Some origins are buried a thousand years deep.

  When ancient paintings in the Northern Song Imperial Secret Archives began devouring their own shadows, a mirror-like evaporation—in the literal sense—was taking place one hundred and twenty meters beneath a modern laboratory in Donghai City.

  2026, Donghai City, “Anchorpoint” Project, Sublevel Three.

  Lu Baoyi stared at the convulsing data on the holographic screen, chewing the so-called “intelligence fuel” energy bar with a loud crunch—what he needed now wasn’t fuel, but a rivet that could stabilize spacetime.

  It tasted more like “work-injury rations...”

  The screen was split into three sections: on the left, quantum waveforms were dancing wildly; the center showed a silent lab surveillance feed; the most critical was on the right—the physiological parameters of test subject Zhang Zhiyuan were performing a collective cliff dive, with heart rate, blood pressure, and brainwave lines competing to see which would hit bottom first.

  “Engineer Lu, Subject Three’s brainwaves are spiking red! Protocol requires forced termination!” Lin Wan’s finger hovered over the red emergency button, trembling slightly.

  “Protocols are dead.” Lu Baoyi didn’t turn around, tossing a crumpled paper ball into the trash can. “People are alive—though right now, they look about to die.”

  “But his brain—”

  “Is overclocking. I know.” Lu Baoyi glanced at her, his lips quirking. “But look at this waveform—doesn’t it seem like an old radio, after three years of static, has finally caught a whisper of truth in the noise?”

  He fixed his eyes on the central screen. “All for that one sentence of truth hidden in the interference.”

  Before the words faded, the screen changed abruptly.

  The air in Lab Three began to distort. In a heatwave-like, poorly rendered illusion, an ancient structure emerged: towering bookshelves, piles of bamboo scrolls, and a floor of gold bricks reflecting an eerie glow.

  “The Secret Archives... the Northern Song Imperial Library.” Lu Baoyi leaned forward, his pupils reflecting the madly scrolling data streams. “The connection quality is abysmal—it’s stuttering like a slideshow.”

  The next second, in the corner of the image, the unfurled ancient painting began to “melt.”

  Not burning, not corroding.

  Its shadow had come alive. Like black tar flowing backward, it crawled up the scroll, erasing whatever it touched.

  Utterly and completely, as if it had never existed.

  “Material annihilation!?” Lin Wan gasped sharply.

  Almost simultaneously, on the monitor, Zhang Zhiyuan’s eyes snapped open—rolled back, showing only the whites. A gurgling sound came from his throat, like a jammed old printer. Physiological alarms erupted, his heart rate racing toward three hundred.

  The number made Lu Baoyi’s own heart ache in sympathy.

  “Forced termination!” he roared, voice like ice. “Now!”

  The red button was slammed.

  Sedatives injected. Zhang Zhiyuan’s body convulsed violently, large black patches shifting beneath his skin. Even stranger, these patches could “infect”—the edges of the surveillance feed began to be corroded by encroaching darkness.

  “This isn’t an energy attack...” Lu Baoyi’s words spilled out like a rapid-fire menu recital. “The rules themselves have been rewritten. Like someone bypassed the password and directly altered the underlying code.”

  He lunged toward the main console, fingers a blur.

  “Physically sever all external links! Activate maximum-frequency electromagnetic shielding! Spray systems, door locks, lighting controls—all permissions to me—” His eyes reflected the screen’s cold light. “I’m going to give this ‘shadow’ an X-ray.”

  Commands executed.

  Lab lights flickered at frequencies invisible to the naked eye, a silent electronic storm sweeping every corner.

  Under specific spectral analysis, the black patches finally revealed their contours—

  A geometric symbol of pure “black,” constantly rotating, embedded within Zhang Zhiyuan’s life field like a virus rooted in the system kernel.

  “Caught your ‘signature code’...” Lu Baoyi murmured.

  All screens went black.

  Binary code cascaded like a waterfall, finally converging into a simple yet profoundly unsettling symbol:

  ○丨

  Everything returned to normal.

  The shadows vanished. Zhang Zhiyuan’s physiological parameters flatlined.

