Cold, damp stone roused him. The air reeked of rust and rot, only a sliver of light from above outlining the cave's jagged contours. He dragged himself up, knee bleeding a snakelike trail—until his foot caught on something.
Alan's breath hitched.
In the cave's depths huddled a figure, limbs pinned to the rock by steel cables thick as a bowl's mouth. The metal glinted coldly, piercing his pipa bones (a martial arts acupoint, he'd later learn), dark red beads oozing down the chains to pool in sticky puddles. Hair like moldy seaweed draped his chest; whip marks and burn scars crisscrossed his skin. Only the slow flicker of his eyes proved he lived.
Alan stumbled back, spine slamming into the wall. This was grimmer than Wall Street's darkest alleys. He wanted to scream, but his throat locked. The old man stirred, cracked lips stretching into a sinister grin: "Little one, you've got more spine than the others."
His voice scraped like a rusted gate, each word reeking of blood. Alan's fingers dug into his mud-stained clothes, knuckles whitening—yet he didn't run. He watched the man strain to lift his head, and in those murky eyes, a faint light flickered like a dying star: "My time's short. Lend an ear, and I'll give you a chance."
He nodded toward a stone platform at his feet, where a booklet wrapped in tattered hide lay. Alan inched closer, the scrape of cables against flesh shrill in the silence. The moment his fingertips brushed the rough hide, the old man erupted into a fit of coughing, spattering blood froth on Alan's hand. "This Remaining Sun Manual… needs essence and blood to guide it. Each full cycle'll feel like ten thousand ants gnawing your heart. But it'll temper your flawed roots—let a constitution spurned by Heaven… defy fate."
Alan pried the booklet open. The twisted symbols writhed before his eyes, burrowing into his mind like living worms. He didn't understand "flawed roots," only heard the old man's voice fading: "Remember… every full moon… tongue's blood… to feed the pages…"