The Hall of Ash Scrolls was a cavern of shadows, its vast shelves laden with yellowed parchment and ink-stained volumes that seemed to exhale centuries of forgotten secrets. Shen Liuyun lingered at the entrance, hesitating, the air heavy with dust and the faint, acrid tang of incense long burned away. Each scroll seemed to hum faintly, a vibration imperceptible to the untrained, yet alive to those who sought the hidden currents of Ink Qi. Liuyun felt it in his bones, a whispering pulse beneath the floorboards, faint and deliberate, as though the hall itself were aware of his presence.
No disciple was permitted to enter alone. Senior disciples patrolled the aisles, their eyes sharp and unforgiving. The elders had long warned of the hall's dangers: the scrolls contained knowledge too profound, too unstable, for immature Qi to handle. One misstep could trigger the sect's seals, binding a wayward disciple in ink for eternity, or worse—scattering their soul across the labyrinth of written Qi. Liuyun knew the risks, yet an irresistible tug drew him forward, deeper into the dim corridors between stacked shelves.
His steps were silent against the worn wooden floor, the sound of his own breathing deafened by the oppressive quiet. Shadows pooled along the corners, stretching like black ink across the boards. Each scroll seemed to vibrate faintly under his gaze, the parchment thrumming with hidden potential. Liuyun's pulse quickened. It was as if the ancient masters who had inscribed these texts still lingered, whispering to those bold—or foolish—enough to listen.
A faint murmur rose from below, almost lost in the vast silence of the hall. Liuyun froze. The sound was not wind, nor the settling of old wood. It was a voice, or rather a chorus of voices, faint and layered, weaving together in a cadence that brushed against the edges of his consciousness. Each syllable seemed soaked in ink, dripping with intent, resonating directly with his marrow.
Do you hear us? The whisper was soft, distant, yet certain, threading its way into his mind. Liuyun's fingers clenched, the jade talisman in his palm cold and insistent, responding to the hidden vibration. The pulse beneath the floorboards—the same pulse from the Hall of Dust—stirred again, a subtle heartbeat of latent energy.
His rational mind screamed caution. The elders had warned of wandering into forbidden corridors. The senior disciples would not hesitate to strike, their reprimands severe, their Qi capable of inflicting lasting harm. And yet, the curiosity that had festered for months, the frustration of repeated failure, the hunger to touch power that seemed always just beyond his reach—these forces outweighed fear.
Liuyun lowered himself to the floor, pressing his ear against the wooden boards. The whispers became clearer, though still unintelligible in words. They were not the voices of the living; they were older, foreign, layered with the rhythm of some ancient, unbroken pattern of Ink Qi. His heart trembled. He felt the energy—not fully, not yet—but enough to know it was unlike anything cultivated within the sect. It was chaotic, wild, yet precise, a foreign pulse that hinted at comprehension far beyond mortal training.
A sudden creak of a floorboard echoed through the hall. Liuyun froze, aware of the weight of every heartbeat. One of the senior disciples, tall and austere, stepped into view, his eyes narrowing. "Liuyun," he intoned, voice low yet sharp, "what are you doing here? You know the rules of the Hall of Ash Scrolls."
Liuyun hesitated, his palms pressed to the floor, feeling the faint warmth of the energy beneath him. "I… I heard something," he whispered. "A pulse. A… whisper of Ink."
The senior disciple's gaze hardened, and Liuyun felt the invisible pressure of his Qi pressing against him. "Do not provoke the seals. This hall is forbidden for a reason. Do you wish to be consumed by your own arrogance?"
Liuyun swallowed, nodding quickly, but he did not move. His awareness remained tethered to the vibration beneath him, to the strange cadence that thrummed with possibility. He had felt this pulse before, beneath the Hall of Dust, and now it spoke again beneath the scrolls. His failure to open his Qi had isolated him in the eyes of the sect, but perhaps this… this was the first spark that could lead him forward.
The senior disciple's expression softened marginally, though his voice remained firm. "You may leave. Do not return until you are summoned. And do not think you can handle forces you do not comprehend."
Liuyun bowed deeply, retreating backward, but as he rose, his gaze fell upon a single empty scroll, resting atop a pedestal in the far corner of the hall. Its paper was untouched, yet it shimmered faintly in the dim light, a pulse of red ink flickering along its edge, almost imperceptible. The whispers seemed to converge around it, subtle currents of foreign Ink Qi radiating outward.
He approached cautiously, each step measured, mindful of the elder's warning and the invisible seals rumored to guard the hall's deepest secrets. When he knelt before the pedestal, the red glow pulsed once more, and the whispering crescendoed, weaving through his mind in delicate, unintelligible patterns. The scroll was empty—no brush strokes, no inscriptions—but the energy was undeniable. It was as if the parchment itself had been waiting for him, aware of his presence.
