The dark cave—now a tomb-like stone cell—swallowed Yuncong whole as the stone wall rumbled shut behind him, cutting off the last glimmer of light. Darkness clung to him like a wet shroud—thick, cold, and suffocating, amplifying the despair that had already settled in his chest, even as that tiny spark of hope refused to die. He stumbled forward, hands outstretched, only to collide with rough, damp masonry that reeked of mildew and age. This was no mere prison; it was a tomb, and he was meant to rot here for three days before meeting the same gruesome end as his fellow scholars.

  He sank to the ground, his body throbbing from hours of binding. The memory of Song Shi's head rolling across the courtyard flashed before his eyes—followed by the sickening thud of each flying cymbal, the screams of his companions, the cold smirk of the fierce monk. Grief and terror tangled in his chest, squeezing out ragged sobs. He was the sole heir to nine branches of the Zhou clan; his parents and uncles waited for him in Guiyang, their hopes pinned on his success. Now, he would die in a nameless cave, his family's legacy shattered by a moment of curiosity.

  Time lost all meaning in the pitch black. He cried until his throat was raw, then drifted into a fitful sleep, only to be jolted awake by nightmares of flying cymbals and blood. When he stirred again, his stomach gnawed with hunger, and his lips were parched. Fumbling blindly, his fingers brushed against a rough clay bowl filled with stale steamed buns and a gourd of water—leftovers from Liaoyi's mercy, keeping his promise of three days' sustenance. He drank greedily, the water cool and metallic, then tore into a steamed bun, the stale dough sticking to his dry mouth. Even in despair, survival instinct held fast.

  As he ate, a faint draft brushed his cheek. He froze. There was no window, no crack in the walls—where could it come from? He held his breath, following the gentle current upward. His hands patted the ceiling, searching for a source, until his fingers brushed against something unexpected: a small, circular indentation, barely larger than his palm. It was smooth, as if carved intentionally. Hope flared like a spark in tinder—could this be a way out?

  He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the three “tools of death” Liaoyi had reluctantly handed him—mercy hidden in his master's cruelty: a small red paper bag of poison, a length of rope tied in a lucky knot, and a steel knife. He discarded the poison immediately—death by his own hand was unthinkable. Gripping the knife, he jammed its blade into the indentation and twisted. There was a faint scraping sound, and a sliver of dim light seeped through. His heart raced—he'd found a hidden vent, just large enough for a slender man to crawl through, but it was three zhang above the ground (nearly ten meters), far beyond his reach.

  Desperation fueled his ingenuity. He turned to the stone walls, driving the knife into the mortar between bricks. The blade bit into the soft stone, and with a grunt, he pried loose a brick. It was heavy—four inches thick and a foot wide—but he kept going, hacking and prying at the wall. His hands bled as the knife's edge dulled against the masonry, but he didn't stop. Each brick he removed was a step closer to freedom, a middle finger to the monks who thought him dead meat.

  Hours passed (or was it days? He couldn't tell) as he stacked the bricks in the center of the cell, layer by layer, like building a tiny pagoda. His muscles screamed, his hands burned, but the image of his family kept him going. When the brick pile reached eight chi high (over two and a half meters), he climbed to the top, balancing precariously on the unstable stack. The vent was still an arm's length above him. He tied the rope tightly around the knife's hilt, swung it in a wide arc, and prayed.

  The first throw missed, the knife clanging against the ceiling. The second fell short. On the third, he put all his strength into the swing—just as a distant roll of thunder echoed outside, the knife sailed upward and caught on the vent's edge with a sharp clink. He almost wept with relief. Testing the rope's tension, he found it held fast. He climbed higher, his legs trembling as the bricks shifted beneath him, and grasped the rope.

  Pulling himself upward, he grunted with effort. He was no Sword Warrior, no master of martial arts—just a scholar with a will to live. His arms burned, his shoulders ached, but he kept climbing, inch by inch, until his head emerged from the vent. Cold rain poured down on him, soaking his clothes to the bone. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the temple's roof—slick, sloped, and treacherous.

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  He hauled himself fully out, collapsing onto the wet tiles. The storm raged around him, wind howling like vengeful spirits. He had to move—if the monks found him, it would all be for nothing. Using the lightning flashes to navigate, he crawled toward the north end of the roof, where the wall of the temple met the neighboring property. Below, he could see the dark outline of a large tree, its branches swaying wildly in the wind.

