The mountain prison’s fortress was a sight both impressive and imposing. Great stone walls stretched from the floor to the ceiling of the cavern, and a narrow bridge led across yet another seemingly bottomless chasm to a narrow gap between the walls. The space was lit by two pairs of crystal lanterns— one at the start of the bridge, the other on either side of the fortress’ door. Protective inscriptions were carved up and down the walls, shining like the mingling of sun and moonlight.
And yet, despite their radiance, these inscriptions did not produce a feeling of security, but rather an ominous threat, a sense of something like suffocation.
Song Mingzhen very much did not want to cross over that bridge. In fact, everything within him was screaming to turn back now— but he had to continue onward.
It was part of the mission, after all, and besides that, he didn’t want to explain what had made him change his mind. That would just make him look like a coward.
Before they exited the tunnel, Ning Feiyun handed him another spiritual tool, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. This one he recognized as the device that the patrols had used to conceal their presence.
“It would be best to go unnoticed,” Ning Feiyun said.
Song Mingzhen snorted softly. “It almost feels like we’re the ones breaking in.”
Ning Feiyun didn’t reply, so Song Mingzhen simply activated the spiritual tool. It felt like a cloak descended over his entire body, and looking out through it was like seeing the bottom of a pool through the water’s surface. Glancing over, he could still see Ning Feiyun, even though he was also covered by the device’s concealment.
“Are you sure that we won’t be seen?” Song Mingzhen asked.
“Nor heard,” Ning Feiyun confirmed. “Though you and I can see and hear one another. The devices are linked together.”
Song Mingzhen nodded his head, impressed. Though spiritual tools were used throughout the cultivation world, they were not overly prevalent in all aspects of life. Here in Yinshan, though, there was a device or mechanism for nearly everything, each one more useful and innovative than the last. Of course, this widespread use of spiritual tools was not merely for convenience’s sake, but because the Qin clan’s entire foundation was built upon the toolmaker’s Dao— so it was only natural that the region’s cultivation society would be overflowing with invention after invention.
It was incredibly fascinating. It would have been even more so had Song Mingzhen’s attention not been half-consumed by the mountain prison’s oppressive aura and his own anxiety.
The fortress’ protective inscriptions rendered the walls impenetrable, and there was only one door in and out, so the pair would have no choice but to take the main gate. Before that, though, they had to brave that narrow bridge.
After his earlier experience, Song Mingzhen was dreading that part even more than the actual infiltration. Ning Feiyun likely already knew how they would enter the prison unnoticed, so he didn’t worry too much about that. However it would happen, though, however simple and foolproof his plan might be, the bridge would still need to be crossed. Song Mingzhen felt dizzy just thinking about it.
He tried not to show any hesitation as they approached. Surprisingly enough, the bridge itself wasn’t guarded, nor were there guards stationed at the fortress’ entrance. At least, not that Song Mingzhen could see, he though as he recalled the cloaking mechanisms that he and Ning Feiyun were using. Like he had on the back of the mountain, Song Mingzhen swept the area with his senses— and sure enough, there were a few disruptions here and there throughout the massive chamber where the prison’s gate guards must be stationed.
This was, admittedly, a good idea. It would discourage a timid prisoner from attempting an escape if they couldn’t tell where the guards were, or cause those who were bolder to act rashly if they thought there was no one here to catch them.
It turned out that the place was quite well-guarded after all. It was a good thing that Song Mingzhen and Ning Feiyun had already concealed themselves before approaching the gate.
As they approached the narrow walkway, Song Mingzhen forced his feet to continue moving forward, trying to maintain a natural gait even though he felt like his legs had turned to lead. The anxiety was still present, of course, but thankfully it wasn’t quite as intense as it had been back in that other chamber of the spirit caves. He still kept his gaze fixed firmly on the door before them, refusing to look down. The faint echo of unintelligible whispers that had plagued him ever since he set foot in the spirit caves remained in the back of his mind, a sense of urgency blossoming within his heart, tendrils and vines creeping outward to encircle his hands and feet.
He didn’t have any more visions or hallucinations, though, and he maintained his balance.
They crossed the chasm without any further incident, and Ning Feiyun didn’t even comment on Song Mingzhen’s behavior— he must have hid it well.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The entrance into the fortress proper was just ahead.
Song Mingzhen wondered how they would get inside unnoticed. Though there were no guards visibly stationed near the gate, there were semi-concealed watchtowers embedded into the walls above them. If the door was opened, they’d surely be seen, and Song Mingzhen didn’t think they could just walk through the walls.
