The corridor was not supposed to exist.
At least, not according to any map the Archive Hall possessed.
The girl—who had not yet said her name aloud to anyone that day—walked slowly, every step measured, as though she feared the pale stone beneath her feet might dissolve if she moved too quickly. The walls were smoother here than anywhere else in the Archives, polished to a soft, unnatural gleam. They glowed faintly, not with torchlight or crystal lamps, but with something woven deep into the stone itself—an ancient enchantment that hummed like a barely remembered lullaby.
There were no doors.
No alcoves.
No shelves of scrolls.
Only a narrow passage stretching forward, bathed in cold, quiet light.
Her footsteps echoed far too loudly. Each soft tap of her shoes felt like a shout in the stillness.
She glanced back once.
The corridor she had come from no longer looked quite the same. The familiar dim lanternlight was blurred, distorted, as if seen through deep water. The air beyond seemed heavier, thicker, reluctant to let her return.
A sensible person would have turned back.
She did not.
Something gentle but insistent guided her forward—not a voice, not yet, but a feeling. It wrapped around her ribs and heart like an invisible thread, tugging her deeper into the hidden places of the Archives. It felt strangely intimate, like a memory that belonged to someone else but had been waiting inside her all along.
With every step, her pulse quickened.
At the end of the corridor stood a pair of tall doors formed from pale crystal.
They were beautiful in a way that made her uneasy. Their surface was smooth and flawless, faintly reflecting her image back at her—but in the reflection, her eyes seemed brighter, almost luminous.
They were not locked.
They did not need to be.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the cool crystal. When her fingers touched it, a chill spread through her skin—not unpleasant, but startlingly alive, as if the door itself were aware of her presence.
For one fleeting moment, she had the strange impression that it was listening.
She pushed.
The doors parted without a sound.
Beyond them lay a chamber unlike any room in the Archive Hall.
It was wide and circular, its ceiling rising into shadow so deep it seemed endless. The walls were made of translucent stone that glowed from within, pale and shimmering, as though moonlight had been trapped inside and slowly bled through. The air was cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of rain on stone and something older beneath it—something like distant starlight.
The silence was profound.
Not empty.
Expectant.
In the center of the chamber floated a massive shard of crystal, taller than a man and shaped like a jagged tear in the air itself. Runes—ancient, half-forgotten—crawled faintly across its surface, pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm.
And inside it…
A sword.
The girl's breath caught.
It was long and elegant, its blade dark as deep space. Thin silver lines traced its surface, curving and branching like constellations across a night sky. They shimmered faintly, not with reflected light, but with something that seemed to glow from within the metal itself.
Stars.
She had seen many weapons in her life. Cultivators carried blades like badges of honor, each more elaborate and radiant than the last.
This was different.
This sword did not radiate power.
It felt like power holding its breath.
A pressure built behind her eyes, sudden and aching. Tears welled before she could stop them.
"I know you," she whispered.
The words were absurd.
And yet they were true.
She stepped closer. The crystal shard brightened in response, its runes glowing softly as if stirred from long sleep. The ache in her chest deepened, becoming something almost unbearable.
Fragments brushed against her thoughts.
A night sky blazing with falling stars.
A voice calling her name.
Hands—warm, strong—closing around hers in a promise she could not remember making.
Her knees weakened.
She reached out, stopping just short of touching the crystal.
"I don't remember," she said, her voice barely more than a breath. "But I feel like I should."
The chamber remained silent.
Then—
You always did.
The voice did not echo.
It did not come from the sword or the walls or the air.
It came from inside her.
She gasped, stumbling back, heart pounding so hard it hurt. "Who—who's there?"
You sound afraid, the voice replied gently. You never used to be.
Her breath came in shallow, unsteady pulls. "How do you know me?"
The sword glowed a fraction brighter, silver lines shimmering like starlight on water.
Because you are the only thing I ever knew.
A shiver ran through her, sharp and deep. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Footsteps rang suddenly through distant halls.
Voices.
Urgent.
Alarmed.
She spun toward the doors, panic flaring in her chest. "I—I think someone's coming."
Of course they are, the voice said softly. There was something like dry amusement in it, and beneath that, something wounded. They have been afraid of me for a very long time.
"Afraid of… you?"
Afraid of what you and I were.
The crystal trembled faintly, a ripple passing through its glowing surface.
The footsteps were closer now—boots against stone, the hiss of shifting robes, the low murmur of cultivation energy being drawn.
Listen to me, the voice said, urgent now. They will try to take me from you. They always do.
Her throat tightened. "I don't even know who you are."
You will, he replied. But not yet.
The doors burst open.
Light and power flooded the chamber as several figures rushed in, clad in flowing white and gold robes marked with luminous sigils—the Celestial Guardians, elite protectors of the empire's most dangerous secrets.
At their center stood a tall woman with silver hair braided in the style of an old warrior. Faint scars traced her cheek and brow, and her eyes were sharp enough to cut.
Her gaze snapped to the girl.
Then to the sword.
Shock rippled through the group.
"That's impossible," one of them whispered.
The silver-haired woman stepped forward. "Child," she commanded, her voice ringing with authority. "Move away from the relic."
The girl tried.
Her feet did not move.
A warmth spread through her chest, steady and anchoring, as though invisible arms were holding her in place.
Do not let them separate us again, the voice whispered.
Fear surged in her throat.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The girl swallowed. If she told the truth, they would kill her. If she lied—
Everything would change.
"I am," she said, forcing her voice to steady, "the one it chose."
The sword flared.
Silver light exploded outward, washing across the chamber like a wave of falling stars.
For the first time in six hundred years…
The empire felt the heavens move.