Wei Long’s Redemption

The jungle was alive with whispers of wind through the treetops, of creatures that stirred only under the moon’s gaze, and of memories that refused to stay buried.

In the heart of that ancient forest, where even the birds dared not sing too loud, stood the skeletal remains of a once-sacred temple. Time had not been kind. Vines coiled around broken columns like serpents. Moss had claimed every stone. The carvings of long-forgotten gods were faded and cracked, their faces lost to centuries of silence.

Moonlight spilled through the tangled canopy above, bathing the ruins in an ethereal glow. Silvery beams danced across the stone floor, cutting through the darkness with a strange reverence. The place felt suspended between worlds—abandoned by civilization, yet untouched by the chaos of the modern age. It was a place of endings. And perhaps, a beginning.