Ning Feiyun stopped just short of the door, moving to wait in a small recess to the side of the entryway. Song Mingzhen joined him, and they waited there for awhile— at least one or two ke, though he couldn’t be sure exactly how long it was. Even though they were concealed, he didn’t feel like it would be safe to ask about the plan aloud, so he remained silent, and Ning Feiyun didn’t care to further elaborate without prompting.
So, for now, they just kept waiting.
At last, a massive “thud!” echoed through the cavern, followed by the scraping of stone against stone. The carvings on the doors lit up brightly, and they parted at a seam in the center that had been invisible until just now, sliding back to recess into the walls. A pair of guards wearing the Ning clan’s slate-grey uniform exited through the door, oblivious to the two that were standing a mere hand’s breadth away from them. Immediately after they appeared, Ning Feiyun straightened up.
“We’ll go now,” he said, and then without waiting to make sure his companion was following, he slipped in through the doorway before it closed behind the exiting patrol.
… So his infiltration plan had been this simple all along.
Song Mingzhen could hardly keep from laughing as he hurried to follow, getting through just a hair’s breadth before the stone doors ground shut, sealing without a trace once more.
They had successfully manged to get themselves sealed inside the most secure prison in the cultivation world.
For some reason, that didn’t seem like a particularly grand accomplishment.
The moment the doors sealed shut, Song Mingzhen felt a sudden burst of panic. The urge to escape as quickly as possible, to flee in whatever direction he could, nearly consumed his senses, and he had to forcibly anchor his own feet to the ground. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest and his ears rang like bells, and he felt like a rabbit that was caught in a snare. His fingers itched to pry at the stone door despite the futility in opening it, so he clenched his hands tightly into fists and tried desperately to regulate his breathing.
Ning Feiyun gave him a bit of an odd look, but he didn’t say anything about it.
“We must keep going. The Second General’s cell is on the middle level,” he said, continuing into the corridors and leaving Song Mingzhen to manage his own problems.
Song Mingzhen nodded his head, shaking off the anxiety as much as he could, then followed after Ning Feiyun. He was supposed to be here as part of the investigation, it had all been authorized already. Even if they were found out, there were plenty of excuses he could give, higher authorities whose word he could fall back on… if not Ning Feiyun, then Ning Jianlin, if not Ning Jianlin, then his father…
This was all for the greater good, and there was nothing to worry about. So why was he feeling so paranoid?
He released a breath that trembled slightly at the end and rubbed at his brow, catching up with Ning Feiyun as they proceeded deeper into the mountain prison. It was just because of how unfamiliar this place was… and also how notorious. He was an outsider in Yinshan, so of course he wouldn’t feel comfortable entering this place. Meanwhile, Ning Feiyun was a highly-ranked member of his clan and would have probably come in and out many times already.
That had to explain his intense anxiety.
While going through the spirit caves, Song Mingzhen had seen all manner of wondrous and beautiful sights basking in the unfettered flow of spiritual qi through the glimmering ore veins. By contrast, the mountain prison’s interior was rigid and dull. Though one had to be passed through to reach the other, they could not be less alike. Each corridor looked the same as the last, and the spiritual energy here was restricted to the paths marked out by inscriptions in the walls. The individual cells were closed off behind a door of solid iron with no windows, though a small, rectangular pane of glass seemed like it might be able to project an image of the cell’s interior as needed.
Baidong Mountain’s prison did not hold petty criminals. That was the domain of city magistrates. Those who were sealed away in here came from the darkest underbelly of the jianghu— rogue cultivators, mostly, but the lower levels were said to hold monsters and demons. While each of the great clans had their own containment facilities, Yinshan’s mountain prison was the most prestigious of all, and almost all criminals who were sufficiently dangerous were held here.
The cells on the upper level were meant to be temporary residences. Those locked up here were the garden-variety rogue cultivators or clan traitors who were awaiting trial or execution. Those who were executed obviously wouldn’t return, and those sentenced to a longer period of imprisonment would be transfered to new lodgings on the middle level after their trial and punishment was complete.
The upper cells were arranged in even blocks, and after they’d passed by the fifth or sixth, Song Mingzhen found his mind growing dull from the monotony. How one could retain their spirit in such a place was difficult to imagine.
