Shao Han walked the rain-slick streets of the old town, his coat clinging to him like second skin. Mist curled through the alleys, slipping around corners like something alive. The scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air, blending with the sharp tang of smoke and the rust of forgotten stone. Somewhere, a bell tolled—a sound half-remembered, deep and distant, as if from another lifetime.

  He didn’t know why his feet carried him here, to this particular corner of the city. But there was an aching pull inside him, like an echo of something he had once known, a place that had been forgotten but felt oddly familiar. It was as though the town had turned in on itself, and this spot—old, weathered—had always been here, waiting. The ache in his chest pressed harder with every step, a silent tug that drew him closer.

  He turned a corner and stopped.

  There it was: a narrow storefront wedged between two taller buildings, its door slightly ajar, as if it had been expecting him. The sign above the door hung crooked, faded by time and neglect:

  Curios and Antiques.

  A memory stirred, but it slipped away before he could grasp it.

  The windows were clouded with dust, and beyond the grime, shelves crowded with strange artifacts—broken clocks, curled feathers, and tarnished silver—were slouched in shadow. Shao Han didn’t hesitate. His hand reached for the door, which creaked open with a sound that seemed to reverberate too loudly in the stillness.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic—like rust, or blood. The dim candlelight flickered across the shelves, casting strange shadows that seemed to dance without purpose.

  He stepped inside, his fingers brushing across objects as he wandered through the narrow aisles. Each one whispered, faintly, as if calling him. A bone in a glass jar. An old map that didn’t match any known world. There was a glimmer of recognition in each item, but no clear memory to go with it.

  And then—he saw it.

  An antique mirror, taller than any man, stood against the back wall, its frame intricately carved with serpents and stars. It was almost too clean, as though it had just been polished—its glass surface gleaming with an unnatural brightness. For a moment, Shao Han thought he saw something move within it. Not his reflection, but something else. Something... waiting.

  He reached out, compelled, before he could stop himself. His fingers grazed the cool surface.

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  A deafening crack split the air.

  Like the sky itself had broken apart.

  Shao Han jerked back, heart racing. He bolted from the shop, slamming the door behind him, but his feet carried him forward, down the narrow street. As he stepped into the open air, he looked up.

  And then the sky split open.

  A seam of silver light tore across the heavens—sharp, jagged, and unnaturally slow. It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t anything he’d ever seen.

  It was like the universe itself had gasped.

  Shao Han froze. The world around him began to slow, every detail muffled, as if he were seeing it through a haze. The silver light arced across the sky, stretching wider and wider, and deep in his bones—something stirred. Something old. Something forgotten.

  The ground beneath him pulsed—once, twice. Like a heartbeat. A call.

  And then—

  Nothing.

  ---

  There was no falling.

  Just a sudden absence of space, of time, of sound.

  When Shao Han opened his eyes again, the world had shifted.

  Mist clung to his skin like breath. The air was sharp, laced with herbs and damp stone. He stood in the middle of a vast, shadowed landscape. The towering shapes around him seemed to pulse with ancient power—structures that rose far beyond what he could understand, etched with symbols and sigils that felt like half-formed memories. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he had been here before. These shapes—these stones—seemed to hum in his bones, as if he had walked this path in another life.

  But there was no time to think about it. The silence pressed in on him.

  Not peaceful. Not quiet.

  Watching.

  He took a tentative step forward, his pulse quickening as the fog swirled around him. His chest tightened, as though the air itself was too thick to breathe.

  And then, a shape appeared.

  It was hooded. Tall. Wrong.

  The figure’s presence bent the mist around it, twisting the very air. No footsteps. No breath. Only a heavy stillness that clung to the space between them.

  It stopped a few paces away. Shao Han could feel its gaze, even though he couldn’t see its face. His heart thudded louder in his ears.

  The figure’s voice cut through the thick silence, sharp as broken glass.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” it rasped. “But he pulled you through.”

  A pause. The fog thickened.

  “And now… the debt must be paid.”

  Far off, something began to howl.

  ---