Chen Wuya stepped into the black hole, sending loose stones rolling beneath his feet, their echoes rippling through the darkness. He did not look back. He merely held his short dagger crosswise in one hand, blade forward, and slowly descended the sloping passage. The air was damp, thick with the mingled stench of rotten earth and rust; every breath felt like drawing in fine sand. His left hand pressed against the stone wall, the bloody marks on his palm not yet dry. The instant he touched the wall, the blood was slowly absorbed into it.
Several faint patterns surfaced from the cracks in the wall, like traces scorched by fire and then cooled. He narrowed his eyes—these markings were nearly identical to the crooked symbols along the edge of the Canglang Art fragment.
He immediately made a hand signal, lightly tapping the back of his blade three times with his knuckles. Two soft knocks came from the direction of the distant platform—Bai Zhi's reply. He knew she had led people in after him, but he had not allowed the others to come close. Something was wrong with this place. Every step he took brought a faint throbbing sensation from the ground, as if this entire passage had not been carved from stone, but was the shell of some sleeping thing.
Before long, firelight pressed closer from behind. Bai Zhi led two veteran soldiers along the wall, and in the torchlight, the shadows of the three twisted across the stone walls on either side. She walked in front, her flexible sword still sheathed, but her gaze swept over every inch of ground and every crack. Her steps were light; when her boot reached the edge of a loose stone slab, she did not put her weight down.
"Don't go any farther,"