A complicated surveillance array was constructed throughout the upper level of the mountain prison, faint threads of spiritual qi criss-crossing the corridors in countless spidersilk-like tripwires. The concealment devices that the two wore must have been of a very high grade indeed— no matter how many of these tripwires they passed through without a care, not a single one of them reacted.
Song Mingzhen wondered whether the one who had freed the Second General could have gotten hold of a something like this. If they were given out freely to the patrols, it couldn’t have been too hard to get one.
“Not these, specifically,” Ning Feiyun replied when he asked about it. “The common concealment devices would not let us pass through these arrays unnoticed. The ones we carry are of a higher grade, and can only be obtained with my father’s permission.”
“Then… how is it that the infiltrator wasn’t caught?”
Though there were plenty of blind spots in the surveillance array, it would be incredibly difficult for even someone with an advanced spiritual sense to get from one to another, and far more difficult to traverse the entire labyrinth of cells without touching a single tripwire.
“Illusions,” Ning Feiyun replied. “They got inside, then set off illusions which triggered many different alarms at once. Then, during the chaos that ensued, they slipped through to the lower levels.” He paused for a moment, then added, “At least, that is what we can guess. The guards who responded were also found without their memories, scattered all throughout the upper level, but none had gone to the lower levels. It must have seemed like a large-scale breakout.”
“I see,” Song Mingzhen said. That made sense… draw the guards out into the corridors, out from the watchtowers and into the open. If the infiltrator had managed to snag a disguise, or if he was stationed here himself, it wouldn’t have been too difficult to make it through, and further disruptions to the surveillance array would go unnoticed.
Still, how had this person managed to disable every one of the guards that responded? According to the reports, almost everyone on duty that night had ended up unconscious, with their memories wiped. Such a large scale assault… had one person really done all that?
It was all quite puzzling.
He also had to admit to himself that this perpetrator was really quite clever… almost admirable in a way. Resourcefulness was a good quality to have, and the fact that he hadn’t been caught spoke for itself. He managed to take advantage of both the clans’ over-confidence in their own power and the chaos that ensued when that confidence was shaken… very clever indeed.
Of course, Song Mingzhen could never say these thoughts aloud.
They descended to the middle level of the mountain prison. The atmosphere here was completely different than above. Instead of a surveillance array that laced across the corridors, the doors to the cells themselves were heavier and sealed with profound inscriptions. The silvery hues flickered in Song Mingzhen’s spiritual sense, telling him which cells held prisoners and which were empty— though he could discern nothing from beyond the door. It was completely cut off from the rest of the world.
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He shuddered involuntarily, and the prickling sense of unease grew stronger and stronger.
“How much do you remember of the war?” Ning Feiyun spoke up, his voice startling Song Mingzhen out of his thoughts.
“Ah…” he replied, taking a moment to gather his words. “Not too much.”
It would have been better to say “not much at all.” Aside from what others had told him and what he’d read in the records… well, everything else was a blur at best, utter nothingness at worst. He really didn’t know many of the details.
“Mn.” Ning Feiyun nodded his head. “Your cultivation is stronger than before, and you… you’re quite different.”
“Truly?” Song Mingzhen blinked in surprise.
The “different” part wasn’t what was strange— of course he’d be different now after all that had happened and the loss of his memories— but it was strange that Ning Feiyun thought he was stronger than before. If anything, he felt much weaker than he ought to be, his meridians still scorched and tangled up after the calamity.
Ning Feiyun simply nodded again and didn’t say anything more.
… how odd.
Song Mingzhen wasn’t sure what to make of this companion of his. Though his tone was still stiff and uncertain, he at least seemed to be making some kind of effort to be friendly. Not that Song Mingzhen minded the distance all that much— he’d only been worried that there was some secret grievance between the two of them. Whether Ning Feiyun was open and friendly or closed off hardly mattered. Song Mingzhen was just as comfortable traveling in silence as he was striking up a friendly banter.
Nonetheless, the more time they spent together, the more certain Song Mingzhen was that Ning Feiyun had much more to say than he was letting on.
That, naturally, drove him mad.
Song Mingzhen didn’t particularly like secrets. If he could figure them out that was alright, but those that were both closely guarded and whose existence was immensely obvious were almost impossible to bear. It made him want to take Ning Feiyun aside, pin him against the wall, and press the edge of a knife against his throat until he confessed everything he was concealing…
Wait, why was he thinking like that?
