Shao Han was worried. No—he was terrified. His heart pounded so hard, he was certain it would crack open his ribcage. Cold sweat gathered at the nape of his neck, dripping down beneath his collar. The mist thickened around him like breath from a sleeping beast, and every part of him screamed to turn back. But there was nowhere to go. He didn’t know anyone here, didn’t know where here even was. All he had was the hooded figure walking steadily ahead of him—its steps soundless, its presence wrong, like it didn’t quite belong in this world. Still, "You Shall come with me Now."

  The figure said, without looking back at Shao. Shao Swallowed Hard and followed. What choice did he have? He looked around one last time, taking in the endless forest swallowed in mist, then at the figure. His voice trembled, but he held his ground. “I’ll come. But only on one condition.” The figure stopped. Slowly, its hood turned, though its face remained hidden in darkness.

  Shao instinctively took a step back. “What condition?” Shao swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I want you to promise me you’ll tell the truth. About everything. No lies. No half-truths. If I ask you something, you answer. No matter the cost.” Silence. Even the wind held its breath. Then, that low rasp again: “Very well. I promise. But be warned, Shao… the truth can be devastating.” Shao’s chest tightened, but he squared his shoulders. “I’ll take that risk.” The figure nodded once. “Then let us proceed.”

  They walked. The mist grew thicker, rising to their knees. Shao’s boots squelched on wet earth. The forest was silent—too silent. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of his breathing and the occasional crunch of a broken twig beneath his feet. He kept glancing sideways at the figure. Its robes never touched the ground, and yet it left no trail. Shao’s every instinct screamed: Trap. He wanted to ask questions, demand answers, but the figure seemed to soak up all courage just by existing. Still, he tried. “Where are we going?” “To the place of the dead,” the figure answered calmly.

  “The line between hell and heaven. The place of the unknown.” Shao frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The figure said nothing. The silence was answer enough. They walked until the trees gave way to stone. Ahead, a gate towered—massive and ancient, its surface covered in carvings that twisted the longer you looked. Skulls. Bones. Eyes. Stars. Symbols no human tongue could name.

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  The air around it pulsed with a cold energy that vibrated in Shao’s chest like the beat of a second heart. The gate creaked open on its own. “Welcome to the Threshold of Eternity,” the hooded figure said. “Beyond this gate lies the realm of the dead. Are you prepared to face what awaits you?” Shao stared. A thousand instincts screamed to run. “Don’t go in,” something whispered in his chest. Maybe his own soul. But he stepped forward anyway. “There is no way out,” the figure added, quiet and deadly, as if it had heard his thoughts. Shao gritted his teeth and passed through the gate. The moment he did—he heard them.

  Screams. Distant and echoing. As though the walls of this world remembered every soul that had passed through. The air was thicker here, charged with the electricity of the dead. And the sky—if you could call it that—was a velvet void, streaked with veins of silver.

  He turned—and found someone waiting. Tall. Beautiful. Inhuman. He stood like a king among ruins, hair black as ink, falling in waves down his back. Emerald eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. His cloak shimmered with the woven sigils of stars and moons. “Ah,” the man said, Smiling. “The mortal has arrived.” Shao’s stomach twisted. “I am Lord Ling, of the Night Realm. And you, Shao, are either a guest—or a prisoner.” Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, time stilled. There was something in that gaze—recognition. Memory. Something old. Lord Ling’s lips curled. “You look... intriguing.” Shao’s breath caught in his throat.

  He hated the way that smile stirred something deep inside him—something he didn’t want to name. Lord Ling stepped closer, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “You have a spark, mortal. A pull. As though the city itself breathed you back into being.” “Stop,” Shao snapped. “Enough of this—just tell me where the hell I am. What do you want from me?” The lord’s smile widened. “Oh, a fire in you. I like that.” His tone turned suddenly cold, and so did the air. “You are in Yin Xin. You were not meant to return. But someone—something—brought you back.”

  Shao felt it then, like something unlocking behind his ribs. His past. His death. His rebirth. And Lord Ling was at the center of it all. Shao staggered back a step, as if the weight of those words had physically struck him. Not meant to return—then why was he here? Who was he before? The fragments in his mind fluttered like dying moths: blood on stone, a tower burning, the echo of a name no one dared speak. He stared at Lord Ling, and something cracked in his chest. “You—” he whispered, voice raw, “You brought me back.” It wasn’t a question.

  Lord Ling’s smile faded, his gaze sharpening like a blade unsheathed. “I did,” he said. “Because your story was not finished. And neither was mine.