The dust wasn't merely thick; it was ancient, layered like sediment at the bottom of a long-stagnant sea. Each breath Wen Xuan took felt heavy, tasting of dry decay, brittle paper, and the faint, metallic tang of long-oxidized spiritual metals. Motes, disturbed by the slow sweep of his ragged cloth, danced like spectral insects in the weak shafts of sunlight that managed to pierce the grime-caked windows high above. This was the Repository of Forgotten Things, the neglected heart of the Falling Star Sect's already fading glory, and Wen Xuan’s assigned domain.

  He ran the cloth over the cracked glaze of a pottery shard large enough to cradle in both hands. Faded blue lines depicted a crane mid-flight, its elegance almost entirely lost to time and neglect. According to the splintered wooden tag lying beside it – a tag Wen Xuan himself had painstakingly transcribed from an even older, crumbling label – this was supposedly a relic from the ‘Azure Dawn Dynasty,’ a name whispered in historical texts but largely dismissed as legend. Here, it was just another piece of debris awaiting eventual classification or, more likely, further decay.

  Wen Xuan sighed, a small puff of air that barely disturbed the dust motes closest to his lips. His spiritual energy, thin and sluggish as winter sap, offered little aid in the cleaning. He had to rely almost entirely on mundane effort, his movements slow and deliberate not just from care, but from the constant, low-level ache of Qi stagnation. While other outer disciples practiced rudimentary sword forms on the wind-swept training grounds or desperately tried to absorb ambient spiritual energy in designated courtyards, Wen Xuan spent his days cataloging the detritus of history.

  It wasn't a prestigious post. In the Falling Star Sect, where strength determined status, working in the Repository was barely a step above scrubbing latrines. It was a place for those with meagre talent, poor connections, or those who had somehow fallen out of favour. Wen Xuan, unfortunately, ticked the first two boxes quite definitively. His innate spiritual roots were assessed as ‘Inferior Grade 9’ – the absolute bottom rung, barely sufficient to even sense Qi, let alone cultivate it effectively. His progress since joining the sect three years ago had been glacial. He’d only just managed to solidify the first stage of the ‘Falling Star Foundation Method,’ a level most disciples achieved within their first six months.

  His current task involved sorting through a crate of recently unearthed items from a collapsed section of the sect’s oldest retaining wall. Most of it was junk: rusted tool heads, unidentifiable chunks of hardened material, more pottery shards. Yet, his instructions were clear: clean, identify if possible, label, and shelve. Repeat. Endlessly.

  He picked up a twisted piece of metal, coated in a thick layer of verdigris and packed earth. He carefully brushed away the grime, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours. Unlike the simple tools, this had a complex, almost organic shape. As he focused, trying to coax the faintest wisp of his Qi to probe its surface – a technique meant to identify residual spiritual energy, though it rarely worked for him – he felt the familiar burning resistance in his meridians. His energy sputtered, weak and ineffective, like trying to light damp kindling. He grimaced, the effort causing a dull throb behind his eyes. Giving up on the Qi-probe, he resorted to careful physical examination. Beneath the grime, he noticed incredibly fine lines etched into the surface, forming patterns that seemed neither decorative nor functional, shifting in a way that defied easy comprehension. He set it aside on the ‘Unidentified – Potentially Interesting’ pile, which was growing considerably faster than the ‘Identified’ one.

  His quiet, methodical nature, often mistaken for slowness or lack of ambition, made him suited for this work, or at least tolerant of it. He didn't mind the silence, the solitude. In fact, he often preferred it. The boisterous energy of the training grounds, the casual arrogance of more talented disciples, the constant pressure to improve – it all felt alien and exhausting. Here, amidst the ghosts of the past, the pressure was different. It was the weight of forgotten stories, the quiet insistence of objects that had once held meaning or power.

  He paused, his gaze drifting around the cavernous hall. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched into the gloom, laden with scrolls, boxes, artifacts wrapped in faded silk, and countless unidentifiable objects. Dust lay thick as snow on the upper reaches, undisturbed for decades, perhaps centuries. Cobwebs draped like funerary shrouds between statues whose faces were worn smooth by time. The air hung still and heavy, carrying the scent of old wood, decaying parchment, and something else… a faint, almost imperceptible resonance, like the echo of a struck bell long after the sound had faded. Most would dismiss it as drafts or the settling of the ancient building, but Wen Xuan, perhaps because of his quietness, perhaps because of the sheer amount of time he spent here, sometimes felt… more.

  He noticed things. The way the dust settled thicker around certain inert-looking stones. The faint, almost invisible wear patterns on the stone floor near a sealed alcove, suggesting frequent passage long ago. The subtle difference in temperature near a shelf holding cracked jade slips, as if they still retained a whisper of ancient warmth or cold. He lacked the spiritual prowess to investigate these anomalies, but his eyes, accustomed to the dim light and the slow pace, registered them. He cataloged these observations mentally, unspoken and unrecorded, simply because they were.