He shook his head to forcibly clear his thoughts. The oppressive energy of this place must be getting to him. The sooner they finished here and got out, the better.
They stopped in front of one of the cells. This one was different than the others— even though the door was closed, the space inside was not blotted out from Song Mingzhen’s senses, but readily apparent.
“The inscription is broken,” Song Mingzhen muttered, his eyes wide.
“It was like this when we found it,” Ning Feiyun said. “No one knows how the corridor remained intact.”
Inscriptions were incredibly delicate, and held a large amount of spiritual qi that powered them. When one was broken, that contained spiritual power would burst out into the surrounding environment, oftentimes causing a radius of destruction relative to the inscription’s grade. The corridor hardly showed any sign of damage, though, only a few stones on the floor knocked loose or chipped, and the faintest of burn marks on the walls.
That wasn’t all— to break an inscription at all required a massive amount of spiritual power. Even a peak-stage Zhuji cultivator wouldn’t be able to accomplish it, and most of those in Jiedan stage would have to almost completely deplete their jindan.
That surely wasn’t something that would go unnoticed.
“How many in Yinshan have surpassed the Jiedan boundary?” Song Mingzhen asked.
“Not too many,” Ning Feiyun answered, “Only my father and da-ge, and a few others in my clan. There are even less that belong to the Qin clan.”
That made sense. The attack on Baidong Mountain during the war had utterly devastated the Qin clan’s numbers. Not only Qin Wenying’s father, but also many of the other highly-ranked cultivators lost their lives that day, and great damage was done to all of Baidong Mountain before Song Mingzhen had arrived with reinforcements from Dayuan. It was unheard of, especially since the Nameless had hardly been considered a threat until that day. Their techniques were unconventional, though, and the Qin clan’s people weren’t known for being particularly strong fighters. With their protective arrays and mechanisms compromised, the two sides had ended up almost evenly-matched… that is, until the Great General of the Nameless had emerged, somehow having managed to surpass the Jiedan stage boundary while he was still a youth.
This was something completely unheard of in the history of the cultivation world.
The massacre had been devastating, but strangely enough, the Nameless had fled almost as soon as reinforcements from Dayuan and the Ning clan’s scattered forces arrived.
Not even eight full years had passed since then. It was no wonder the Qin clan had yet to rebuild their forces— the fact that Baidong Mountain had been restored as much as it had now was commendable enough.
“Were any of them showing signs of a depleted core?” Song Mingzhen asked.
“None.”
“Mn. Then… something else must have happened.”
He reached out and pressed his hand against the wall. Artificial spirit veins were built into all of the walls of the mountain prison— and in the vicinity of the blast, these spirit veins were flowing sluggishly. As though they had been depleted…
Experimentally, Song Mingzhen exerted his influence over the spiritual flow. After a bit of effort, he could feel a response. The artificial spirit veins themselves did not bend, but the lingering power inside of them gathered just beneath where his hand was placed. He pushed that power toward the door— and it obeyed. It was just a slight bit, nowhere near enough power to break an inscription, but if someone was skilled at this sort of thing, it was at least another possibility.
“I see… maybe they were able to utilize the power that flowed through the walls to break the seal.”
Ning Feiyun approached and placed his own hand against the wall, thinking for a moment. “Ah. You’re right— it’s strange,” he mused.
“If this person was skilled in modifying the flow of spiritual power, then perhaps they also dispersed the inscription’s power back through these channels as well.”
“Or maybe… into themselves.”
Among the three-thousandfold Dao, there were all manner of methods of cultivation. While most who reached Zhuji stage focused on building up a spiritual base within themselves, there were some who instead continued to work mainly with the power that flowed through them from their environment. This was the Dao of Channeling, and while these cultivators appeared to have a weaker power level on their own, they were adept at using the power of others against them, or borrowing it for their own benefit. They could be particularly difficult to deal with, and often appeared among powerful rogue cultivators, due to using similar techniques to those at Ningqi stage. Not to mention that, if they were skilled enough, they could even match a far more powerful opponent’s level— any spiritual attacks sent their way could be deflected. Or the attempt to channel that power could destroy them completely. Still, it was better to use physical combat against these individuals, just in case.
But that didn’t narrow down their search by much— especially since one didn’t need to specifically be a channeler to use those techniques.
At least it was a start.
