The second day dawned cold and grey.
Shen Chen woke before the sun, his body stiff from the night spent on hard ground. The fire had died hours ago, its ashes cold and grey. He rose slowly, his muscles protesting, and gathered his meager belongings. The stone pulsed in his pocket, its warmth a constant reminder of the path ahead.
He had been walking for nearly a full day, following the stone's guidance through the winding mountain paths. The terrain had grown increasingly treacherous, the vegetation thinning as he climbed higher. The air was thinner here, each breath a struggle against the cold.
"The guardian. She sends others to do her bidding."
The serpent's words echoed in his mind as he walked. He had been replaying them all night, turning them over in his thoughts like stones in a stream. The woman had claimed she couldn't retrieve the shard herself. But was that true? Or was she simply unwilling to risk her own life?
It didn't matter. He needed the shard. He needed the power it would give him. His enemies were still out there—his uncle, his cousins, the servants who had turned their backs on him. He would need every advantage he could find.
The path twisted and turned, descending into a narrow gorge that seemed to swallow the light. The walls rose on either side, their surfaces covered in ancient carvings. The symbols were faded, worn by centuries of wind and rain, but Shen Chen could still make out their shapes—figures of warriors, beasts, and beings that seemed to defy description.
He studied the carvings as he walked. The warriors were locked in combat with creatures that defied description—serpents with multiple heads, beasts with too many limbs, shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The scenes were violent, chaotic, a record of battles fought in an era long past.
What happened here? Who carved these symbols?
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the stone. The surface was cold, but the carvings seemed to pulse with a faint energy, a residual power that had lingered for millennia. He pulled his hand back, his instincts warning him to be cautious.
The gorge grew darker as he descended, the walls closing in around him. The only light came from the faint glow of the carvings, their ancient symbols casting eerie shadows across the stone. The air grew colder, thicker, heavy with the weight of ages.
He pressed forward, his footsteps echoing against the stone. His hand rested on Fang, its familiar weight a comfort in the oppressive darkness. The stone in his pocket pulsed steadily, its warmth a beacon in the gloom.
Something's wrong.
He froze, his senses straining. The air had changed—subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. There was a tension in it, a charge that hadn't been there moments before.
His eyes scanned the ground ahead. The path was narrow, its surface uneven. But there—a section of the floor that was slightly raised, its edges smooth and deliberate.
A pressure plate.
He tested the ground with his foot, his body tense. The plate shifted beneath his weight, and a series of blades swung from the walls, their edges gleaming with deadly sharpness. He dropped to the ground, his body pressing flat against the stone. The blades passed over him, their passage a whisper of death.
He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. The gorge was a death trap, its every surface designed to kill. He could see more pressure plates now, their triggers hidden beneath the debris. He could see narrow ledges, their surfaces crumbling, their drops plunging into darkness.
Stay sharp. One mistake and you're dead.
He moved forward, his steps careful, his senses alert. The blades had been just the beginning. He encountered swinging axes, their heads heavy and sharp, their arcs perfectly calculated to bisect anyone who passed. He dodged them, his body moving with a precision that surprised him. The shard's energy had sharpened his reflexes, but it was his own will that kept him alive.
He navigated a narrow bridge, its surface slick with moisture. Below, the darkness was absolute, the sound of something moving in the depths a constant reminder of what awaited him if he fell. He didn't look down. He kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his steps measured and deliberate.
He came to a door—massive, stone, its surface covered in ancient runes. The carvings pulsed with a faint, malevolent light, their energy thick and oppressive. He studied them, his mind working. The runes were a puzzle, a lock that required a key.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the carvings. The symbols shifted beneath his touch, rearranging themselves into new patterns. He pulled his hand back, his instincts screaming caution.
This is a trap. Any wrong move and I'm dead.
He studied the runes again, his mind searching for patterns. The symbols were ancient, their meanings lost to time. But he had spent years in the Shen Clan's library, studying texts that others had dismissed. He had learned to recognize the language of the old world.
"Blood," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "The key is blood."
He drew Fang and sliced his palm. The pain was sharp and immediate, but he ignored it. He pressed his bleeding hand against the door, and the runes flared to life. The stone groaned, the door grinding open to reveal a passage that led deeper into the mountain.
He stepped through, his blood still dripping from his palm. The door ground shut behind him, sealing him in.
The passage was narrow, its walls rough and uneven. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. He could feel the weight of the mountain above him, its pressure a constant reminder of his vulnerability.
He moved forward, his steps slow, his senses sharp. The passage twisted and turned, its path unpredictable. And then, he heard it—a sound that made his blood run cold.
The click of a mechanism. The rumble of stone moving against stone.
Traps. More traps.
The floor beneath him gave way, and he fell.
He crashed through a layer of loose stone, his body tumbling down a steep incline. His hands scrabbled for purchase, but the stone was smooth, offering no grip. He fell, his body bouncing against the rough walls, his vision blurring with pain.
