The twisted line of ancient text above the stone door was still faintly glowing, as though it had only been carved moments ago. Bai Zhi's hand still rested on Chen Wuya's wrist, her fingertips tightening slightly, but her gaze never left the writing. She said softly, "These strokes... weren't carved with a blade."
Chen Wuya did not answer. He merely took the torn scroll from his robes and pressed it to his chest. A familiar tremor rose within him as the Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit system hummed into motion, as if countless fine threads were weaving through his meridians, checking and aligning them. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, his pupils contracted—those originally broken strokes at the scroll fragment's edge had faintly connected with the ancient writing on the doorframe. The paths of true qi flow mirrored and complemented each other, like two halves of a puzzle slowly coming together.
"It's completing me," he murmured.
"What?" Bai Zhi turned to look at him.
"It's not us searching for the truth of the Heavenly Machine Scroll." He raised a hand and pressed it against the edge of the stone door. "It's searching for someone who can understand it."
A guardian stepped forward two paces, his voice deep. "This is the ancestral forbidden ground. Anyone who touches the runes without authorization will be deemed a traitor."
Chen Wuya turned around and saw that the speaker was an old man in a bronze mask. He was lean, yet his stance was exceptionally steady. The knuckles of both hands were thick and large—clearly the hands of someone who had worked mechanisms for many years. Chen Wuya smiled. "Then tell me: are the patterns your people have guarded for generations meant to keep outsiders out, or are you