The Unwritten Paths
The chamber pulsed with a strange, sentient silence. Gao Mingyu and Li Xuan stood at the heart of the Vein Archive, surrounded by doors carved from petrified ink and lost memories. Light shimmered dimly off dozens of portals lining the circular walls, each bearing names that belonged to them—and yet didn't. Some names were familiar; others felt like distant echoes from lives never lived. lives that probably didn't matter also.
Li Xuan stepped toward one door. Her name was etched into it in calligraphy that glowed with soft blue fire. As her fingers neared the handle, it twisted gently, like it had been waiting.
"This place feels like it's watching us," she murmured.
It definitely was doing that.
"More like it's studying us," Mingyu replied, eyeing his own door, glowing in muted amber. His expression was unreadable, eyes shadowed beneath the hood of his sojourner's overall.
A voice whispered into their thoughts, oily and ancient—the Ink Librarian, the entity guarding this fractured realm of abandoned tales.
"To escape your predator, you must fracture your patterns. Walk into your unwalked pasts. Become the stories that never happened."
Mingyu sighed. "Couldn't just be 'run fast,' could it?"
The Librarian responded with dry amusement. "Or would you rather leave a clean scent trail for Damian to follow?"
They exchanged a look. They'd done this before—split up, survived, rejoined. But it never got easier.
"We split again," Li Xuan said quietly.
"You always say that like it doesn't terrify you," Mingyu replied.
"I've just gotten used to being terrified," she smiled faintly.
Without another word, they turned and walked through separate doors.
---
Mingyu emerged into a world burning at the edges.
This version of Zhenbei was a war zone. Ash hung in the air. The Department of Harmonious Rest was gone, replaced by a stone coliseum where cultivators fought for survival. Children trained with swords. Elders armed themselves with relics. Fear lingered like fog.
Mingyu caught his reflection in a fractured mirror. He was lean, sharp-eyed, scarred. This version of him hadn't napped through anything.
They called him The Resolute Fang.
He walked through the streets like a war god, people parting before him, bowing—not in reverence, but in fear. The coliseum drew him, thunderous with screams and steel. He stepped inside.
There, in the arena, he saw himself. Sword raised, poised to strike. Across from him stood a girl. No, not just any girl—Li Xuan. Younger. Weaker. Afraid.
"Fang! Fang! Fang!" the crowd roared.
Mingyu leapt into the ring.
"STOP!"
The other Mingyu turned. Their eyes met—one cold and ruthless, the other tired and determined.
"You're the one who ran," Fang-Mingyu said. "The napper. The coward."
"And you're the one who never stopped to feel," Mingyu shot back.
"If you want to save her," Fang-Mingyu said, tossing a sword at his feet, "then take her place."
Mingyu picked up the blade.
And fought.
Steel clashed. The crowd fell silent. Sweat and blood ran together as the two Mingyus mirrored and countered, two halves of a soul colliding. Fang-Mingyu fought to kill. Gao Mingyu fought to reclaim.
"You hesitate," Fang growled.
"I reflect," Mingyu replied.
"You're soft."
"I'm human."
Their swords locked. Mingyu dropped his, slammed his forehead into Fang's nose, and brought him crashing down.
"I may sleep through battles," he whispered, "but I wake up for what matters."
The coliseum crumbled. Ink swallowed the walls. He fell through a tunnel of swirling glyphs.
---
Li Xuan stepped into a memory of peace.
She had never left home. Her parents were alive. Her life was gentle, filled with healing and warmth. She never awakened her portal ability. Never became a warrior.
She watched her alternate self tend to patients. Her mother brought tea. Her father joked at the door. Happiness lived here.
Then came the mirror.
She peered into it. Saw the world outside—burning, broken, and bloodied. Damian walked through ash. Aunt Bao's arm lay severed. Rui Lin's head rolled.
She wasn't there to stop it.
This peaceful world had survived… because it had no burden.
The mirror cracked. Her reflection cried ink.
A voice whispered: "This is what happens when you choose comfort over cost."
A portal appeared—shaped like a compass. It called her.
She stepped forward, leaving the warmth behind. But a part of her ached. A part of her longed to stay—to choose an easier version of life. The path of lesser pain. The road of no responsibility. But she couldn't. Because in her true life, people were dying, and someone had to stand.
---
Damian prowled the upper layers of the Archive.
The Story Binder lay wounded. Her pages scattered. Her protectors erased.
He found a door.
A shortcut.
He smiled.
And stepped in.
---
Mingyu landed beside Li Xuan in the Archive's main chamber. His sleeve was torn. His chest burned.
"You're bleeding," she said.
"Yeah," he coughed. "Sword lessons were rough."
She smiled, teary-eyed. "I missed your dumb mouth."
"I missed not bleeding," he replied.
They sat for a moment. Breathing. Their reflections distorted in the inky floor.
"What did you see?" he asked.
"A life where I never left. My parents… were alive."
He looked down. "Mine was worse. I fought myself. And I think I hated him."
The Archive around them trembled. Doors slammed. The ink soured. Words faded from the walls.
A new door opened.
Damian walked in.
Or rather, his echo—a shadow, a whisper of him, flickering like a broken film. Not strong enough to kill, but strong enough to watch.
He stared at them with disdain.
"You can hide in stories," Damian's voice rasped, "but stories end."
Li Xuan stood slowly, whispered a word of banishment in a tongue taught only in crumbling books. The echo shuddered. Cracked. Shattered.
The Archive sighed. Relief rippled through its walls.
A final door opened—unmarked. A soft breeze blew from within.
Blue sky. Rolling grass.
Not safety. But something close enough to hope.
They looked at each other.
"Ready?" she asked.
He gave a tired smile. "Always."
And together, they stepped through.