They opened up the door, entering the cell. Inside was even more dark and dreary than the corridors outside. The floor was stained with something dark, and a musty scent clung to the air. A set of shackles, now empty, hung from the wall. The aura of despair here was so prevalent that Song Mingzhen nearly choked on it the moment he stepped through across the threshold.
He instantly felt cold, dread soaking in through his skin and settling into the pit of his stomach.
How long would someone last in a cell like this before they lost their mind entirely?
Despite the tales of the atrocities committed by the Generals of the Nameless during the war, and despite his own injury, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Second General.
The two of them combed over every cun of the cell, but there wasn’t a single clue, not even the faintest thread that would lead them toward the perpetrator’s identity. After going over the space once, twice, three times, Song Mingzhen decided that he’d had enough.
There was no use staying around this awful place any longer than they needed to.
“There’s nothing here,” he said, “We should go now.”
“… very well,” Ning Feiyun replied after awhile.
With at least half a day wasted and hardly anything to show for their efforts, the two left the cell behind, making their way back through the prison until they slipped out of the gate using the same method as when they entered.
This was discouraging.
As they entered the tunnels and passed through the hidden door again, Ning Feiyun remained silent, his expression downcast. The cloud of misery that had hung over him back in Baiyu Palace had returned to cast its shadow over them once again. There hadn’t been much hope of finding anything new anyway— and they’d even discovered something about the broken seal. Nonetheless, the fact that they still hadn’t turned up any trail to follow must have reminded him of his earlier failure.
“Once we return, we should go out and search further afield,” Song Mingzhen suggested. “By now, they’ll have left Baidong Mountain behind, but the Second General can’t possibly be in good condition. If they’re traveling together, they’ll probably have to stop and rest often once they get far enough away. If we go back to the place where the trail ended, we could try to catch up with them.”
“Mn,” Ning Feiyun replied.
They continued back through the caverns for a while in silence. Then, as they passed through a large chamber with many different pathways crossing over and under one another, Song Mingzhen caught a glimpse of a small passage off to one side. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting about this passage— other than the fact that not a single path connected directly to it, but instead a series of partially-concealed steps built into the wall. It was also tucked away at an angle so that it couldn’t be seen by those entering the chamber from the outside, but only by those who were coming from the deeper parts of the caverns.
“What is over there?” Song Mingzhen asked out of curiosity.
Ning Feiyun turned to look in the direction he had indicated. A small frown appeared on his face. “I… am not certain.”
“We should go and have a look. It seems like it could be a good place to hide… perhaps the person who broke into the prison may have waited there for the opportune time to make their move,” Song Mingzhen suggested.
It didn’t make much sense— out of all the caverns and nooks and crevices within the spirit caves, why only search this particular place? Truth be told, Song Mingzhen himself wasn’t even sure why he brought this up. It was just that… that tunnel was strangely familiar to him. It was as if it was trying to draw him in.
Fortunately, Ning Feiyun was amenable to suggestion right now. “I agree, it’s a little odd. Very well.”
The two made their way across the network of pathways until they made it to the partially-hidden staircase that led into the passage. The floor of the cavern was far below them, but it wasn’t a bottomless pit— so Song Mingzhen was much less nervous, even though the stone stairs were far more narrow and slippery than the suspended pathways.
The concealed passage opened up on complete darkness. Song Mingzhen usually didn’t mind navigating darker spaces, but something about this set him on edge, the hair on the back of his neck prickling up. He took out a light talisman from his sleeve and activated it with a small touch of his spiritual power, and a blue flame sprang from the paper, casting its soft glow on the passage’s interior.
The narrow staircase continued, spiraling down, down, down into blackness.
Immediately, Song Mingzhen felt dizzy, and reached out to steady himself against the wall.
Ning Feiyun, however, had stopped short in the entrance to the tunnel.
“Song-gongzi, we should not be here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Song Mingzhen turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“I think… this path may lead somewhere we are not permitted to go.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“We’ve already been given clearance to investigate the spirit caves and even the mountain prison— why would this specific place be forbidden?”
“This place…” Ning Feiyun mused, his voice lowering even further. “I’ve not seen it before myself, but I’ve heard about it in stories and rumors. I think that this staircase may lead to Baidong Mountain’s greatest secret.”
“Greatest secret?” Now, Song Mingzhen was even more intrigued than before— and the urgency to descend further into the depths only grew stronger. “What sort of secret do you mean?”
Ning Feiyun didn’t want to answer him. “Let’s return now”—
“Could it be… the Great Demonic Tool of Yinshan?”
