His eyes were locked on the trailing line of liquid history—a shimmering, amber thread of ink that snaked through the air toward the back of the vault.
He lunged after it, his boots skidding on the polished jade. But as his fingers brushed the glowing light, the floor didn't just end; it dissolved into a vertical shaft.
He plummeted again, but the sensation was different this time. The air didn't rush past him; it draped over him like heavy velvet. The scent hit him before he even hit the ground: Old, Fancy, and Decadent. It was the smell of aged cognac, expensive cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of silver platters that had been polished a thousand times.
He landed on his feet, but his knees buckled. This wasn't a cushion or a dirt mound. He was standing on a floor of white marble, polished so brightly he could see his own terrified reflection beneath his boots.
He was in a Grand Ballroom.
The space was gargantuan. Gold-leafed columns stretched toward a ceiling painted with a sky that looked far more real than the one he'd left in Gyeongju. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen explosions of light, though no candles burned within them. Instead, they hummed with a low, electrical thrum.
It was a scene of a celebration caught in amber.
The tables were draped in white linen, set with crystal flutes and silver forks, but the plates were empty. There was no food, only the lingering idea of a feast. Soft, haunting violin music drifted from the corners, the melody looping in a way that made Ji-yeol's skin crawl. It was a song that sounded like it was being played from a distance of fifty years.
And then he saw them.
The walls weren't decorated with paintings or mirrors. They were covered in Silhouettes.
Unlike the red-threaded monsters in the rain, these were flat, charcoal-black shadows burned directly into the gold-flecked wallpaper. They were frozen in mid-dance—men in tuxedos, women in flowing gowns—their forms overlapping in a chaotic, two-dimensional waltz. They didn't move, yet Ji-yeol could hear the phantom rustle of silk and the clink of glasses every time he blinked.
"Is anyone here?" Ji-yeol called out. His voice was swallowed by the velvet curtains, leaving no echo.
He walked toward the center of the room, his porcelain leg feeling heavy in the oppressive luxury. As he passed an empty table, he noticed a single glass filled with a liquid that looked like liquid gold.
A shadow on the wall nearest the table shifted.
It didn't step out into the room. It simply slid along the wallpaper, its two-dimensional hand reaching for the shadow of the glass on the table. When the shadow-hand "touched" the shadow-glass, the real glass on the table tipped over, spilling the gold liquid across the white linen.