  【Unknown informational entity attack detected. Signature code recorded. Database match: Legacy threat from Project ‘Chiyou’—designation ‘Gate’.】

  Lu Baoyi slowly sank back into his chair, his back cold.

  That symbol perfectly matched the markings etched on his father’s lab wall.

  “Lin Wan.”

  “Engineer Lu...”

  “Handle the remains at the highest biohazard level. Encrypt all today’s data to ‘Suiren’ grade.” He stood, grabbing his coat. “Also, I need the complete original archives of Project ‘Chiyou’—now.”

  “But that requires authorization from three ministers...”

  “Then initiate emergency protocols. Use my clearance code. For the reason, write...” He paused, offering a humorless smile. “‘Vulnerability recurrence. Urgently require initial bug reports.’ The old guard will understand.”

  Northern Song, 4th Year of Tiansheng, Bianjing, Late Night.

  Astrological Bureau Deputy Director Qian Yiyan set down her purple hare-hair brush just as the copper water clock dripped its final bead.

  Only a single celadon oil lamp lit the duty room, its dim halo illuminating the annotated draft of the Jingyou Qianxiang New Treatise. Outside, cold rain tapped the steps.

  She rubbed her temples, her gaze sweeping over the sword resting on the purple sandalwood stand by the desk.

  Shou Que (Guard the Incomplete).

  The scabbard was jet black, unadorned.

  “Your Honor.” A low, urgent knock. Archivist Shen Kuo pushed the door open, shoulders damp with rain, face pale, hands trembling slightly as he held a silk scroll. “The Secret Archives... something has happened.”

  “Speak.”

  “At dusk, Academician Li was making his rounds. At the start of the night watch, a young eunuch heard strange noises. When he pushed the door open, he saw...” Shen Kuo took a sharp breath. “He saw the authentic Chart of Primordial Unity... being devoured by its own shadow.”

  The oil lamp’s flame jumped.

  Qian Yiyan rose, the sword already in her hand.

  “Academician Li?”

  “Under treatment in the side hall. Delirious, only repeating ‘the shadows are alive,’ ‘the ink is escaping.’” Shen Kuo handed over the silk scroll. “The access log is here.”

  Seven names on the log. Qian Yiyan’s eyes stopped at the last added entry:

  Night watch, Chief Eunuch Wang Shouzhong of the Empress Dowager’s palace dispatched someone to retrieve the Spring and Autumn Annals Apocrypha.

  The Empress Dowager.

  Empress Dowager Liu.

  “Prepare horses.” She tucked the scroll into her sleeve. “Mobilize a squad from the Armaments Division. You stay here. Retrieve my father’s ‘Sky-Measuring Rule’ and await orders.”

  “Should we first inform the Director...”

  “The Director has been bedridden for half a month.” Qian Yiyan cut him off, her voice flat and steady. “If evil has arrived, whether reported or not, it will come.”

  Shen Kuo bowed and retreated.

  She fastened her cloak, fingers brushing the sword hilt. The jade felt warm, steeped in body heat.

  Her father’s words from the day he gave her the sword echoed in her ears: “This sword is not for you to kill enemies. It is for you to guard what must be guarded, when there is no one else to rely upon.”

  What must be guarded.

  She pushed open the door into the rainy night. Eight guards waited under the corridor, led by Lei Huan, a veteran of the border armies, the scar on his face glowing dark red in the lamplight.

  “Lei Huan.”

  “Your subordinate is here.”

  “Take four men and seal all entrances and exits of the Secret Archives. No one in or out. The rest follow me inside.” She mounted her horse, rain streaming from the edge of her bamboo hat. “If you encounter anything unnatural... lethal force is authorized.”

  “Understood!”

  Hooves splashed through puddles on the stone pavement as the group vanished into the depths of the rainy night.

  The Secret Archives.

  The vermilion lacquer doors swung open, and the sight made Qian Yiyan’s grip on her sword tighten.

  Three floors of book towers, eternal lamps flickering, the air thick with the scent of ink and aging paper.

  Everything seemed normal—

  Except for the purple sandalwood painting table in the southeast corner.

  On the table, the center of the silk painting was now a vast emptiness, its edges a color of utter “void.” Radiating from this center, the table, the floor, the wooden shelves—all showed signs of being “gnawed.”

  Smooth as mirrors.

