The light behind them vanished the moment they stepped forward. The warm radiance was replaced by a thick, almost tangible darkness. The air grew cold and stale again, but now it carried a new quality—not sorrow, but sharp wariness, as if the darkness itself was tracking their every move.
"Well, well," Han grumbled, squinting into the impenetrable gloom. "Seems the warm welcome's over. Welcome to the real dungeons."
Leng Wei's dagger blazed brighter, but its light no longer pierced the shadows, merely casting a small crimson pool at their feet. The hieroglyphs here didn't pulse. They were stark and static, carved with such brutal precision they resembled frozen screams.
"These inscriptions... are different," the Elder observed, studying the wall intently. "They don't recount history. They... enforce law. The rules of this place. Its prohibitions."
Leng Wei felt it viscerally. His blood, which had hummed and resonated with everything around them, now grew quiet, suppressed by an invisible weight. The connection to the Tomb remained, but it felt thin now—a single thread stretched across an abyss.
They advanced, and with each step the silence grew more menacing. No whispers, no echoes—only the sound of their own breathing and the frantic beating of their hearts.
Suddenly, Leng Wei froze, a silent warning jolting through his consciousness. Not a voice, but pure instinct, rising from his very blood.
"Stop."
Han and the Elder halted instantly. No one questioned his command.
Leng Wei knelt, bringing the dagger's light closer to the floor. Just ahead, barely visible in the crimson glow, ran a hair-thin fissure in the stone. It wasn't part of any pattern. It was perfectly straight, unnaturally so.
"A trap?" Han whispered.
"No," Leng Wei replied, equally quiet. "A boundary."
He reached out and slowly, as if feeling for an invisible barrier, traced his fingers above the crack. The air shimmered, and for a moment, a colossal, translucent door of black obsidian materialized before them, covered in the same stark hieroglyphs.
"The Gates of Silence," the Elder breathed. "To pass, one must understand their law. Strength is useless here. Only understanding matters."
Leng Wei stood and fixed his gaze on the hieroglyphs. He didn't try to read them. He let their sharp, angular forms pierce his mind. He felt his consciousness skitter across their razor edges, and suddenly, their meaning crystallized within him, cold and absolute:
"Speak truth. Only truth. For here, lies take form and devour the liar."
"Truth," Leng Wei said aloud. "Here, we must speak only truth."
"Sounds simple enough," Han snorted. "I'm always for truth."
In that instant, a translucent silhouette coalesced from the darkness before Han. It was short, scrawny, its face etched with fear—a perfect replica of Han's younger self.
"Is it true," the phantom hissed, "that you stole gold from your squad's treasury and fled, leaving them to die in the ambush at Mourner's Gorge?"
Han paled. His cynical mask shattered, revealing a festering wound beneath.
"I... I didn't abandon them..." he began, but the words died in his throat.
The shadow before him thickened, growing more solid. A dull, rusted blade began to form in its hands.
"IS IT TRUE?" the ghost roared, its voice echoing through the chamber.
Han clenched his fists. He looked at Leng Wei, then at the Elder, agony warring in his eyes. To confess was to expose his deepest shame. To lie was to die.
"Yes," he finally forced out, his voice thick with inescapable bitterness. "It's true. I stole the gold. I was a coward. I ran. And I see their faces in my dreams every night."
The words hung heavy in the air. The ghost shuddered, its form wavered, then slowly dissolved into a faint sigh. The rusted blade clattered to the stone and crumbled to dust.
Han stood gasping, unable to raise his head.
"Your burden is lighter now, Han," the Elder said softly. "But the price of that lightness is eternal shame."
Now the Gates turned to the Elder. From the darkness emerged the shadow of a woman in a Guardian's robes.
"Is it true," her voice was melodic and sorrowful, "that you were the one who counseled the King-Father to trust the Council on the night of his murder, despite knowing of the treachery growing in their ranks?"
The Elder's face turned to stone. His ancient eyes, which had witnessed centuries, filled with a pain so profound Leng Wei felt it physically.
"I... believed reason would prevail over ambition," he whispered. "I was wrong. Yes. It is true. My faith killed my King and brought our lineage to ruin."
The woman's shadow nodded slowly and faded. The Elder staggered, and Han silently offered a steadying arm.
Finally, the Gates turned to Leng Wei. The darkness before him congealed, and a figure emerged. Not a phantom, but a clear, vivid image.
He saw himself. But not as he was now. This Leng Wei was clad in black, gleaming armor, his eyes burning with pure crimson light, a crown of star-shards upon his brow. He stood upon a mountain of bones, the entire conquered and broken world at his feet. An aura of absolute, unchallenged power radiated from him. And it was him.
"Is it true," a voice resonated, seeming to come from his own chest, "that in your darkest moments, in the depths of your soul, you crave not to save them, but to see them kneel? That the power awakening within you tempts you not with duty, but with the chance to impose your will? That you fear not weakness, but becoming like him?"
The image of his father, the King—proud, strong, alone, dead—flashed before his eyes.
Leng Wei's heart hammered. This was the most terrifying truth, the one he dreaded to admit even to himself. Rage was simpler. Vengeance was clearer. But this... this dark hunger for dominion, this whisper in his blood that he deserved more...
He stared at his dark double, and glints of the same crimson fire flashed in his own eyes.
"Yes," Leng Wei said, his voice quiet yet forged of steel. "It is true. I feel it. And I fear it. But..."
He took a step forward, toward his reflection.
"...my fear does not rule me. My pain is no excuse. I have seen where such power leads. I know its cost. And I choose a different path. I will accept this power. But I will not become its slave."
The dark doppelganger smirked, and in that smirk lay all the might and emptiness of the universe. It did not vanish. Instead, it dissolved, flowing into Leng Wei, becoming part of his very shadow.
With a loud groan, the Gates of Silence swung open, revealing the path ahead.
Leng Wei stood firm, feeling a new weight settle inside him. He had not conquered his dark side. He had acknowledged it. Embraced it. And now he must carry it with him.
"You have accepted not only the light, but the darkness within you," the Elder said. "Now you are whole. And thus, more dangerous than ever."
"Perfect," Han rasped, still shaken from his own ordeal. "Now we've got a king who knows all his own dark corners. The world should be trembling."
Leng Wei gazed into the darkness beyond the Gates. He walked toward it now, understanding that the cost involved not just external battles, but internal ones. The most difficult war had just begun—the war with himself.