  The state of the Repository was a mirror to the state of the Falling Star Sect itself. Once, according to the older texts Wen Xuan sometimes deciphered in his spare moments, the sect had been a significant power, renowned for its unique star-gazing cultivation methods and its collection of celestial artifacts. But that was centuries ago. Now, it was a minor sect clinging precariously to existence in a remote mountain range. Resources were scarce, talented recruits were rarer, and the guidance from the few remaining elders felt increasingly perfunctory. The vibrant colours described in older records were now faded paint peeling from worn beams. The bustling courtyards were often quiet, the disciples listless. The Repository, once perhaps a treasure house, was now little more than a lumber room for history’s cast-offs.

  A sudden noise broke the silence – the heavy creak of the Repository’s main door followed by echoing footsteps. Wen Xuan instinctively hunched slightly, trying to make himself smaller, a habit born of countless minor humiliations.

  "Wen Xuan! Still playing with dirt?" The voice was sharp, laced with the casual disdain common amongst those slightly higher up the sect’s ladder.

  He looked up to see Hao Jie, another outer disciple, but one whose cultivation was firmly in the third stage of the Foundation Method. Hao Jie was broad-shouldered, carried himself with an air of impatience, and often took fetch-and-carry tasks for inner disciples, granting him a sliver of borrowed importance. He stood silhouetted against the brighter light from the doorway, hands on his hips, looking around the dusty hall with open distaste.

  "Senior Brother Hao," Wen Xuan greeted quietly, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse. "I am sorting the items from the West Wall collapse, as instructed by Steward Liu."

  Hao Jie scoffed, stepping further in, his boots stirring up fresh clouds of dust. "Steward Liu? Still giving you the make-work tasks, eh? Waste of sect resources, keeping this place staffed. Should just board it up." He kicked idly at a loose floor tile. "Anyway, Elder Fei needs a ‘Sunken Moon’ inkstone fetched for his calligraphy practice. Supposedly one of the decent ones is stored somewhere in this pile of junk. Find it. And quickly. Don't keep the Elder waiting because you’re too busy daydreaming about pottery."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Wen Xuan felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. Fetching specific items was the worst part of his job. The Repository’s cataloging system was archaic and incomplete. Decades, if not centuries, of neglect meant items were often misplaced, mislabeled, or simply lost within the vast, cluttered shelves. Finding a specific ‘Sunken Moon’ inkstone could take hours, even days.

  "I… I will do my best, Senior Brother Hao," Wen Xuan murmured, avoiding direct eye contact. "The inkstone section is… extensive. And not well organized."

  "That sounds like a 'you' problem," Hao Jie snapped. "Just find it. Section Seven, shelves Delta through Kappa, according to the old registry Steward Liu dug up. Try not to get lost in the dust." He gave Wen Xuan a final, dismissive look, then turned and strode out, leaving the heavy door to swing shut with a groan that echoed through the hall.

  Wen Xuan remained still for a moment after Hao Jie left, the faint vibrations of the closing door fading into the profound silence. Section Seven. That was deep in the Repository’s less-visited western wing, an area where the roof leaked and some shelves were visibly warped by damp. He sighed again, the sound swallowed by the immense space.

  Pushing the crate of pottery shards aside, he rose stiffly, his joints protesting slightly. He took one of the flickering, oil-fed lamps from a wall sconce – the spiritual light formations in this part of the sect had failed long ago and were deemed too costly to repair. The lamp cast long, dancing shadows, making the rows of shelves seem like the teeth of some colossal, slumbering beast.

  He walked deeper into the Repository, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of dust. The air grew cooler, damper. The scent of decay intensified, mingling with the musty odour of aging wood and the faint, sharp smell of mildew. Here, the artifacts were even older, stranger. He passed shelves laden with brittle, yellowed scrolls bound with frayed cords, their characters often unreadable. He saw tarnished bronze mirrors that reflected nothing but distorted gloom, strangely shaped ceremonial bells coated in dark patina, and desiccated herbs in cracked clay jars that had long lost their potency but still retained a ghostly, spicy scent.

  He navigated by the faded, peeling labels on the ends of the aisles, occasionally having to hold his lamp close to decipher the archaic script. Section Seven was, as he’d feared, in poor condition. Water stains marked the ceiling and ran down the stone walls. Several shelves leaned precariously, their contents jumbled.

  Delta through Kappa. He started at the beginning, holding the lamp high. Inkstones of all shapes and sizes lay scattered, some intact, some chipped, many covered in a greasy film of grime and dust. He began the painstaking process: picking up an inkstone, wiping it carefully, trying to identify the characteristic dark, dense stone with faint, silvery inclusions that marked it as ‘Sunken Moon’ type, checking for any maker’s marks or identifying inscriptions mentioned in the scant records.