He landed hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He lay there for a long moment, his body aching, his mind reeling. The darkness was absolute, the silence oppressive.
Where am I?
He forced himself to rise, his body screaming in protest. He reached for his pocket, his fingers closing around the stone. Its warmth was faint, but it was still there.
He explored the chamber, his hands tracing the rough stone walls. The space was small, its ceiling low. He could feel the weight of the mountain above him, its pressure a constant reminder of his predicament.
And then, he heard it—a sound that made his blood run cold.
The slithering of scales against stone. The hiss of something ancient and hungry.
A pair of eyes emerged from the darkness—large, yellow, and filled with a primal hunger. The creature was massive, its body covered in scales that gleamed with a faint, sickly light. Its fangs dripped with venom, its tongue flickering in the darkness.
A serpent. A massive serpent.
"You are the one who seeks the shard," the serpent hissed, its voice cold and ancient. "You are the one who trespasses on sacred ground."
Shen Chen's hand tightened on Fang. He didn't bother with explanations or pleas. They would be wasted on a creature that had already marked him as prey.
"I didn't come here to fight you," he said, his voice flat. "But I will if I have to."
The serpent laughed, a cold, hissing sound. "You will die, little cultivator. And your blood will feed the earth."
It lunged.
Shen Chen moved. His body was still aching from the fall, but adrenaline dulled the pain. He dropped to the ground, his body sliding beneath the serpent's massive frame. Fang flashed in the dim light, its blade grazing the serpent's underbelly.
The serpent hissed, a sound of pure fury. Its tail swung, catching him across the chest and sending him crashing against the wall. He gasped, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.
I can't keep dodging. I need to end this.
He steadied himself, his grip on Fang tightening. The serpent circled him, its eyes blazing with hunger. It was fast, deadly, and cunning. But he had faced worse. He had faced the mountain bear, the assassins, the cold and hunger of the wilderness. This was just another obstacle.
Weakness. It has a weakness.
He studied the serpent's movements, looking for patterns. Its attacks were predictable—a lunge, a swing, a strike. But there was a moment, a fraction of a second, when it exposed its throat.
He waited. The serpent lunged, its fangs bared. Shen Chen dropped to his knees, sliding beneath the creature's massive frame. He drove Fang upward, the blade piercing the serpent's throat.
The serpent screamed, a sound of pure agony. Its body convulsed, its tail thrashing wildly. Shen Chen held on, his muscles screaming, his blood flowing freely.
The creature collapsed, its body crashing to the ground. Shen Chen rose slowly, his body trembling with exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming with pain.
He stood over the serpent's corpse, his hands slick with blood. He felt nothing—no satisfaction, no relief. Just the cold calculation of a survivor.
It's dead. I'm not. That's all that matters.
He knelt beside the serpent's body and extracted its core. Its surface was warm, its energy dense. He pocketed it without ceremony.
The chamber was silent. He was alone again.
The serpent's corpse lay behind him as he pressed forward.
The passage opened into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls were covered in ancient runes, their surfaces pulsing with a faint, malevolent light. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay.
This is the heart of the mountain. The shard is somewhere in here.
He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The runes on the walls pulsed in response, their light growing brighter. The passages twisted and turned, their paths confusing and disorienting.
This is a maze. Designed to confuse and kill.
He moved through the passages, his senses on high alert. The walls were lined with spikes, their tips gleaming with a faint, poisonous sheen. He navigated carefully, his body pressing against the walls to avoid their deadly edges.
The floor was uneven, littered with bones. Human bones. The remains of those who had come before him. They lay scattered across the stone, their forms long since picked clean.
They didn't make it. I will.
He pressed forward, his determination hardening. The maze was designed to break him, to wear him down, to make him give up. But giving up was not an option. He had come too far to turn back now.
He came to a pit—wide, dark, its depths unknown. A narrow ledge ran along its edge, barely wide enough for a single person. He could hear something moving below—something that had been waiting for centuries.
I can't fall. I can't stop.
He stepped onto the ledge, his body pressing against the wall. His heart pounded, his palms slick with sweat. But he didn't look down. He kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
The ledge gave way beneath his feet.
He fell, his hands scrabbling for purchase. He caught a crumbling edge, his fingers digging into the stone. His body swung, his grip slipping.
Hold on.
He held on. His fingers burned, his muscles screamed. But he held on.
He pulled himself up, his body trembling with exertion. He lay on the ledge, his chest heaving, his mind reeling.
That was close.
He rose slowly, his body aching. The pit was behind him. He had survived.
The maze continued. He encountered more traps, more obstacles, more near-death encounters. Each one tested his will, his strength, his determination. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
And then, he saw it. A faint glow at the end of the passage. A light that pulsed with a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat.
The shard. I'm almost there.