The air in the Hall of Ash Scrolls grew heavier as Shen Liuyun lingered before the crimson-glowing empty scroll. Its faint pulse, like the heartbeat of some ancient creature, resonated with his own, urging him forward into territory forbidden to every disciple of the sect. The warnings of elders, the sharp eyes of senior disciples, the centuries of superstition—they were all present, pressing against him like iron chains—but Liuyun felt a strange, irresistible gravity, pulling him toward the hidden depth beneath the hall.
He knelt before the pedestal, fingers brushing the surface of the scroll. A faint warmth seeped through his fingertips, threading into the marrow of his bones, and he realized that the pulse beneath the floorboards was no mere resonance—it was a door, a pathway to something deeper, older than the sect itself. A hollow beneath the Hall of Ash Scrolls, whispered in fragments by those long dead, had been waiting.
Liuyun's breath trembled as he lowered his hands, searching along the edge of the pedestal. There, nearly invisible under centuries of dust and ink residue, was a thin groove. His heartbeat quickened. It was a key of sorts, a hidden mechanism perhaps, aligned with the flow of Qi beneath the hall. The idea terrified him—any misstep could trigger the ancient seals—but the prospect of discovery, of awakening even the smallest fraction of hidden Ink Qi, was stronger than fear.
He pressed gently along the groove. A faint vibration, almost imperceptible, ran through the floor. Dust shifted, loose ash falling like snow, and a section of the wooden floorboards shuddered. A slow, grinding sound emerged beneath him, like stone scraping stone, and a rectangular trapdoor cracked open. From the opening came the faint scent of old ink, iron tanged with dust, and a dark, cavernous space that seemed to swallow the dim light of the hall above.
The descent beckoned. Liuyun's hands shook, yet he gripped the edges and lowered himself cautiously. The air grew colder, heavier, as he entered the chamber below, a confined space of stone and shadow. Ancient inscriptions—barely visible under layers of soot—lined the walls, their forms incomprehensible, as though the language of the ancients had been deliberately concealed. The pulse beneath the floorboards intensified, a rhythm that resonated not only with his Qi but with some dormant essence within him.
The chamber was suffocating. The ceiling hung low, shadowed and dripping with condensation. The walls seemed to close in, pressing against him like the unrelenting weight of the world's judgment. Liuyun's first instinct was to retreat, to return to the familiar confines of the hall above, yet the pull of the foreign Ink Qi—the energy he had sensed beneath the scroll—was irresistible.
As he ventured further, the seal that protected the chamber reacted. The air thickened abruptly, the pressure like a physical force pressing against his chest. Sparks of invisible energy flashed along the walls, and Liuyun could feel the burn in the air, like hot coals pressed to the skin. The sect's security measures were precise and merciless; they could detect Qi signatures and suppress anomalies with devastating accuracy.
Liuyun's pulse quickened. His own energy—the foreign, chaotic pulse he had coaxed from the scroll—struggled to flare, threatening to betray him. He pressed both palms against his chest, drawing inward, restraining his abnormal Qi, learning for the first time to contain the energy that no ordinary disciple could control. Every breath became a lesson in control, every heartbeat a meditation on patience. He could feel the seal probing for traces of illicit energy, but he remained still, letting the currents of the chamber pass over him without acknowledging them.
Hours—he could not know how long—passed. The chamber revealed little, yet the sense of hidden potential was tangible, saturating the air, thick as ink. Liuyun's awareness sharpened. He felt threads of energy, foreign yet coherent, weaving beneath the stone floor like roots of some colossal, invisible tree. The pulse of the hall above, the glow of the scroll, and the seal's probing force all merged into a single, delicate equilibrium, and he sensed that the chamber itself was alive.
It was then, amidst the oppressive silence, that he discovered the method the chamber demanded: the medium of blood. The pulse beneath the floorboard, the red glow of the scroll, the ancient whispers—they all converged upon a single principle. Ink Qi, he realized, could not merely be summoned or forced; it required a vessel, a personal resonance, and the most potent vessel of all was life itself.
He pricked his fingertip with a shard of stone, crimson droplets staining the dust-strewn floor. The pain was sharp but fleeting. As the first droplet touched the stone, the air vibrated, responding to the introduction of living essence into the hidden currents. The burn of the seal intensified slightly, yet Liuyun's pulse synchronized with the rhythm of the chamber. The blood became a conduit, a bridge between his stunted Qi and the chaotic Ink Energy that lingered here.
