A ringing silence filled the observatory, thick as the air before a storm. Leng Wei clutched his father's ancient book, but the words blurred before his eyes. His blood hummed—not with heat, but a low, constant vibration deep in his bones. Every turned page echoed in his mind, as if whispers of a forgotten ancestral tongue brushed against his thoughts.
"Focus, boy," the Guardian Elder's voice cut like a whip. The scar-faced vampire drew closer. "The blade acknowledged you, but that is only the beginning. The Tomb of the First King is no library or crypt. It is a crucible—one that tests not your strength, but the resilience of your spirit. Seven of your ancestors entered. None returned to tell what broke them."
From the shadows where Xiao Fei lay curled, a fractured whisper emerged. Her fingers twisted into the folds of her cloak. "The shadows… they're whispering. Speaking in rusted steel and dried-up wells. They are already here. They smell of iron and winds from barren plains where nothing grows but fear."
At that moment, several torches flickered and died—not from any draft, but as if darkness itself had swallowed their light. The air grew dense and heavy. Then, from the deepest corners of the room, from cracks between ancient stones, figures emerged without a sound. They cast no shadows. Their gray robes melted into stone, their faces hidden behind polished bone masks that reflected distorted, ghastly grimaces.
The fight began in utter silence. The Guardians met the intruders without a word, their movements fluid and lethal. Blades whispered through the air, meeting poisoned daggers with muted clangs. No screams, no cries—only the crunch of bone and the soft thud of bodies collapsing on stone.
For a moment, Leng Wei stood frozen, stunned by the ghostly speed and precision of the assault. This was no brawl—it was a surgical strike.
A sharp sting shot through his shoulder—a blade had grazed him, leaving a thin crimson line. Instinct, primal and ancient, surged past the fear. His body moved on its own, guided by the hum in his veins. He evaded strikes before they were thrown, his limbs parrying on reflex. He didn't see the Stalkers—he felt them. Then he noticed one—a shadow peeling from the wall behind Han, blade aimed at the elder Guardian's exposed back.
Time froze. One thought screamed in his mind: No.
He didn't shout. Didn't flinch. He simply stretched out his hand, palm open, and a needle-thin beam of crimson energy shot forth. It didn't burn or roar—it pierced the attacker, and where he had stood, only a stream of black dust remained, settling silently on the stone.
As abruptly as it began, it was over. Leng Wei stood panting, staring at his hand. There was no all-consuming rage, no hollow ache like after Li's death. Only a cold emptiness and a faint tremor in his fingers. He had just erased a man—and felt nothing but detached curiosity. That emptiness frightened him most.
"Not bad, little king," Han rasped, wiping blood from a gash on his brow. He studied Leng Wei with newfound respect. "Cold and clean. No hysterics. Maybe you're finally learning." He kicked one of the surviving Stalkers, now trembling against the wall. "What about this one? Ready to die for the Council, scum?"
Leng Wei approached the prisoner slowly, almost lazily. Behind the bone mask, eyes wide with animal terror stared back. "No," he said, his voice quiet but sharp. It carried a weight not his own—something ancient and merciless. "He will be my messenger."
He leaned in until he saw his own reflection in the Stalker's gaze. "Listen carefully. I will say this only once. Return to those who sent you. Tell them the King does not negotiate with hired blades. He declares a hunt. The next one who dares approach my door—I will not simply kill. I will tear them apart and send the pieces to every corner of this Academy, a morning gift for each of your masters. You are my warning. Now go. Deliver it."
As the trembling figure scrambled into the dark, Han whistled low. "Well, the dog's off the leash. You've just declared war. No turning back now—only the abyss behind us."
While the Guardians cleared the aftermath—hauling bodies, washing blood with water from the old observatory well—Leng Wei noticed a small, tightly rolled leather scroll by the spiral staircase. It hadn't been there before.
Inside, smelling of mountain air and wormwood, were dried sprigs of medicinal herbs—the same kind that once eased his mother's pain—and a crumpled note. No signature, but the elegant script was unmistakably Lin Mei's.
The Stalkers are only the beginning. A light probe. Prepare for the worst. The Ancients behind the Council—the True Masters—have opened their eyes. They know of you. They feel your father's blood awakening. You are not a threat to them. You are a priority. Be ready for anything.
Leng Wei crumpled the note, knuckles white. He strode to the central table where the Tomb's map lay open and slammed his fist down. Wood splintered.
"It ends now," he said, his voice ringing with authority. Every eye turned to him—Guardians, Han, Mentor Lan. "No more hiding like rats in a tower. They are stronger. They have numbers, resources—this entire Academy is their fortress. Defense is a slow death sentence."
"What do you propose?" Lan's voice was calm, but a spark lit her cold gaze—not fear, but approval. Something like pride.
"We strike first," Leng Wei stabbed a finger at the map's heart, where the Tomb lay marked deep below. "Where they least expect. Where they fear to tread. If I must wear this cursed crown to end this slaughter—to save my mother and all they crush beneath them—then I will not wait for it to be handed to me. I will take it myself."
Han grinned, a wild, dark curl of his lips. "March into an ancient tomb full of death traps, mad ancestral ghosts, and gods know what else? Finally, this boring life gets interesting. I'm in."
An hour later, equipped with supplies, torches, and grim resolve, a small group stood before a hidden entrance deep within the observatory, behind broken astrolabes and dusty folios. With a grating rumble, a stone slab slid aside, revealing a black maw in the floor. The air that rose was stale—centuries untouched—carrying the scent of damp stone, ancient dust, and ozone, like the aftermath of a distant storm.
Without a backward glance, Leng Wei stepped forward first. His father's dagger glowed, casting a steady crimson light down the narrow, descending passage. It illuminated walls covered in pulsating hieroglyphs, like those in the North Wing.
You wanted me to embrace this legacy, Father? To become a king? Very well. I will take it all—your power, your pain, your hatred. And I will bring them such terror that they will beg for the days when I was just a forgotten half-breed from the slums.
Behind them, the stone slab crashed shut, sealing them from the world of the living. Ahead lay only darkness, silence, and the deep, rhythmic breath of the dungeon. The path into the Abyss had begun.