumental arrives...

  Wang Lee makes his way through the crowd, each step measured. He is the only one not visibly trembling—his composure the still eye of a storm. But even he isn't immune to the anticipation crackling in the air like static all around. He can hear a hundred heartbeats, and none of them slower than his own. Every muscle is tensed, each breath drawn deep and held as they wait for the inevitable...

  A hush falls over the crowd like a blanket as a royal litter draws nearer. It's unlike any other: massive, opulent, and flanked by a dozen of the kingdom's strongest guards. The golden banners bearing the symbol of the Imperial Palace sway in the breeze, a constant reminder of who rides within.

  Even the birds hush their songs as the litter comes to a stop, and the curtains within part to reveal a figure, still as an ice sculpture. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife...

  The crowd bows, heads dropping so low they almost brush the cobblestones. Every single spine dips in profound respect, eyes cast downward as if they can sense the presence of someone greater than themselves. Even the guards, usually stern and stoic, can't help but drop to a knee. The atmosphere suddenly thick with anticipation, heavy as a cloak in the stillness that follows.

  But no one dares look up, no one dares speak or breathe too loud. It's as if they're all waiting for some divine command, some sign to raise their heads...

  The moment the Emperor and Empress descend from the litter, a ripple of pure awe runs through the crowd. The guards step aside with military precision, but their stances remain rigid—eyes sharp as blades scanning for any threat to their rulers.

  Emperor Xiuyin Haochen is tall and broad-shouldered; his robes are woven from gold thread so fine it seems spun by dragons themselves. Every step he takes radiates authority, his gaze sweeping over his subjects like a king assessing sheep in a pen. At his side walks Empress Xiuhua Haoxiao—smaller in stature but no less formidable.

  Her gown is black silk threaded with jade-green vines that coil up to her throat where an emerald rests like a trapped star. Her dark eyes flicker over Wang Lee for just half-a-second too long before she turns away again... leaving behind an unspoken question: Why do you look at us this way?

  Emperor Xiuyin leads the way with regal authority, the Empress gliding beside him like a cobra at his heel. They pass through gleaming corridors guarded by armed officials, the weight of their footsteps like thunder. The silence is profound; every guard snaps to attention, every servant ducks their head. The air throbs with respect—even the very stones themselves seeming to hold their breath as the imperial couple moves forward.

  Eventually, they stop in front of the Imperial Study—Prince Jiyin's quarters—two hulking soldiers on either side of the heavy oak door.

  The guards bow deeply as the Emperor and Empress approach, their foreheads nearly touching the floor. The massive oak door creaks open before they even reach it—as if recognizing its masters.

  Inside, Prince Jiyin lies motionless on his silk-draped bed. His face is pale as moonstone, lashes casting faint shadows over cheeks that haven't known warmth in days. The healers stand frozen along the walls—one clutching a jar of herbs so tightly his knuckles whiten.

  Emperor Xiuyi

  n's jaw clenches at the sight; Empress Xiuhua's breath hitches just once—before her expression smooths "son...."

  .....