Rain fell in thin, deliberate lines, as if the heavens themselves were taking notes.
Zhao Mingli adjusted his glasses, eyes flickering across the last page of a forbidden codex.
The candle beside him had long drowned in wax, yet the ink on the parchment still shimmered—alive, breathing, whispering.
Read me, it said.
Finish what you started.
He hesitated. The Archive's air was still, but the silence felt crowded—too many unseen readers, too many eyes. His hand trembled as he turned to the final page.
There was no text. Only a reflection.
His own face stared back at him from the paper, smiling faintly.
And then the letters began to bloom across his skin—black, beautiful, endless. Each one pulsed like a heartbeat, each one colder than the last.
"Curiosity is the root of all knowledge," He whispered, voice fading. "And all deaths."
The candlelight flared once, swallowing the room in brilliance.
When it faded, Zhao Mingli was gone.
Only the open book remained, a single line written in fresh ink.
He died while reading.