Fire Spring

 The Fire Spring, encircled by stones, steamed with mist and radiant haze, its glow cutting sharply through the pervasive darkness of this eternal night.

 Qin Ming crouched by the pool, retrieving a luminous stone from its depths. It shimmered brighter than red coral, casting prismatic halos.

 Every household's Sunstones originated from this spring. Once extinguished, the stones could be returned here to recharge, regaining their brilliance after days submerged.

 The pool blazed crimson, molten in appearance yet cooler than human skin. Its ripples flickered like flames, though it held neither true fire nor water—instead, a mysterious substance defying categorization.

 In this era devoid of daylight, only gradations of night existed: Pale Night and Deep Night.

 The Fire Spring had become indispensable. Crops like mutated Silver Wheat and common earth potatoes relied on its nourishing waters. Even humans withered without prolonged exposure to its light. It was the bedrock of survival.

 Seasons persisted despite the endless dark. During spring and summer, the spring surged, feeding agriculture. By winter, it dwindled to a dim glow—as in Twin Trees Village, where it now barely sustained Sunstone recharging.

 Humanity clung to these luminous oases. Yet their visibility drew predators from the dark. A fragile equilibrium held, but threats loomed: monstrous birds with scythe-like beaks that stripped fields bare, swarms of frost-resistant ants, and human desperation.

 Pale Night's faint glow allowed glimpses of snow-smothered forests. Deep Night brought impenetrable blackness. Qin Ming stared into the void, contemplating the village's food crisis. Chest-high snowdrifts and unseen dangers made foraging lethal.

 By the spring, twin obsidian-and-quartz trees shed snowflakes that glittered in the fiery haze. Their jade-like leaves repelled insects in summer but offered little else. Qin Ming brushed frost from his neck, resolving to venture out once healed.

 Back in his barren courtyard, he practiced a series of fluid, ritualized motions—a lifelong discipline. Sweat beaded his brow as warmth surged through him. Afterward, he retrieved a thumb-sized crystal vial containing azure liquid flecked with ice. The label read *Ore Essence*.

 He resisted uncorking it. This rare substance, discovered in a perilous mountain crevice, could enhance physical and mental states—but only when the body was primed. His recent illness had delayed its use.

 As Pale Night faded, visitors arrived: Lu Ze and his five-year-old son Wen Rui, whose cheeks glowed ruddy from cold.

 "Uncle, are you better?" the boy asked, eyes wide.

 "Soon," Qin Ming promised, "I'll find you that talking Yuque bird you've wanted." The child's excitement lit the dim room.

 Lu Ze warned against rash expeditions while handing over a meal of gritty rock rice—staple sustenance. Hidden within were precious jujubes, likely saved from his family's dwindling stores. Wen Rui's longing glance at the fruit twisted Qin Ming's conscience.

 After insisting the boy take the sweets, Qin Ming pressed for news. Strange movements plagued the woods—massive creatures, glowing eyes that silenced forests. Memories resurfaced: a month prior, he'd fallen into a chasm with three others. Blinding light, silver filaments warping perception, corpses bearing the Ore Essence... The others died upon return; he alone survived weeks of fevered delirium.

 That night, practicing his motions, Qin Ming glimpsed silver ripples across his skin—new and electrifying. Exhaustion followed, but vitality thrummed beneath. Hunger clawed at him, sharpened by the day's exertions.

 He dreamed of roasted meats and summer orchards, resolve hardening. At dawn's faint glow, he would brave the frozen wilds—for Wen Rui's smile, for survival, and perhaps, for the silver light awakening within.