  Lei Huan and his men spread out, securing the exits. Qian Yiyan approached slowly, stopping three paces away.

  Her eyes scanned the scene: scattered footprints in the thin dust on the gold-brick floor, but beneath the painting table, a small pile of dark golden powder. She picked up a pinch—odorless.

  Not cinnabar, not gold dust.

  An unnatural sensation came from beneath her feet.

  She looked down—

  Her own shadow was writhing.

  Not an illusion. It was moving like swaying seaweed, a living蠕动 defying natural law.

  “Everyone, close your eyes for three breaths! Upon opening, look only at your feet!” Her command was sharp.

  After three breaths, sharp intakes of breath arose from around the room.

  “Your Honor! My shadow is moving!”

  Qian Yiyan had already seen clearly: all shadows in the hall were being drawn toward the void on the painting table, like ink droplets flowing backward, stretching into thin threads whose tips vanished beneath the table.

  “Step back! Lei Huan, Shadow-Anchoring Sand!”

  Crimson sand scattered across the floor, the shadows stabilizing slightly.

  Qian Yiyan did not retreat. Instead, she took a step forward.

  The sword left its sheath.

  Shou Que chimed clear as a struck stone, its silver light cold. The tip pointed at the “neck” of her own shadow—the Qian family’s “Shadow-Suppressing Sword Technique,” designed to lock shadows and pacify spirits.

  “A shadow is not the absence of light, but another kind of vine,” her clear voice rang through the hall. “Today, I sever this vine—reveal your form!”

  Left hand forming a seal, right hand tracing patterns in the air with the sword.

  Silver light hung in the air, coalescing into an ancient seal script character: “Suppress.” It pressed down.

  All lamps in the hall dimmed at once.

  The shadows beneath their feet struggled violently, like live fish thrown into boiling oil. The silver sigil pressed down like a branding iron, a sizzling sound like fat scorching.

  From the depths of the shadows erupted a non-human shriek—

  A mixture of metal scraping and crushed, weeping compression.

  As the shriek rose, the remnants of the painting table suddenly ignited.

  Not with open flame, but with a cold, ghostly blue flame.

  Within the flames floated an image:

  Walls of impossible smoothness, a glowing ceiling, a figure in white convulsing violently in a chair, black patches spreading beneath the skin... Further away, flashing light screens, scrolling unfamiliar symbols, a young woman in strange attire operating controls in panic.

  The vision lasted only a moment.

  But Qian Yiyan’s pupils contracted sharply.

  A sense of reality.

  Cold. Precise. Every detail carried the regularity of “human-made objects,” yet completely defied the laws of heaven as she knew them.

  Just as the image was about to fade, the corner of her eye caught—

  In one corner of a light screen, flashed an extremely simple pattern: a dragon shape, but with solid, protruding dots for eyes.

  Exactly opposite, like a mirror image, to the “hollow dragon eyes” of the “An Le” jade pendant hidden in her own sleeve.

  “The Other Side... a key?” Her breath hitched.

  That split-second distraction was enough.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The shadow struggled against the silver sigil.

  Not fully breaking free, but splitting—like silk torn in two. One half remained beneath her feet; the other transformed into a jet-black arrow shooting toward the ghostly blue flame.

  “No!”

  Her sword changed from a thrust to an upward flick, striking the tail of the shadow-arrow.

  The arrow dissipated into black mist. A few strands of the purest black energy vanished into the flames.

  The ghostly blue flame swelled, the image clearing for another instant—

  She saw more.

  The flame extinguished.

  The image vanished.

  The Secret Archives returned to silence. All shadows lay docile once more. Only the smell of scorching in the air and the circular burn mark on the painting table proved what had transpired was not illusion.

  Qian Yiyan sheathed her sword, her face slightly pale, a metallic taste of blood forcibly suppressed in her throat.

  But that fleeting glimpse of the mirror-image pattern was branded into her mind like a hot iron.

  “Your Honor!” Lei Huan rushed over.

  “I am unharmed.” She waved him off, crouching to examine beneath the table again.

  The pile of dark golden powder had rearranged itself—gathered into a regular hexagonal pattern. At its center was a minute speck of black impurity.

