The cavern lay in near-perfect silence.
Not ordinary silence—the kind that pressed on the ears and the chest alike, as though the earth itself were holding its breath. Even the dust seemed suspended midair, refusing to fall. Chen Yu's companions were tense; Li Wei's knuckles whitened on the drone controller, Wang Jian shifted his weight repeatedly, and Zhao Min's scanner flickered in uncertainty.
Chen Yu stepped closer to the altar. He did not touch it at first. He crouched, letting his eyes roam over the spiralling grooves, tracing them with careful attention. His fingers hovered just above the surface, feeling the faint vibration of stone as if it were a pulse.
These are not mere carvings, he thought, but records. Not meant for anyone to claim. Only for those who can read what remains unspoken.
Li Wei muttered, irritated. "You've been staring at it for half an hour. What are you even seeing?"
Chen Yu did not answer. Instead, he bent lower, fingertips brushing along a spiral. He noticed the depth of erosion on one edge, sharper than the other, and the subtle angles of the grooves—intentional, but hidden by time.
He adjusted his breathing, letting the rhythm of his own heartbeat match what he sensed from the stone. Where others would have tried to measure, to control, or to react instinctively, Chen Yu simply aligned. He did not resist the subtle tug in his chest, nor did he reach for dominance over it.
Then the cavern shifted.
It was subtle at first. A faint tightening of the air, like a cold hand pressing against the chest. Li Wei staggered, muttering curses. Zhao Min sank to her knees, eyes wide, her scanner clattering uselessly to the floor. Wang Jian gripped a jagged rock, teeth clenched, sweat rolling down his temples.
Chen Yu felt the same pressure—but he did not panic. He inhaled slowly, steadying his stance. He let the weight pass through him instead of pushing back, letting his body and mind flow with the force rather than against it.
For a fleeting moment, the altar seemed to acknowledge this stillness.
The grooves deepened imperceptibly, revealing images almost hidden: figures kneeling beneath endless skies, flames cradled in trembling hands, humans standing before powers beyond reckoning.
Not myths, Chen Yu realised. Not stories for entertainment. These are echoes of what once was. Lessons, not temptation.
The cavern's air thickened, folding inward. Light dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally. Time itself felt unsteady, moving in slow, irregular pulses.
Li Wei shouted and lunged forward, instinct overriding reason. His voice cracked, panicked. The pressure intensified, and he collapsed to one knee, clutching his chest. Zhao Min's cries became unintelligible; she toppled sideways, unmoving. Wang Jian's body trembled violently, frozen in half a defensive stance.
Chen Yu did not move. He neither rushed nor resisted. He focused on the patterns of the grooves, the faint pulse beneath the stone, the rhythm of his own breathing. The moment the others flailed, his composure steadied the immediate area around him.
It was not a strength. It was awareness.
And something within his blood stirred. Subtle. Quiet. A whisper of an echo, as though the stone had touched an ancient lineage long buried—something older than gods themselves.
The pressure faded slowly, like mist retreating before the morning sun. The others lay sprawled, gasping and trembling, their faces pale. Li Wei's eyes rolled back; Wang Jian pressed his hands against the cavern floor for support. Zhao Min did not move.
Chen Yu rose smoothly. He did not look triumphant, nor frightened. His gaze returned to the altar, to the spiralling stone, to the silent grooves that now seemed almost alive.
He exhaled softly. He did not know why he had survived when the others had not. He only understood one thing:
The altar does not reward strength, nor fear, nor desire. It responds to understanding, to restraint, to the willingness to observe without demanding.
The cavern, having tested them, grew quiet once more. But Chen Yu sensed it was watching still—patiently, deliberately, as if it had awakened only to see whether someone was worthy.
And somewhere deep within, he felt a seed stir. A fragment of his bloodline, dormant and unclaimed, quivering as though it had recognised its first true heir.
The altar had not yet granted a boon. It had only… chosen to notice.