The journey to the Kunlun Mountains was a descent into a world of white silence and jagged stone. For seven days, the carriage windows remained shuttered, bolted from the outside. Xiao Chen sat in the velvet dark, his stomach churning with every lurch of the wheels. He clutched his thin scholar's sleeves, trying to recall the sutras of protection he had memorized in the Academy. Yet, the further they climbed, the more those holy words felt like brittle autumn leaves against a coming storm.
When the carriage finally groaned to a halt, the door was pulled open by a guard whose face was hidden behind a cold, silver mask.
"Step out, Master Xiao," the guard commanded. His voice held no warmth, only the flat indifference of a man speaking to a ghost.
Xiao Chen stepped onto the frozen earth. Before him loomed the Li Manor—a sprawling fortress of black timber and green jade that seemed to grow directly out of the mountain's ribs. The air was so thin it felt like swallowing needles, and the silence was heavy, broken only by a rhythmic thud that seemed to beat within the stone itself.
He was led not through the grand gates, but through a narrow side entrance, past servants who kept their heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched their knees. No one looked at him. To them, he was already a corpse.
In the Pavilion of Shifting Shadows, a woman sat behind a translucent silk screen. The scent of jasmine and bitter medicine hung heavy in the room.
"So, this is the one Guanting has chosen?"
The voice was like a silver wire—beautiful, yet sharp enough to draw blood. Lady Meilin stepped from behind the screen. Her beauty was a jagged thing, her skin as pale as the snow outside, her eyes containing a cold, ancient fire. She paced around Xiao Chen, her silk robes hissing against the floor like a viper in the grass.
"You look fragile, Scholar," she murmured, her fingers brushing the coarse fabric of his sleeve with profound distaste. "Your bones are thin. Your hands are soft. Do you truly think your 'Pure Yang' spirit is enough to anchor a God?"
Xiao Chen bowed low, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I am here to perform the ritual as instructed, My Lady. I was told my presence would bring balance to the Prince's meditation."
Meilin let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed off the jade pillars. "Meditation? Is that what they told you?" She stepped closer, her face inches from his. He could smell the incense on her breath, a cloying, funeral scent. "The Prince does not meditate, Xiao Chen. The Prince starves. You are not a priest. You are a tether. A piece of wood thrown to a drowning man."
She turned to the guards, her expression shifting back to a mask of bored cruelty. "Take him down. The sun is setting, and my husband's patience is shorter than a winter's day."
The guards did not answer his plea for preparation. They seized his arms, their grip like iron manacles. Xiao Chen was dragged through a labyrinth of cold stone corridors, descending deeper into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew hot and musky, smelling of scorched earth and something primal—a scent that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
They reached a set of massive bronze doors, etched with weeping dragons and sealed with heavy, rusted chains. The guards unbolted the iron bars. The scream of metal on metal vibrated in Xiao Chen's teeth.
"Go inside," one guard hissed, shoving Xiao Chen forward. "And do not try to run. The mountain knows its own."
Xiao Chen stumbled into the darkness. The doors slammed shut behind him, the finality of the sound echoing through the cavern.
He stood alone. The floor beneath his feet was obsidian, slick with moisture. Far above, a single vent allowed a sliver of moonlight to pierce the gloom, illuminating a floor littered with gold coins, silk scraps, and white bones.
A low, vibrating rumble made the very air shake. From the deepest shadows, a pair of violet eyes ignited—two pools of burning, unholy fire. A mountain of black, matted fur detached itself from the wall. The Black Qilin prowled forward, its claws etching jagged lines into the stone.
Xiao Chen backed away, his hands scraping against the rough rock. "I... I am here for the ritual," he gasped, his scholarly logic failing him as the monster loomed over him, its hot, carnivorous breath fanning his face. "I am Xiao Chen... the anchor..."
The Beast did not care for names. It lunged.
The impact was tectonic. Xiao Chen was slammed into the obsidian floor, the air driven from his lungs in a sharp burst of agony. He expected a bite, a claw, a quick death. Instead, he felt a gargantuan, terrifying pressure—a physical invasion that shattered his mind. The creature's rigid, impossible length was like a red-hot iron bar driven into his very marrow, spilling his blood onto the cold stone.
He tried to scream, but the Beast's heavy paw was on his chest, pinning him like an insect. The "ritual" was a lie. There were no sutras. There was no meditation. He was a sacrifice for a monster, a living vessel for a hunger that had no end.
As the night bled into a cycle of jagged heat and crushing weight, Xiao Chen closed his eyes, his tears lost in the dark, wondering if the gold he had sent to his sister was worth the price of his soul.