Standing before the throne, Yu Long reached out to touch the dry bones. But before his fingers made contact, the bones suddenly crumbled to dust, swirling away until nothing remained. The throne now gleamed, pristine and untouched, as though the bones had never been there.

Startled, Yu Long stepped back, his eyes fixed on the throne in a mixture of surprise and fear. “Those bones… they looked sturdy. How did they just disintegrate like that?” His heart pounded, loud and fast, as if trying to escape his chest. A chilling thought struck him—“If I had touched them, would I have turned to dust too?” The idea sent shivers down his spine, goosebumps prickling his arms. He took another step back, suddenly wary.

He glanced down at the stairs, feeling the urge to retreat, but he hesitated after the first step. “If I leave now, how am I supposed to get out of this place?” The realization brought frustration, and he looked back at the throne, scanning it with new eyes.

This time, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before—a wooden slab resting on the armrest, holding an ancient scroll with worn, wooden edges. His heartbeat quickened with a strange thrill, like a child about to do something forbidden. Swallowing his fear, Yu Long approached the scroll, his hands trembling as he reached out. Memories of the bones turning to dust flashed in his mind, but his desperation for answers overpowered his fear.

With a quick motion, he snatched the scroll and stepped back, bracing himself for something catastrophic to happen. He held his breath, but after a few tense moments, nothing happened. Slowly, he exhaled, relief flooding through him.

He unrolled the scroll, the smell of old, damp paper rising from it—a scent that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “This must be ancient,” he thought, examining the strange symbols. Though he had been taught to read by the Queen, these characters were foreign, unlike anything he had seen.

Disappointment sank in. If he couldn’t decipher this, how could it help him escape? But a faint hope stirred, and he opened the scroll again, staring harder at the symbols, willing them to reveal their meaning. To his astonishment, the symbols began to shift, becoming clearer and clearer. A few minutes passed, and suddenly, he understood the words.

At the top of the scroll, the title read: “Phantom Cat Sutra.”

The moment he read the first line, a fiery pain shot through his back, sharp and intense, like he was burning. He spun around, expecting to find a source, but there was nothing—just the relentless, searing heat across his skin.

Yu Long felt a surge of panic. Was he going to die here? The fiery pain in his back made him fear he’d turn to dust, just like the bones on the throne. Driven by fear, he bolted down the stairs, searching for any escape. The only exit he knew was through the roof of the pagoda. Desperately, he scanned for a way to climb, heading to the walls directly across from the throne.

He reached out, placing his hand on a painting—once an image of a phantom cat, but now mysteriously transformed into a young boy with a blood-red cat tattooed on his back. The instant his fingers touched the painting, he felt the heat in his back intensify, surging through his hand and into the wall. Startled, Yu Long yanked his hand back, stumbling away in alarm.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“What is this place?” he whispered, despair tightening around him. But before he could retreat further, a deep crack split the wall, and bricks began rearranging themselves, forming a doorway right before his eyes.

Wasting no time, Yu Long darted through the opening. As he emerged outside, he glanced back and was amazed to see how the door sealed itself, brick by brick, in a mesmerizing, rapid construction. Within moments, it was as if no door had ever existed.

Now free, Yu Long took a moment to absorb his surroundings. He was standing in a field of dandelions, their soft, golden heads stretching out in every direction, interspersed with wildflowers of every color. The field was bordered by steep hills, their tops shrouded in mist. At the edge of the flower field, a river flowed lazily, its waters fed by a waterfall cascading from a distant hill. A wooden bridge spanned the river, leading to a beautiful courtyard on the other side, surrounded by fruit trees, their branches heavy with ripe, colorful fruit.

The sight of the river jogged his memory. He murmured, “An Xian.” Then louder, “An Xian! An Xian!” His heart raced, and before he knew it, he was sprinting toward the riverbank, calling out his friend’s name with an intensity he hadn’t realized he possessed. He ran along the bank, eyes scanning every bend, every rock, hoping to see Ming An Xian.

Meanwhile, Ming An Xian had already reached the courtyard. The air there was warm, almost welcoming, despite the signs of age. Though time had passed, the buildings were in surprisingly good shape. In the courtyard’s center stood a plum tree, its branches laden with fruit, while the ground beneath was littered with fallen plums, many reduced to shriveled cores. Toward the northern edge of the courtyard, An Xian spotted a small pavilion—a simple structure with a roof and knee-high walls encircling a stone well.

As he approached, the temperature grew hotter. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, and the small animal he held began to wriggle uncomfortably, its fur now dry. The heat radiating from the pavilion became unbearable, and though he was close to the well, he couldn’t take another step. He backed away, wiping his forehead, a deep unease settling within him.

Both friends, in their own ways, were caught in the mysteries of this strange place, each seeking answers—and each unknowingly drawing closer to an encounter that would test their courage and their fate.

The oppressive heat continued to pulse from the pavilion, and Ming An Xian felt as if he were standing before a forge. His little companion, a fox-like creature with silky white fur, whimpered and buried its face into his chest, desperate for shade. He took a step back, scanning the pavilion for any clue as to why it emitted such an unnatural warmth. The well at its center seemed ordinary enough, yet something about it made his instincts scream caution.

Meanwhile, Yu Long had reached the edge of the field, breathless from calling An Xian’s name. He strained his ears, hoping for a reply, but only the soft rustle of dandelions filled the air. Desperation clawed at him, and his gaze drifted across the bridge to the courtyard on the other side of the river. A faint shimmer in the air around the pavilion caught his attention, like heat waves distorting the scene. Squinting, he could make out a faint figure moving near the well.

“An Xian!” he shouted, crossing the bridge without hesitation, the old wooden planks creaking underfoot. His heart raced, hoping he had found his friend at last.

An Xian’s head jerked up at the familiar voice, his eyes widening as he saw Yu Long approaching. Relief washed over him, a spark of hope in this strange and unforgiving land. He waved his hand, yelling, “Yu Long! Over here!”

They met at the entrance to the courtyard, clasping each other’s arms in silent reassurance. The fox in An Xian’s arms gave a small yip, blinking curiously at Yu Long, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile at its antics. But the brief moment of joy faded as both boys turned toward the ominous pavilion, each feeling the strange heat pressing down on them.

“There’s something… wrong with that well,” An Xian murmured. “I couldn’t get close without feeling like I’d burn alive.”