Echoes of the Hollow Domain

The Mirror Gate didn't open like other portals.

There was no rush of light, no pulling sensation.

Instead —

it unfolded.

A ripple.

Like ink dropped into still water.

One ring after another expanded from the broken sigils,

and within those circles —

a doorway twisted itself into being.

When Shen Jin and Luo Qinghan stepped through,

they were not pulled.

They were enveloped.

Something soft, unseen —

like fog spun from memory.

The air grew heavier.

Their senses blurred.

Like walking into someone else's dream

before the dreamer had given it a name.

The stele's dream.

…

They didn't know how far they had walked.

Or for how long.

Until the ground beneath them

stopped changing.

Shen Jin halted.

So did she.

Before them stretched a frozen plain.

Colorless.

Lightless.

The floor reflected nothing,

but it shone like still mercury.

The sky above it matched.

There was no wind.

No sound.

Just

a waiting silence.

In Shen Jin's palm,

the stele warmed.

Not like heat.

But like a memory awakening.

"It's… beginning,"

he said.

Luo Qinghan caught it too.

She touched the broken core of her mirror,

eyes tightening.

Then —

the tremor.

Slabs of stone erupted from the emptiness.

Shattered fragments —

each carrying strange, ancient carvings —

rose around them in a circle.

A monument of fragments.

Each bearing inscriptions

that inked themselves into the air,

as if bleeding out of time itself:

"The Key does not belong to the bearer.

Gods leave only echoes.

The Lock… must not open."

Shen Jin's eyes narrowed.

Then —

a flash of pain.

He staggered.

Fell to one knee.

The stele in his hand blazed.

But it wasn't burning.

It was writing.

Into him.

Memories —

not his own —

shoved themselves into his mind.

Keybearers.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Burning before gates.

Laughing.

Crying.

Failing.

None of them

had mastered the mark.

Because the stele never chose.

It only —

preserved.

And now

it would carve their stories

into him, too.

Shen Jin clenched his teeth.

His whole arm trembled.

His breath fractured.

Luo Qinghan reached out —

but hit an invisible wall.

She could only watch

as he knelt in the hollow

and the trial

began.

—

Luo Qinghan stood just beyond the wall.

She could see Shen Jin —

kneeling,

shaking,

his stele flickering in bursts of light and shadow

like it was caught in an unseen struggle.

She kept her hand on the mirror core,

tempted to break through —

but didn't.

This wasn't a spellwall.

It was a space of will.

Of memory.

A trial drawn not in force,

but in fragments of buried history

etched into the bearer's mind.

She had no right to cross it.

Then —

a shift.

A presence.

She turned fast.

Behind her —

just a few steps to the left —

stood a shadow.

Vague.

Unmoving.

And all too familiar.

It had Shen Jin's shape.

But no face.

No breath.

It was like a statue

left half-carved.

"Who are you?"

she asked.

It said nothing.

But as she stepped forward,

it lifted its head.

It had no eyes —

yet somehow it

saw her.

Then it spoke.

Its voice was gravel and echo:

"You… are in his dream too."

Luo Qinghan flinched.

A step back.

"You're in his dream," it repeated.

"But you're not the one he means to keep.

You're only… the witness."

Her gaze narrowed.

"Then what are you?

A stele echo? A thought fragment? Or — him?"

It laughed.

Not amused.

But broken.

"I am the one

he chose not to be.

The path he buried."

Then it stepped forward,

and its voice struck

like iron into stone:

"If he breaks —

will you record his ruin?

Or will you erase the page,

pretend it never happened?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then slowly,

she raised the mirror core.

And said:

"I am a mirror-bearer.

If he burns,

I'll capture the ash.

If he rebuilds,

I'll mark the light.

I do not erase pages."

The shadow stared at her.

Measuring.

Judging.

And then —

it faded.

Like smoke pulled apart by wind.

And in its absence,

she felt it —

the stele pulsed.

Shen Jin

was still

holding on.

—

The moment the stone circle quaked,

Shen Jin opened his eyes.

They were tired —

red-rimmed and raw —

but clear.

The stele's glow had changed.

No longer a flare,

no longer erratic.

It now pulsed gently in his hand,

trailing faint lines of ink-black light in the air —

lines that curled, spiraled, and lingered,

writing something

he couldn't yet name.

The mark wasn't just a seal anymore.

It was a structure.

A layered one.

As if it were becoming what it had once been —

a living archive,

unfolding itself

from the inside out.

The glyphs that emerged

belonged to no known system.

Not divine.

Not mortal.

They were old.

Or perhaps

never meant to be read at all.

Luo Qinghan froze.

Even without understanding,

she felt it —

the intent of language

that existed

without a reader.

She placed the mirror core before her,

drew a recording glyph into the air,

and began copying what she saw.

To her surprise —

the mark responded.

Instead of resisting,

it lifted some of the symbols higher into the air,

allowing her reflection to capture them

perfectly.

Shen Jin glanced at her.

"Do you understand any of it?"

Her voice was soft:

"Not understand.

Just… record.

These words aren't for comprehension.

They are for… preservation."

The next glyph emerged.

But it wasn't just a glyph.

It was a shape.

A spiral of language and image,

blending into one —

neither diagram nor paragraph,

but both.

The edges of the stele

absorbed the spiral

like it belonged there all along.

Luo Qinghan's breath caught.

"This is the beginning.

The outer layer.

The first of the hidden locks."

Shen Jin nodded slightly.

Then —

a hum.

Deep.

From the edge of the circle.

Her eyes widened.

"The gate is closing!"

He looked up.

The mark sealed itself in his hand

as if it, too, understood.

Time in the Hollow

was nearly out.