  Carefully lifting it with the sword tip, she placed it on her palm.

  Not dust, not charcoal.

  It resembled a small, solidified piece of... shadow. It reflected no light, allowed no passage of light, a chaos born from absorbing all surrounding color.

  Stranger still, upon touch, a faint trace of “essence” clung to it—identical in nature to the Other Side vision.

  Cold. Precise. Not a creation of nature.

  “Lei Huan.”

  “Your subordinate is here.”

  “Seal the Secret Archives completely. No one enters or leaves without my personal warrant.” She stood, wrapping the shadow fragment in yellow talisman paper. “Summon the finest imperial physician from the Medical Bureau. Academician Li must be revived. I need to know what he saw before the erosion.”

  “Understood!”

  Exiting the Archives, the night rain had stopped. The eastern sky showed the first pale light of dawn.

  She tilted her head to gaze at the brightening sky, tightening her grip on the shadow fragment in her sleeve.

  A page from her father’s notebooks surfaced in her memory:

  “First year of Tiansheng, the night of the seventh full moon. A strange radiance suddenly appeared in the Purple Forbidden Enclosure. Minister Shao Yong and I observed it together. Yong pointed to the light and said, ‘This is not a star, but an eye from the Other Side, gazing upon our world.’ I asked, ‘What is the Other Side?’ Yong smiled without answering. After a long pause, he finally said, ‘The Way of Heaven has its tracks. Two tracks run parallel, invisible to each other. Now a gap has appeared. Whether it brings fortune or calamity is yet unknown.’”

  Shao Yong.

  The former Director of the Astrological Bureau, who pleaded illness and retired to his hometown three years ago. Her father’s only close friend. A grand master of the Book of Changes.

  If this truly was the power of the “Other Side”...

  Was his “retirement due to illness” perhaps a different story?

  Modern, Donghai City, National Security Department Underground Command Center.

  Lu Baoyi swiped through three biometric locks. The alloy door slid open, and a beam of ghostly blue light shot out into the corridor.

  The “Anchorpoint” data graveyard, a goldmine of intelligence.

  Lin Wan followed him in, her face somewhat ashen, her eyes avoiding the geometric symbol on the screen.

  He pulled out two candies, tossed her one, and popped the other into his own mouth. “For the nerves. The brain’s CPU burns a lot of sugar. Can’t run deductions on empty.”

  “Pull the complete ‘Chiyou’ archive, especially all records of the ‘Gate’ symbol. Also, dig out the raw sensor logs from the accident site three years ago—including those marked as ‘invalid noise.’” He slumped into the command chair, propping his feet up. “The real devil likes to sing in the background white noise.”

  Data streamed.

  Lu Baoyi stared at the “○丨” symbol and suddenly laughed, cold and mocking. “In my old man’s notes, this thing was called ‘the Gate.’”

  “Gate?” Lin Wan stared at the symbol.

  “Literally.” Lu Baoyi swiftly called up the archive. A photo flashed on screen—his father standing beside an instrument engraved with the same symbol. “Shao Yong’s theory... treats our side and the other side as two physically isolated servers. This thing,” he pointed at the “○丨,” “is the vulnerability that punches through the firewall. So ‘viruses’ from over there—” He hit enter. The “shadow devourer” footage from Lab Three popped up. “—can slip through. Worse,” seven historical anomaly points lit up on a global map, “according to the logs, this vulnerability... is probably a distributed network spanning millennia.”

  “So the ‘shadow devourer’ in Lab Three... something came through the crack?”

  “More than ‘came through.’” Lu Baoyi called up another dataset. “Look at the final ‘projection’ from Zhang Zhiyuan—the Northern Song Secret Archives, with precise details, architectural structure matching historical records. This isn’t like a home security camera suddenly capturing a stranger, only to find the intruder’s IP address dates back a thousand years. This is no longer a break-in. It’s a fucking cross-temporal hacking attack.”

  Lin Wan drew a sharp breath. “You mean... these two events are connected? Across a thousand years?”

  “In Shao Yong’s theory, time might not be a line, but a M?bius strip. Past and future, in higher dimensions, might coexist simultaneously.” Lu Baoyi’s voice was light but weighty. “‘The Gate’ connects not just space, but also time. In short, we might be dealing with a BUG from ‘antiquity,’ or a logic bomb pre-planted in ‘antiquity.’”

