Echoes of the Hollow Domain

Shen Jin slept —

but uneasily.

The spell woven by the Dream Wardens

was designed to bind the subconscious like chains.

Yet the stele whispered.

Not loudly.

Not in words.

But in a low, ceaseless rhythm

that pulled the threads apart.

He opened his eyes —

And saw nothing.

No room.

No light.

No direction.

Only a vast, perfect black.

The stele hovered before him.

Its surface peeled open in slow spirals,

each line shedding its glow

like skin removed from something deeper.

Then a voice.

A child's.

Sharp as a splinter of glass:

"Keybearer…

do you know how the last one died?"

Shen Jin did not answer.

The darkness beneath him cracked.

A stele fragment rose from the depths.

And with it —

a body.

Wearing the same robes he had.

But with no face.

A broken mark still embedded in its chest.

Old blood.

Dry and final.

Faceless —

Replaceable.

"Keybearer is only a shell.

You trust the mark…

but does the mark trust you?"

Pain flared in his hand.

The glyph glowed red.

Hot.

Alive.

He tried to move.

Couldn't.

The dream held him.

And on the other side of the mark —

a figure emerged.

Like him.

But featureless.

As if the mirror had created

its own version.

Then the voice —

not from the outside now.

From inside.

"The Keybearer

is not a key.

The Keybearer

is the lock."

Darkness surged.

Like a tide

meant to drown the self.

He fell.

And the stele shrieked,

a silent noise that only the soul could hear.

Outside —

the spellwork snapped.

The wardens felt it —

but couldn't reach in.

And no one knew

what Shen Jin saw.

Or what part of him

no longer believed.

—

The council chamber of Lingyuan Division

was quiet as a sealed tomb.

No windows.

No mirrors.

Only three pale lanterns flickered overhead,

their light dancing on ink-slick parchment

and the cold silver of law-bound sigils.

Qi Ming Heng sat at the head.

Composed.

Still.

But his fingers tapped a steady rhythm

against the stone table —

a cadence that once signaled

interrogation.

Few were gathered.

All old.

All carved from law and silence.

The air was thick.

As if pressed under stone.

Ji Xuanhe of the Watchers was the first to speak.

His voice dry as old bone:

"The stele has stirred.

The dream seals failed.

If word reaches the Five Orders,

our authority trembles."

He did not look at Qi Ming Heng,

but at the decree on the table —

signed by Five Orders and Eight Sects.

Tong Qian, another lawkeeper,

gave a soft sigh:

"The Keybearers of history

were known, clear, and proven.

Shen Jin is not.

His mark…

cannot speak for him."

If Shen Jin had heard it,

he might have laughed.

They never believed him.

Qi Ming Heng lifted his gaze.

"Your proposal."

Silence.

Then —

Rong Hu, head of the spies:

"The Accountability Writ."

The table pulsed.

Just slightly.

A ripple through the air.

Qi Ming Heng said nothing.

He reached for a scroll.

Pressed his palm to the page.

White light shimmered.

He smiled —

low.

"Even the word

'Keybearer'

fits nicely in a charge."

No one responded.

No one looked up.

Beyond the doors,

Luo Qinghan stood.

Still.

Hands clasped.

Eyes unreadable.

She couldn't hear the words.

But she felt them.

A name

was being removed

on the other side of that door.

A name

they had once believed sacred.

—

The side hall was usually quiet —

a place for dream review and record restoration.

Now, it held only one figure.

Luo Qinghan sat near the window,

a scroll half-open in her hand,

its edge curled from hours of touch.

She hadn't turned the page in a while.

She just stared —

at the quiet shimmer of spirit light beyond the lattice.

Footsteps.

Measured.

Unhurried.

They belonged to someone who knew the weight of these halls.

Qi Ming Heng entered.

His gaze passed over the scroll.

Then beyond her shoulder —

to the spirit mirror mounted on the far wall.

He did not sit.

Only said:

"Jing Sect never liked to choose sides.

You were better at watching."

Luo Qinghan met his eyes.

"I'm not here to choose.

I'm here to record."

He gave a smile —

without warmth.

"You've recorded his dreams.

His changes.

But what if he's no longer the one

you thought you were recording?"

Her brow shifted.

Slightly.

He stepped closer.

"The stele doesn't choose souls.

It chooses vessels.

And the more you stand near him,

the harder it becomes to know

whether you trust him —

or the version of him

you imagined."

The words settled between them.

Cold.

Heavy.

Luo Qinghan rose.

Slowly.

"If you truly believe

Shen Jin is unfit —

then why wait?"

Qi Ming Heng didn't answer.

Then turned.

"Because I want him

to say it first."

The door closed behind him.

Silence returned.

The spirit mirror on the wall gleamed faintly.

She looked into it.

But the reflection —

no longer felt like hers.

She gripped the scroll tightly,

and for the first time,

wondered

if Shen Jin

was ever the person

she thought she could understand.

—

Within the stele vault,

something was unraveling.

Shen Jin lay on the stone slab,

but his breath came shallow,

his brow furrowed.

His fingers clutched the glyph in his palm,

as though in sleep

he still grappled with some unseen enemy.

The dream wards pulsed.

Then flickered.

Fine strands of spellscript

peeled away from their boundaries,

unwritten by a force

that pulsed not from the outside —

but from the stele itself.

On his chest,

the mark shone.

Dimly.

Red.

Lines spread like veins,

cracks spidering outward in blood-like threads.

His body twitched.

His skin ran with sweat.

Outside the vault,

Luo Qinghan ran.

She had come from the Dream Mirror Hall,

chased by fear.

And when she saw the trembling ward —

"Something's wrong. Let me through."

The wardens blocked her path.

"Orders. No entry."

She didn't argue.

She moved.

The water mirror glyph appeared at her palm.

One breath.

And it shattered the seal.

Light cracked.

The dream and the mirror briefly joined.

She fell inside.

And found —

chaos.

A dreamscape formed of floating glyphs and mirrored fragments.

Each shard reflected Shen Jin's face.

But none were whole.

The stele burned at his chest.

His mind drifted —

closer to something

beneath even thought.

Then —

"Shen Jin!"

Her voice —

clear.

She stepped into the sea of mirrors,

robes torn by chaotic spirit winds.

He turned.

But his eyes —

didn't know her.

The mark throbbed.

A second heart.

Burning.

His voice broke out, faint:

"I…

am not the Keybearer."

The dream collapsed.

The light exploded outward.

Luo Qinghan was thrown free,

cast out of the dream.

She hit the floor outside the mirror array,

gasping.

Her hand —

still bore a brand

where the mark had touched.

She stared at the veil of magic.

And knew.

The stele

wasn't just awakening.

It was

rewriting him.