Liuyun's fingers hovered over the scroll. The warmth beneath the floorboards extended upward, connecting with the pedestal, merging the latent energy of the hall with the foreign pulse that resonated within him. It was intoxicating, a dangerous thrill that made his head spin. The sect had taught him to fear such anomalies, to obey hierarchy, to suppress ambition until sanctioned by masters. And yet, his own failure, his own years of humiliation, whispered a counterpoint: here lay a chance to transcend what the elders deemed impossible.
He touched the paper lightly, fingertips brushing against the surface. The red glow pulsed stronger, spreading outward like a drop of ink in water. The whispers intensified, pressing against his mind with urgent insistence. He staggered back slightly, pulse racing, yet did not retreat. He had come too far, and the energy of the scroll beckoned him with a promise older than the sect itself.
Liuyun closed his eyes, focusing inward, attempting to sense the foreign Ink Qi with a clarity he had never achieved before. It was strange, erratic, yet coherent in ways the sect's teachings could not explain. Lines of potential flickered in his vision, threads of energy connecting the scroll, the floor beneath him, and his own stagnant Qi. For the first time, he sensed the possibility of flow, of awakening, of bending a power entirely foreign yet familiar in its rhythm.
The tension in the hall grew almost unbearable. Shadows pooled in deeper shades along the shelves, and the faint scent of ink and aged parchment thickened, almost choking. The senior disciple's earlier warning echoed in his mind, a sharp reminder of the danger: The seals will consume what you cannot contain. Yet the pull was irresistible. Liuyun's own inadequacy, his repeated failures, became fuel rather than shame. He would endure the risk, if only to glimpse the truth that lay hidden beneath centuries of tradition and fear.
As he knelt there, a trembling line of red spread along the empty scroll, forming patterns that seemed to emerge spontaneously, guided by the whispers themselves. Each flicker of light pulsed in perfect rhythm with the strange current beneath the floor. Liuyun's breath caught; he realized the scroll was not empty—it was alive, waiting for an artist to awaken it, to connect it with the currents of Ink Qi that defied the sect's teachings.
He felt the pulse synchronize with his heartbeat. The red glow intensified, then softened, like the ebb and flow of a distant tide. It was not violent; it did not overwhelm, yet it demanded acknowledgment. Liuyun's hand hovered just above the parchment, trembling, a brush poised to capture the resonance of this forbidden power. He sensed a choice before him: obey the sect, retreat, remain the lowest disciple as always… or reach forward and touch the mysteries that had long been denied to the weak.
The whispers deepened, forming threads of meaning he could not fully grasp. Their cadence was magnetic, subtle, commanding yet patient. The floor beneath him thrummed in harmony, the hidden pulse beneath the hall of Ash Scrolls aligning with the resonance of the empty scroll. Liuyun's vision blurred, ink-like patterns spiraling in the shadows, forming glyphs that hovered just beyond comprehension. He could feel them pressing against the edge of his consciousness, waiting for recognition, for mastery, for a hand bold enough to inscribe the first stroke.
He swallowed hard, lips dry, fingers trembling. The world around him—the hall, the shadows, the senior disciples, the weight of centuries of judgment—faded into the periphery. Only the scroll remained, alive with foreign Ink Qi, humming in harmony with the hidden pulse beneath the floorboards. A single thought took hold in his mind, piercing through fear and doubt:
I will learn. I will endure. I will awaken the ink that the sect denies me.
The red glow flared once more, brighter now, spilling faint light across Liuyun's features, casting long shadows that stretched across the hall. The whispers seemed to smile, faint and impossibly delicate, as if approving his resolve. He extended a trembling hand toward the scroll, fingertips mere centimeters from its surface. The warmth, the pulse, the impossible potential—all converged into a single point of tension.
Liuyun's heartbeat quickened. The hall itself seemed to hold its breath. One moment, and the forbidden energy would either yield to him… or consume him utterly.
The empty scroll pulsed again, a gentle, insistent rhythm, the red glow a heartbeat of ink and promise. Liuyun's fingers brushed the surface, and the whispers surged, wrapping around his mind like liquid shadow, urging him onward, into a realm of knowledge and power forbidden by mortal limits.
And in that instant, Shen Liuyun understood that the Hall of Ash Scrolls had chosen him, not as the lowest disciple of a rigid sect, but as the vessel for a power that had lain dormant, patient, and eternal.
The scroll's glow deepened, a crimson flame illuminating the shadows. The whispers crescendoed, echoing through the hall, ancient and alive. Liuyun's breath caught, heart thrumming in harmony with the forbidden energy. The journey that had begun in failure, shame, and despair now stretched into the unknown, into a realm of possibilities that defied the sect, defied expectation, and defied the very laws of Ink Qi itself.
Shen Liuyun, the lowest disciple, knelt before the empty scroll, and for the first time, he did not tremble with inadequacy. He trembled with the raw, intoxicating promise of power.
The crimson glow pulsed again, and the whispers whispered his name.