  A system chime.

  【Archive decryption complete. Top-secret files of Project ‘Chiyou’ ready for access.】

  The first screen showed a yellowed photograph: his father, Lu Yuan, standing beside complex equipment engraved with the “○丨” symbol. His face showed not the excitement of research, but only deep, heavy concern.

  The next line was a handwritten note that struck the eye:

  【Project Day 73. Shao insists on pushing forward with the ‘resonance experiment.’ He says the historical ‘strange radiance in the Purple Forbidden Enclosure in the first year of Tiansheng’ was evidence of the last ‘Gate’ opening. The next window is at... (blacked out)】

  【Project Day 89. First stable resonance achieved. Received a ‘signal.’ Not electromagnetic waves, but some kind of... informational structure. Shao called it ‘whispers from the Other Side.’】

  【Project Day 101. Accident. Three researchers ‘informationally infected.’ Cognitive distortion. Claimed to see ‘cities within shadows.’ Shao said this was ‘the necessary price.’】

  【Final entry: I destroyed the resonator prototype. Shao took all the data. He said he would find ‘the correct key.’ I warned him that if he continued, I would... (interrupted)】

  A cold note followed: 【Project Lead Lu Yuan went missing the following day. Significant bloodstains at the scene, no remains. Conclusion: Suspected murdered by project consultant Shao Yong. Shao Yong’s whereabouts unknown.】

  Lu Baoyi stared at the words “suspected murdered,” his knuckles white. Though his face showed no expression, the screen’s cold light reflected a frozen fury in his eyes. He did not know that a thousand years ago, an “accidental fall” from a tower, its bloodstains not yet dried, had also been meticulously staged.

  “Engineer Lu...” Lin Wan said softly.

  “Continue.” He released his grip, voice steady. “Search all records related to ‘key.’ Where there’s a ‘Gate,’ there must be a ‘key’—physical or logical.”

  The system ran again. A scanned image of ancient silk appeared: depicting a dragon-shaped jade pendant, with the dragon’s eyes marked “hollow.” A side note read:

  【Kangjie Key · An Le Pendant. This object is not an ornament, but the keyhole of the ‘Gate.’ However, one lock requires two keys; this is only one. The other key is... (writing blurred)】

  A final line was appended:

  【To those who come after: If you see this image, the ‘Gate’ will open again. To prevent disaster, you must find both keys. One is in this world, the other a thousand years in the past. Time is short. —Shao】

  “A thousand years in the past...” Lin Wan murmured.

  Lu Baoyi abruptly sat up straight. He compared the spectral signature of the jade pendant with Zhang Zhiyuan’s brainwave baseline before the accident.

  Match: 99.3%.

  “Zhang Zhiyuan wasn’t a random victim.” His voice was hoarse. “His brainwave pattern nearly matches the ‘information fingerprint’ of this pendant. He was a ‘biological key’ recognized by the ‘Gate’... single-use, consumed upon activation.”

  “But he’s already—”

  “One key is shattered, but the lock remains.” Lu Baoyi cut her off, his gaze sharp. “And on the other side of the lock, another key is still inserted. In the Song Dynasty. Our current situation is like holding half an encrypted private key. Without the other half, all ciphertext is gibberish.”

  He called up the global historical anomaly events database. Input: 1000-1100 AD, Bianjing. Type: Material disappearance / Shadow anomaly / Mass hallucination.

  The system returned seven results.

  Seven locations marked on a map, centered on Bianjing, forming a vaguely symmetrical, irregular pattern.

  “This is an array.” Lu Baoyi traced the air with a finger. “A distributed network spanning millennia. Seven historical anomalies are seven ‘anchor points.’ Our Lab Three incident is the eighth.”

  He paused, importing the timestamps of the seven events into astronomical simulation software, applying the Huangji Jingshi calendrical algorithm for reverse conversion.

  The screen flickered.

  The seven points lit up on a three-dimensional star chart, connecting into lines—

  The Big Dipper.

  Perfectly corresponding to the actual celestial alignment above the Purple Forbidden Enclosure on the 7th day of the 7th lunar month, in the 3rd year of Tiansheng, during the night watch.

