Midnight.

The spirit lanterns of the Archive Tower had long gone dark.

Only a single pale line of light remained, stretching down a corridor to nowhere.

Shen Jin sat alone in a side room.

The half-unrolled scrolls on his desk stirred in the wind.

Then —

A whisper.

Not imagined.

Not heard.

Felt.

A presence — drawn only to him.

He rose slowly, following the thread of that sound deeper and deeper into the Tower, until he reached one of the sealed archival halls.

Inside, rows of disordered scrolls, fractured arrays, half-sentient relics… and a mirror.

Tall.

Grey with dust.

Veiled in a black cloth.

Untouched for decades.

He stepped toward it.

The veil slipped down of its own accord.

The mirror lit.

And did not reflect him.

Instead —

Night fog.

Flickering. Shifting.

A shape took form.

A man.

Or something that had once been a man.

He wore a torn ceremonial robe.

His body was long, too thin.

His face — blurred, stitched together by water and shadow.

His eyes: empty and glowing faintly.

But there was a strange hope in them.

Childlike.

Hungry.

“…Keybearer…” the figure said.

His voice floated — soft and hollow — like it came from deep behind the mirror itself.

Shen Jin said nothing.

Did not move.

The man spoke again:

“You don’t remember me.

That’s alright.

Memory is a shackle the gods forged.

Your key’s not complete yet.

That’s why you can’t hear the gate.”

Shen Jin frowned.

Eyes narrowing.

“Who are you?”

The figure smiled — an unfinished smile, like a man who had once seen humans do it, and tried to learn.

“I’m Chu Yin Gui.”

The mirror trembled.

The name shattered something inside the air.

Something old.

Shen Jin gripped the shard in his sleeve.

It burned.

Chu Yin Gui tilted his head, gentle and eerie.

“If you don’t leave…

I can’t return.”

And then he stepped backward —

into the fog.

The mirror fell silent.

Shen Jin’s reflection returned.

As if nothing had happened.

But he knew that face.

Not from this world.

From somewhere else.

Somewhen else.

—

Night lay quiet.

Shen Jin sat still in the archive chamber, sweat drying at his temple.

The mirror.

Chu Yin Gui.

That wasn’t a dream anymore.

It was something deeper —

A will, crossing into the waking world.

He didn’t sleep again.

Only waited.

Until the shard on his desk began to hum.

Not with sound.

With intent.

A breath later —

he was pulled back.

—

He fell into Yao Abyss once more.

This time, no fog.

No veils.

No gates barring entry.

Only the voice. Clear now.

“The keybearer has arrived.

The gate… may open.”

In the distance, a platform rose from the mist.

He stepped toward it.

And saw the end of heaven.

—

The night the gods fell.

Nine robed figures stood over a sky cracked wide.

Stars fell like blood.

Their faces were hidden, but their voices roared — half thunder, half rain:

“Guiyao violated the divine accord.

He opened the Day Gate.

Tried to save the mortal plane.

For this, we strip his name.”

Strip his bones.

Erase his title.”

A beam of fire pinned Guiyao through the sky.

His divine body broke — bit by bit.

But he did not bow.

As his form collapsed, he whispered a name:

“Keybearer.”

The vision warped.

And Shen Jin saw himself.

Not now.

Not this body.

But another.

Cracks down his back.

Eyes alight with gold.

Standing alone before the nine gods, rejected by all —

Yet he reached forward.

And took a piece of Guiyao’s shattered bone.

The first key.

The monument whispered:

“To bear the key is not to carry it—

It is to choose.

If you do not choose, the gate remains shut.

If you choose… gods return to men.”

—

He woke.

His face pale.

Blood on his palm.

In his hand: a fragment of bone.

Cracked.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t call for aid.

He rose.

Put on his robe.

And walked alone.

To the lowest level of the Archive Tower, where the seal chamber waited.

The door was still closed.

The barrier still intact.

But he stood before it.

And spoke:

“I request… to enter again.”