The air in the stone tunnel was musty, as if it hadn't been ventilated for centuries. With each step deeper, it became harder to breathe—not from lack of oxygen, but from the oppressive weight of ages absorbed into the very stones. The light from Leng Wei's dagger cast long, dancing shadows on the walls that seemed more alive than they were. The pulsating hieroglyphs shifted slowly, as if responding to the presence of royal blood.
"Pay attention," said the Elder, stopping before an intricate pattern. "The hieroglyphs here are different. More ancient. They tell this place's story—one you won't find in any book."
Han swept his hand over the wall without touching it. "They feel warm. Or is it just me? Or... are they pulsing in time with your dagger, boy?"
"You're not imagining it," Leng Wei replied softly, sensing a strange connection between his weapon and the stone. "They're breathing. And watching us." He felt it in every cell—the dungeon's ancient, indifferent gaze, a cold assessment emanating from the stone itself.
The Elder followed, his expression tense. "Stay away from the walls. This isn't just rock—it's a repository of memory, a chronicle of all who have walked this path. Every crack is someone's scar, every ledge a witness to forgotten battles."
The deeper they went, the clearer the echoes of other minds became—fragments of long-lost lives:
...Forgive me... I couldn't protect them...
...A king must be strong... must bear the burden...
...Love is weakness... then why does it burn worse than any wound?...
...Mother... I swear I'll return to you...
The voices grew louder, more persistent, merging into a psychic chaos that threatened to overwhelm him. Leng Wei pressed his temples, trying to block them out, but it was futile—the more he resisted, the stronger the pressure grew.
Suddenly, the tunnel opened into a vast circular cavern, so high the dagger's light couldn't reach the ceiling. At its center stood an ancient tree, its bark like cracked leather, branches vanishing into the gloom above. A dim, steady pulse of light throbbed at its base, as if the tree itself were breathing.
"The Tree of Hearts," the Elder whispered, awe coloring his voice. "Legends say it feeds not on water or light, but on unspoken regrets. Every leaf is someone's 'if only,' every branch a path not taken, every drop of sap a tear never shed."
Leng Wei approached slowly, feeling his own sorrow resonate with the ancient melancholy radiating from the tree. It didn't feel dangerous—only immeasurably sad.
"The trial is simple," the Elder said, though tension lined his face. "Touch the trunk. But be warned—it will show you not the future or past, but what you regret most deeply. Many warriors, many kings, have broken facing themselves."
Han stepped forward, grabbing Leng Wei's arm. "Wait. Think. Not everyone needs to stare their pain in the face. Sometimes ignorance is a defense."
But Leng Wei had already chosen. He freed his arm gently and pressed his palm firmly to the rough bark.
The world exploded into memory.
He saw his mother—not ill and frail, but young and smiling, eyes bright. She cradled him, a small child, humming a lullaby he'd long forgotten. The image shifted: himself at seven, trembling in a cramped closet while his father fought someone unseen beyond the door. Screams, the clang of steel, then crushing silence. Again: his teenage self, deliberately turning away from Lin Mei in a school hallway, ashamed of his worn clothes and hollow stomach.
But the worst was yet to come—Li. Not his heroic death, but an ordinary moment the day before, sharing his last piece of bread with a foolish, open smile. And Leng Wei realized with horror that his deepest regret wasn't rage or vengeance, but that he'd never said "thank you." Never said he valued him. Never hugged him when he had the chance.
Tears streamed down his face, yet he didn't pull away. He accepted the pain. Embraced his failures. Acknowledged he wasn't perfect—that he'd been afraid, that he'd made mistakes. And in that acceptance lay a strange, bitter freedom.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice ragged with emotion. "I regret every moment of weakness, every failure, every tear I caused others. But I won't renounce them. They are part of me. They made me who I am today."
At once, the tree stirred. Dried leaves crumbled into golden dust, swirling like snow. In their place, vibrant green shoots burst forth. The trunk shivered, and clear resin welled from its cracks, dripping onto his hand. It wasn't sticky—it was warm and soft, like a loving touch. Then it vanished, leaving only a faint silver scar shaped like a leaf.
The pain subsided, leaving profound calm. The voices stilled, replaced by a silence rich with understanding.
He turned. Han and the Elder stared at him with something like reverence.
"You... didn't resist," the Elder said, voice trembling. "All before you—your ancestors, great kings and warriors—tried to reject the pain, to crush it with will. But you... you accepted it. Made it part of yourself."
Leng Wei gazed at the scar on his hand. "They didn't want me to prove I'm stronger than my pain. They wanted me to prove I could carry this burden without breaking."
Behind them, the tree's branches parted smoothly, revealing a passage that hadn't been there before. Now it glowed with a soft, warm light, inviting them in.
"Pain isn't the enemy," Leng Wei said quietly, stepping toward the light. "Pain is a teacher. And it seems my lessons are only beginning."
Behind him, the tree bloomed on, filling the cavern with life and light unseen for millennia. The air sweetened with the scent of fresh leaves and blossoms; the walls clothed themselves in living ivy, as if nature itself awoke from long slumber.
Han shook his head, watching the transformation. "I'll never believe that's just magic."
"It isn't magic," the Elder said, deep understanding in his eyes. "It's healing. He didn't just pass the test—he healed a part of this place."
Leng Wei stood at the new passage, his figure silhouetted by the radiance within. He turned to his companions, his eyes filled with a new resolve—not blind rage or cold calculation, but a calm wisdom born of suffering.
"Let's go," he said simply. "Other trials await."
And he stepped into the light, not waiting for a reply.