  And the eighth point—the coordinates and time of the Lab Three incident, after the same transformation—landed precisely between the seventh star of the Dipper, “Alkaid,” and “Mizar”—

  The position of Alcor (the Rider).

  That faint companion star, since ancient times used as a “vision test,” often represented hidden variables, twin shadows, system vulnerabilities in astrological divination.

  Lu Baoyi stared at the screen, a chill running down his spine.

  This was no random distribution.

  This was someone—or some existence beyond human—carving a protocol into the timeline a thousand years ago, using the stars as coordinates, waiting to be triggered.

  “Seven primary stars fix the orbit, the rider star breaches the gate...” He stared at the perfectly aligned star chart on the screen, hairs standing on end—this was no random distribution; it was clearly a protocol written in the stars a millennium ago!

  Before his words faded, the data stream from the real-time global anomaly monitoring network spiked sharply.

  A ninth anomaly signal blared glaringly on the screen.

  Location: Donghai City.

  Coordinates pinpointed with exact precision—directly above the National Security Department underground base where they stood.

  “—The ninth,” Lu Baoyi looked at the signal, the last trace of human ease vanishing from his face, his posture like an unsheathed blade, “is happening now.”

  A piercing alarm shrieked through the command center.

  “Lin Wan, initiate Base Level Three Reality Stabilization Protocol. Notify all field agents, set up checkpoints around the target area. Use ‘high-risk underground gas pipeline leak’ as the cover for evacuation.” His speech was rapid, his orders sharp and icy, leaving no room for jest. “Then, patch me through to the temporary dedicated line for both the ‘Great Wall’ and ‘Chiyou’ factions—inform them: this is not a drill, not a probe. ‘Gate’ expansion process has initiated. Countdown...”

  He glanced at the estimated data on screen.

  “Seventy-two hours. This time, the shadow won’t be devouring an ancient painting. It’ll be eating the foundation of this base beneath our feet.”

  Northern Song, Bianjing, Baoci Palace.

  Qian Yiyan knelt on the gold-brick floor. One stick of incense had already burned.

  Behind the silken curtain, the rustle of memorials being turned, occasionally punctuated by light coughs. Empress Dowager Liu was fifty-three, having held the reins of power behind the curtain for four years—the entire court knew that “imperial decrees” from Baoci Palace carried more weight than “imperial edicts” from the Chuigong Hall.

  “Deputy Director Qian.”

  The voice from behind the curtain was steady, gentle, yet carrying an undeniable authority.

  “Your subject is here.”

  “The matter at the Secret Archives. What has the Astrological Bureau uncovered?”

  “Reporting to Your Majesty, preliminary investigation confirms supernatural activity. Your subject has sealed the Archives and is pursuing the source with full effort. Academician Li has regained consciousness but his mind is impaired, still unable to give a detailed account.”

  “Supernatural activity...” The Empress Dowager softly repeated the words. “What manner of evil dares run rampant in the Imperial Secret Archives?”

  “Your subject... has not yet ascertained.” She paused. “But this activity is peculiar. Unlike ordinary spirits or demons, it resembles... an ‘Other Side’ erosion.”

  The rustling behind the curtain stopped.

  A brief silence filled the hall. Palace maids and eunuchs held their breath.

  “The Other Side.” The Empress Dowager’s voice held no emotion. “From whom did you hear this term?”

  Qian Yiyan’s heart skipped a beat, but her tone remained even. “It was mentioned in my late father’s personal notes. My father once said the Way of Heaven has its tracks. Two tracks run parallel, invisible to each other. If a gap forms in the tracks, the two realms can connect. This is the ‘Other Side.’”

  “Qian Weiyan...” The Empress Dowager sighed softly. “Your father was a rare loyal minister, and a man of unusual talent. A pity he left too soon.”

  “Thank you for Your Majesty’s praise.”

  “Enough.” A light clink of a teacup came from behind the curtain. “Since your father mentioned it, proceed with that line of inquiry. Whatever you need, you may petition me directly. But there is one condition—”

  The Empress Dowager’s voice suddenly turned cold.