  When he reached the edge, his heart sank. The wall was three zhang high, and the tree's closest branch was four chi away—too far to jump. He clung to the roof's edge, rain stinging his face, as another bolt of lightning lit up the night. In that split second, he saw it: a thick branch, bent by the wind, reaching almost to the wall. He waited, breath held, as the wind gusted again. When the branch swung toward him, he lunged, fingers clamping around its rough bark.

  The branch creaked under his weight, but held. He swung outward, his body dangling over the wall, then let go, dropping onto the soft earth below. Pain exploded in his ankle as he landed awkwardly, but he didn't stop—he ran, stumbling through the mud, until his legs gave out. He collapsed beneath the tree, his vision blurring as thunder boomed directly overhead. The last thing he felt was a sharp pain in his head, and then darkness swallowed him once more.

  When Yuncong opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a thatched ceiling, glowing faintly in the dawn light. He was lying on a hard wooden bed, covered in a thin, scratchy blanket. His body ached all over, but the cold of the stone cell was gone, replaced by the warmth of a small charcoal fire crackling in the corner.

  “Father, he's awake!” a soft voice said.

  Yuncong turned his head. A young girl, around sixteen, stood beside the bed, her hair tied back in a simple braid, holding a bowl of water. Next to her was an older man, his face lined with age but his eyes kind, wearing a coarse linen robe. They looked like father and daughter, peasants from the nearby village.

  He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his ankle made him wince. The girl rushed forward, supporting him gently. “Don't move too fast—you fell hard. We found you unconscious under the Huangjue tree by the temple wall last night.”

  She held the bowl to his lips, and he drank greedily, the warm water soothing his parched throat. Tears pricked his eyes—not from pain, but from relief. He was alive. He had escaped.

  The old man pulled a stool closer, his expression grave. “Young master, you're not from around here. What were you doing climbing over the Ciyun Temple wall in the middle of a storm? That place is no good—we villagers avoid it after dark. The monks there… they're not what they seem.”

  Yuncong's throat tightened as he thought of his fallen companions. He couldn't tell them everything—not yet—but he owed them the truth of how he'd ended up here. He took a deep breath, his voice hoarse but steady.

  “My name is Zhou Yuncong, from Guiyang,” he said. “I'm a Juren, on my way to the capital for the imperial examination. I traveled with sixteen other scholars—we came to visit Ciyun Temple, and… we stumbled onto their secret.”

  He told them of the hidden door, the women in the temple, the fierce monk with the flying cymbals, the massacre of his friends. He spoke of the stone cell, the brick pile, the escape over the wall. The girl's eyes widened in horror, and the old man shook his head, muttering curses under his breath.

  “They're devils, not monks,” the old man said, slamming his fist on the table. “We've heard whispers—travelers disappearing, strange lights at night—but no one dared speak up. The temple has too much power here.”

  The girl placed a hand on Yuncong's arm, her touch gentle. “You're safe here, Master Zhou. We won't tell anyone. But you can't stay long—if the monks find out you're alive, they'll come for you.”

  Yuncong nodded, his mind racing. He had to get to Chongqing, to find Wang Fu and Xiaosan'er, to warn others about the evil in Ciyun Temple. But first, he had to heal. He looked at the kind strangers who had saved his life, and bowed his head in gratitude.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I don't know how to repay you. But I promise—one day, I'll make those monks pay for what they did. For my friends, and for anyone else they've harmed.”

  The old man smiled faintly, patting his shoulder. “Rest now, young master. When you're strong enough, we'll help you get on your way. But remember—evil like that doesn't stay hidden forever. The gods always find a way to punish the wicked.”

  As Yuncong closed his eyes, the weight of his survival settled on him. He was alive, but he was not free—not yet. The monks of Ciyun Temple would hunt him, and the memory of his friends' deaths would haunt him forever. But he had a purpose now: to survive, to warn others, and to seek justice.

  Outside, the storm had passed, and the sun was rising over the mountains. A new day had begun—and with it, a new journey for Zhou Yuncong. One that would take him far beyond the imperial examination, into a world of danger, revenge, and secrets he could never have imagined.