  His fingers, though calloused from manual labour, were surprisingly deft. He handled the objects with an innate carefulness, a respect born not of their value – most were worthless now – but of their sheer age, their survival. As he worked, his mind settled into the familiar rhythm of the task. The frustration and anxiety caused by Hao Jie’s demands faded slightly, replaced by the quiet focus of his search.

  He examined a square inkstone, its surface smooth and cool. As he wiped away the dust, he noticed faint scratch marks near one edge. Not damage, he realised, but deliberate markings. Almost invisible, they formed a tiny, intricate symbol he didn't recognize, partially obscured by a chip in the stone. It wasn't a maker’s mark he knew. He paused, turning it over in his hand, his thumb tracing the symbol. A flicker of… something… brushed against his mind. Not a thought, not an image, just a fleeting sensation, like static electricity or the briefest whisper of a forgotten emotion. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving no trace.

  He frowned. Such sensations were rare, and usually attributable to fatigue or the strange acoustics of the hall. He'd learned not to dwell on them. He checked the stone again – it wasn’t Sunken Moon. He carefully placed it back on the shelf and moved to the next.

  Hours passed. The light outside the high windows shifted, the sunbeams creeping across the dusty floor before fading entirely. Wen Xuan’s lamp was his only companion, its small flame casting a pool of wavering light in the immense darkness. His back ached, his eyes stung from the dust and poor light, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He had found dozens of inkstones, some quite fine, but none matched the description or sparse identifying marks of the specific Sunken Moon inkstone Elder Fei apparently desired.

  He was working his way along shelf Theta when his hand brushed against a small, unassuming wooden box tucked behind a stack of larger, cracked slate inkstones. It wasn't labelled. Curiosity piqued, he carefully slid it out. The box was made of dark, heavy wood, its surface smooth and cool to the touch, strangely resistant to the pervasive dust. There were no carvings, no markings, just plain, dark wood. It felt… dense. He lifted the lid.

  Inside, nestled on a bed of faded, disintegrating silk, lay a single object: a broken piece of what might have once been a training dummy's core. It wasn't wood or metal, but some kind of dark, glassy material, fractured cleanly down the middle. It looked utterly mundane, probably discarded refuse from the training grounds centuries ago, somehow ending up here. Why keep it in such a well-made box?

  He reached in, his fingers closing around the cool, smooth surface of the broken core fragment.

  And the universe tilted.

  It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a vision in the way the sect texts described epiphanies. It was… immersion. Suddenly, he wasn't Wen Xuan in the dusty Repository. He felt the jarring impact – bone-shaking, Qi-scattering force slamming into unyielding resilience. He heard the sharp crack, not just of the glassy core, but of something within. He sensed a brief, flickering flare of fierce determination mingled with surprise and a dull, grinding monotony – the echo of countless blows endured before this final, breaking one. It wasn't his memory, yet the sensations were utterly, terrifyingly real, flooding his senses, overwhelming his consciousness.

  Then, as quickly as it began, it snapped away.

  Wen Xuan gasped, stumbling back, dropping the fragment. It clattered softly on the dusty floorboards. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. His breath came in ragged gasps, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead, instantly grimy with dust. The Repository swam back into focus, the familiar shelves, the flickering lamplight, the oppressive silence rushing back in, seeming louder now after the sensory deluge.

  What… what was that?

  He stared at the broken fragment lying innocuously on the floor. It looked exactly as it had moments before – dull, dark, lifeless. Yet, the echoes of the impact, the ghost of that stubborn resilience, still vibrated within him, a phantom limb of sensation. It was more vivid, more real than any Qi sensation he had ever managed to consciously perceive.

  Trembling slightly, he bent down, hesitated, then carefully picked up the fragment again. He held it tightly, bracing himself. Nothing happened. The connection, the flood, was gone. Only the memory of it remained, sharp and bewildering.

  He slowly placed the fragment back in its box and closed the lid, his mind racing. Illness? Hallucination? A strange residual energy unique to this object? He had touched thousands of artifacts, felt occasional faint traces of Qi or fleeting, indistinct impressions he’d always dismissed. But this… this was different. This was experiencing.

  He looked around the Repository, truly looked, for the first time not just seeing dust and decay, but sensing the immense, silent weight of countless moments, countless lives, trapped within these forgotten things. A thrill, cold and sharp, ran down his spine, mixing fear with a dawning, terrifying, and utterly consuming curiosity. Perhaps this dusty, neglected corner of the sect held more secrets than anyone knew. And perhaps, just perhaps, he was the only one positioned to hear their whispers.

  He still hadn't found the Sunken Moon inkstone. Elder Fei would be waiting. But as Wen Xuan reluctantly turned back to his search, the mundane task now felt different, charged with a strange and unsettling potential. The dust, it seemed, might not be entirely dead.