  “This matter must remain confidential. The Emperor is young, and there are those in court who would use tales of ghosts and spirits to stir trouble. If I hear even half a rumor originating from the Astrological Bureau...” The threat hung unspoken, but its chill was clear.

  “Your subject understands.” She kowtowed.

  “Go then. Investigate thoroughly. Do not disgrace your father’s name.”

  “Your subject takes leave.”

  Rising, she retreated from the hall. Only after turning the corner did she release a soft breath. Her back was damp with cold sweat beneath the official robe.

  The Empress Dowager’s lack of deep inquiry into the “Other Side” theory was both unexpected and logical—she was a devout believer in Buddhism and Daoism, tolerant even enthusiastic toward prophecies and metaphysical studies. But that momentary chill convinced Qian Yiyan: the Empress Dowager knew something.

  Or rather, she was worried about something.

  Descending the white marble steps, a middle-aged eunuch in crimson robes approached. Wang Shouzhong, Chief of the Palace Eunuch Directorate, the Empress Dowager’s most favored and trusted eunuch, wielding immense power within the inner court. Last night, before the incident at the Archives, it was he who had dispatched someone to retrieve the Spring and Autumn Annals Apocrypha—a Han Dynasty compendium of prophetic texts linking celestial omens and disasters to political affairs.

  “Deputy Director Qian.” He clasped his hands, voice warm and cultured. “Good morning.”

  “Chief Director Wang.” She returned the courtesy, expression neutral.

  “I heard about the strange occurrence at the Archives?” Wang Shouzhong inquired with concern. “Her Majesty is deeply concerned. She specifically ordered me to inquire if any assistance from the palace is required.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Chief Director. The Astrological Bureau is already handling it. There is no major issue for now.” Her reply was meticulous, leaving no opening.

  “That is good.” Wang Shouzhong nodded with a smile, then suddenly lowered his voice. “By the way, Deputy Director Qian, do you know why I dispatched someone to retrieve the Apocrypha last night?”

  Qian Yiyan looked up.

  “Her Majesty has been feeling unwell recently, troubled by frequent dreams. In her dreams, a golden dragon falls into the palace courtyard, transforming into black water that floods the palace halls. The Imperial Physicians are helpless, so Her Majesty wished to consult ancient texts to see if there were any precedents.” Wang Shouzhong sighed. “Who would have thought, the book was just retrieved when the Archives incident occurred... Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  A golden dragon falling into the courtyard, transforming into black water.

  Qian Yiyan’s heart tightened. This dream sounded like some kind of... omen.

  “What is the Chief Director implying?”

  “I imply nothing, merely speaking casually.” Wang Shouzhong’s smile didn’t change. “I only wish to remind Deputy Director Qian, there are many eyes inside and outside the palace watching the Astrological Bureau. Investigate the case by all means, but some matters... it is sufficient to touch upon them lightly. No need to probe too deeply. After all, within these palace walls, some knowledge is bottomless. Delving too eagerly can easily... cause one to lose their footing. Director Qian back then, was it not a momentary misstep that caused him to fall from such a great height... Ah, such a pity.”

  He stopped at the appropriate moment, wearing a meaningful expression.

  Qian Yiyan’s fist tightened within her sleeve, nails digging into her palm.

  “Thank you for the advice, Chief Director.” Her voice remained flat. “But it is my duty. What must be investigated, I will investigate thoroughly.”

  “Naturally.” Wang Shouzhong showed no displeasure, stepping aside. “Then I shall not delay Deputy Director Qian any further. Please.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment and strode away.

  Exiting the palace gates, morning light spilled onto the Imperial Way. Officials from the morning audience emerged from the Chuigong Hall in small groups, robes of various colors flowing like shifting brocade.

  Among the crowd, she saw a familiar figure—Shen Kuo hurrying toward her, carrying a slender purple sandalwood case.

  “Your Honor!” Shen Kuo’s face was pale. “The ‘Sky-Measuring Rule’ you requested has been retrieved. But...”

  “But what?”

  “But the secret chamber where it was stored... someone has been inside.” Shen Kuo lowered his voice. “The locks were intact, but there were signs of disturbance in the dust. Strangest of all, among those boxes of notes your father left, one had been disturbed—the order of the books inside was completely scrambled, and...”

  He swallowed.