A flicker of light emerged where the blood pooled, faint yet unmistakable. A thread of red energy traced upward, weaving along the chamber walls, illuminating ancient glyphs and inscriptions. Liuyun's mind reeled. The chamber was a tutor, cruel and indifferent, guiding him toward comprehension through trial, pain, and patience. To bend this energy, he would have to risk himself, offer life in place of mere technique, and endure the heat of the sect's protective wards.
He knelt in silence, letting the blood seep slowly into the cracks of the stone floor, feeling the pulse of the Ink Energy respond. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, but as he concentrated, the currents began to twist around him, like ink diffusing through water, waiting for a hand to guide them. Liuyun's heartbeat aligned with the pulse beneath the chamber, each beat a stroke of will, each breath a meditation on balance.
Time lost meaning. Darkness pressed against him, and he almost imagined the walls breathing, the stone itself whispering in a language older than human comprehension. Shadows writhed faintly along the floor, responding to his controlled Qi, as if the chamber were testing him, evaluating his patience, his courage, and the purity of intent required to manipulate such forbidden power.
Then, as if acknowledging his effort, a beam of faint light pierced through the dense gloom, cutting across the chamber in a single, narrow column. At the center of its illumination rested a thick book, ancient and unadorned, its cover void of inscriptions, yet exuding authority so profound it seemed to bend the shadows around it. The air around the book shimmered faintly, a subtle distortion betraying the latent energy contained within its pages.
Liuyun's breath caught. He understood, in that instant, that the Book of Silence—rumored for centuries within the sect but never seen—lay before him. It was a repository of knowledge forbidden, a vessel of Ink Qi mastery far beyond the comprehension of ordinary disciples. The glow of the book seemed to pulse in rhythm with the hidden currents of the chamber, and the whispers he had heard earlier coalesced into a silent resonance, guiding him, urging him to approach.
He rose slowly, knees stiff, eyes fixed on the book. The chamber pressed in closer now, shadows curling like black flames around the edges of the light. The burn of the seal lingered, a constant reminder of the danger of discovery. Yet the air itself seemed to encourage him, the pulse beneath the floor, the red glow from the blood, and the faint shimmer from the book forming a triad of energy that recognized his intent.
Liuyun extended a trembling hand toward the Book of Silence. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Every instinct screamed retreat; the consequences of touching such a vessel could be fatal, could fracture his Qi, could bind his soul to the stone and ink. And yet, the potential—the promise of awakening, of transcending the limits that had bound him for years—was irresistible.
The beam of light intensified slightly, illuminating the surrounding glyphs for the first time. They were no ordinary inscriptions but a lattice of energetic nodes, reacting subtly to the presence of his blood and his controlled Qi. Liuyun sensed that the book itself was alive, a conscious repository that would respond only to those capable of synchronizing with its rhythm.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the pulse of life within him align with the chaotic Ink Energy, the seal, and the chamber itself. For the first time, he felt an unbroken connection, tenuous yet undeniable, a fragile harmony that whispered of possibilities previously unimaginable.
Shen Liuyun, the lowest disciple, knelt before the Book of Silence, his blood mingling with the hidden currents beneath the chamber floor. Shadows curled and twisted around him, the air vibrated with unseen energy, and the whispers echoed faintly in his mind. His hands hovered just above the book, trembling, ready to imprint the first stroke of life onto knowledge forbidden by centuries of sectal law.
And in the darkness, where the chamber walls pressed close and the seal's heat burned faintly in the air, Liuyun realized a truth both terrifying and exhilarating: the path ahead would demand blood, will, and sacrifice beyond any disciple's reckoning. Yet the Book of Silence awaited, patient, eternal, and alive, offering its secrets to the one bold enough to claim them.
The beam of light steadied, casting the book in stark relief. Liuyun's heart thrummed in harmony with the pulse of the chamber, his breath slow and deliberate. Shadows quivered, glyphs flickered, and the air seemed to hold itself still. He extended a hand, poised to touch the cover of the book, and in that moment, every fear, every failure, every insult from the sect above faded. Only the promise remained—of mastery, of Ink, of a power that would forever mark him beyond the hierarchy of mortal disciples.
Shen Liuyun whispered, almost reverently, "I will endure. I will awaken. I will learn."
The beam of light pulsed in response. The Book of Silence awaited.