As soon as Song Mingzhen spoke those words to interrupt Ning Feiyun, his face turned white as a sheet of rice paper and he fell silent.
So… that guess had been correct after all.
“In that case, there’s all the more reason to check. I am the heir to one of the great clans, and your family serves another— is the security of these Demonic Tools not our principal duty?”
Song Mingzhen turned away and began to descend the spiral stairway. Ning Feiyun had no choice but to follow— and Song Mingzhen continued speaking before he could protest further.
“The calamity in Dayuan happened when the Great General of the Nameless got hold of one of them. They say that the power within these tools can rival that of the gods— if there’s even a slight chance that the Second General could have gotten her hands on another of them, then we can’t just ignore the possibility. We at least need to ascertain that it has not been taken.”
Ning Feiyun had caught up by now, and was about to catch hold of Song Mingzhen’s arm to stop his descent, but after that last statement, he reconsidered.
Song Mingzhen suppressed a self-satisfied curl of his lips as he watched Ning Feiyun nod twice— the first time hesitantly, the second time more assured.
“There is no one that would be trusted to stand guard over the Zhiming Mirror directly, and only the highest-ranking members of our two clans even know of its exact location. Still… if the fugitives did stumble upon it…” Ning Feiyun muttered, biting his lip. He shook his head. “I haven’t even heard anything about the security alarms being activated.”
“Does that truly mean anything? This person already knows how to deceive surveillance.”
“… I suppose you’re right. Very well. We’ll just go down, have one look, and then return.”
Having gained the victory in this argument, Song Mingzhen turned back to the stairway before him, descending hurriedly so that Ning Feiyun wouldn’t have the chance to change his mind again. His chest felt tight, and there was a dull pounding in the back of his head.
There was no real reason to be so stubborn about this, and he knew it wasn’t solely for the sake of the mission.
Instead, it was the passage itself that drew him in— and the mention of the Zhiming Mirror had only increased the urgency. After the Great Demonic War ended, the rule of the cultivation clans was established specifically for the purpose of guarding these tools. Every stronghold had been founded on that same principle. This knowledge, combined with the words from Song Mingzhen’s strange dream…
The “mountain’s heart” could very well be the Zhiming Mirror.
A dream was just a dream… but here was a mountain, and there was its heart, and Song Mingzhen was still unsettled about the whole business. If following this thread could ease his mind, then he’d rather take that opportunity than allow it to pass him by.
Down, down, down they went, and the air became heavier. The caves’ spiritual qi increased in concentration, and Song Mingzhen grit his teeth as he struggled to keep it circulating through his meridians so that he did not overwhelmed. It wasn’t difficult to see how someone could easily surpass boundary after boundary in their cultivation in this place… and how equally easy they could be overcome by the force of this wellspring of power. If Song Mingzhen lost focus for even a second, even while he wasn’t trying to actively cultivate, the results could be disastrous.
They pushed through until at last, they reached the bottom of the stairway.
There was nothing there but a solid rock wall.
“That’s all— we should go back now. I don’t think anyone has come this far in many years,” Ning Feiyun spoke through gritted teeth, his breathing heavy. It seemed like he was also having a difficult time.
Song Mingzhen stared at the wall, holding up his light talisman for a closer look. He could see faint inscription lines carved into the rock— then, his eyes widened.
It was just like the secret entryway to the mountain prison, though it seemed much, much older.
“Ning-xiong,” he murmured, “Try using the key that you brought here.”
Ning Feiyun seemed hesitant, but eventually produced the mechanical falcon and sent it into the wall. It hovered in place for a moment, but then, to the surprise of both of them, it sank into the inscriptions here just like it had before. They lit up brightly, just the same as the newer inscriptions from the prison’s secret entrance.
The ancient stone wall seemed to melt down into the ground beneath them, leaving the falcon mechanism hovering in mid-air.
Neither one had actually expected the defenses to have been breached. This passage was out of the way and difficult to find, and someone trying to make a hasty escape wouldn’t have risked taking a detour down an unknown passage. Even though it was Song Mingzhen who insisted to check, he didn’t really think there was much of a danger either— it was for selfish reasons, even if he didn’t know what those reasons precisely were.
But when the path before them opened up, both Song Mingzhen and Ning Feiyun could only stare in shock, the seeds of dread within them sprouting and growing at a rapid rate.
The vault that appeared before them… was empty.
The Zhiming Mirror was gone.