  “And a new object was placed at the bottom of the box.”

  Qian Yiyan took the case and opened it. Inside lay a metal ruler about two feet long, entirely dark and unreflective, its surface engraved with dense astronomical gradations and ancient seal script inscriptions—the Qian family’s heirloom artifact, the “Sky-Measuring Rule.”

  Shen Kuo looked at the dark ruler, wanting to say more. Qian Yiyan, understanding his confusion, inspected the ruler while speaking calmly, “Do not judge it by its resemblance to a measuring tool. Extraordinary things in this world are like reflections in water—visible but intangible. This ruler is like a precise ‘net,’ capable of fishing out the traces of ‘reflections’ from the void.”

  Shen Kuo seemed to understand, then handed over another object wrapped in silk.

  The silk unfolded, revealing a dragon-shaped jade pendant.

  The jade was warm and smooth, high-quality Hetian white jade, exquisitely carved with every scale, whisker, and claw rendered in fine detail. But the dragon’s eyes had no pupils—instead, two smooth depressions, as if intentionally left hollow.

  Qian Yiyan took the pendant. The moment her fingertips touched it, a faint, cold “essence” traveled up her fingers.

  That essence shared the same origin as the “Other Side” presence from last night in the Archives.

  She turned it over.

  Two small characters were engraved on the back: An Le (Peace and Joy).

  A thought stirred in Qian Yiyan’s mind. She took out the yellow talisman paper wrapping the shadow fragment from her sleeve and placed both it and the pendant on her palm.

  The moment the two objects came close, a change occurred—the solidified “shadow” seemed activated, its surface flowing with dark golden threads. Meanwhile, the pendant’s warm, smooth luster visibly dimmed. The threads eventually wove into a fragmentary miniature map, showing vague outlines of mountains and rivers, but at its center was a startling, repeatedly smudged black dot.

  It was as if these two objects spanning millennia were using each other’s “existence” as fuel to reveal a buried coordinate.

  She put both items away, her fist in her sleeve clenching tighter.

  Exiting the palace gate, the biting spring chill made Qian Yiyan take a deep breath, tightening her grip on the shadow fragment and the “An Le” pendant in her sleeve. The cold touch felt exactly like her father’s tightly clenched hands three years ago—not a vague memory, but a brand. A snowy night, blood, gurgling sounds in his throat.

  With his last ounce of strength, he traced two characters on her palm with his fingertip: Shao, Yong.

  She gripped the pendant, as if holding the sole clue her father had traded his life for.

  Fate had never told her that the other end of this clue was tied to a key that had just been “consumed upon use”...

  The Astrological Bureau’s conclusion was an accidental fall from the tower.

  Only she knew it was a truth meant to shatter the heart, delivered with a life.

  From that day on, the Shou Que sword was no longer merely a sword. It was the only bridge between her and the silent truth.

  And now, the other end of that bridge seemed to lead to an even darker, vaster mystery. The “An Le” pendant, the shadow fragment, Shao Yong’s prophecy, the Empress Dowager’s dream, the secret her father hid with his life... All clues pointed toward an approaching storm.

  She raised her head, gazing at the deep blue sky above Bianjing.

  There, in a dimension invisible to the naked eye, a “Gate” connecting two realms was slowly opening.

  She, and the man witnessing the same scene a thousand years later in a laboratory, would both be swept into this vortex spanning time and space.

  The storm was coming.

  (Within the Command Center)

  The screen before Lu Baoyi froze amidst the shrieking alarms, a crimson warning plastered over all data:

  【Ninth anomaly point confirmed: Coordinates locked. Entity penetration has breached Sublevel Seven isolation barrier. Reality distortion radius expanding at 0.3 meters per second. Estimated time to complete incursion: 71 hours, 58 minutes, 22 seconds.】

  (Outside the Astrological Bureau)

  At the same instant, the “An Le” pendant in Qian Yiyan’s sleeve suddenly turned scalding hot.

  She opened her palm. From the hollows of the dragon’s eyes, a wisp of black vapor, dense as substance, seeped out, winding across her palm like a living thing under guidance, unmistakably pointing toward the depths of the Imperial City—

  The direction of the Empress Dowager’s private chambers, Baoci Palace.