The candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows along the ancient library walls. Liang Ming ran his fingers over the worn leather spines, his breath shallow as he skimmed the titles. Most were familiar—histories, philosophies, and dusty treatises no one had touched in decades. But one book stood out.
It had no title.
The cover was rough, uneven, and oddly warm to the touch. When Ming pulled it free, a faint shudder passed through him, as if the air itself had thickened. He swallowed. The book's weight was heavier than it should have been, its edges frayed yet sharp, as though resisting time's decay.
Ming hesitated. This library belonged to the Wuyou Monastery, a place of quiet wisdom. He had spent years within these walls, yet he had never seen this book before. Where had it come from? And why did it feel... wrong?
A whisper of wind snuffed out the candle beside him. The darkness pressed close, thick and suffocating.
His fingers moved on their own, prying the book open.
The pages were empty.
Ming frowned. No ink, no words, no markings. He flipped through the pages, one after another, but they remained blank. Just as he was about to shut it, a single line appeared, as if ink were bleeding up from the parchment itself.
"You have turned the first page. The Spiral begins."
A pulse of cold raced up his spine. The candle relit itself with a sudden whoosh, its flame trembling. The library, once familiar and safe, now felt foreign—like something was watching.
His heart pounded. He wanted to put the book back, to walk away, but something deeper, something beyond fear, kept his hands frozen.
Then, the second line appeared.
"Turn the page, or be forgotten."
Ming's throat went dry. The room around him blurred. He felt as though he stood at the edge of something vast and unknowable, a force pressing against his mind.
His fingers twitched.
And he turned the page.
The world shattered.