The cellar of the Celestial Swallow was not merely a storage for wine; it was a "treasure trove" of shadowed horrors where the vibrant life of the Tang Dynasty ended and a "post-apocalyptic" nightmare began. As the three shackled Lunar Warriors lunged, the heavy iron chains groaned against the stone, a sound that underscored the "life-and-death crisis" unfolding in the dark. Prince Zhao stepped into the path of the first creature, his body already humming with a "supernatural power" that blurred the line between the royal and the bestial.
The air was thick with a "sense of crisis"—a suffocating blend of rotting organic matter and the ozone-heavy scent of the Prince's awakening "cheat system". Zhao's "invincible" warrior persona took hold, his silver-gray talons cutting through the dim light as he intercepted a strike that would have crushed a mortal man. Each blow he struck resonated with the weight of a "grand worldview design," the clash of his silver claws against the creatures' translucent, reinforced skin sounding like temple bells in a storm.
Li Mei did not allow herself to become "cannon fodder" or a bystander in this "heart-pounding mystery". While Zhao managed the physical threat, she focused her "Golden Finger"—her scent-tracking ability—on the back corner of the cellar where the impossible aroma of her father's favorite Baimudan tea lingered. It was a "satisfaction point" that created a powerful "emotional connection," cutting through her clinical "rationality" with the sharp blade of hope.
She moved toward a stack of moldering silk crates, her fingers ghosting over her silver needles. Beneath the pervasive "arsenic and musk," her nose detected a hidden mechanism behind the wall—a scent of polished brass and fresh ink that didn't belong in a cellar. With a practiced flick, she hit a pressure plate. A portion of the stonework slid back with a "stiff" grind, revealing a secret alcove.
Inside, the atmosphere changed abruptly. The scent of the "apocalypse" outside was replaced by the orderly, clean fragrance of a "professional author's" sanctuary—bitter herbs, drying scrolls, and that persistent, haunting echo of steamed tea. On a small stone desk sat a cooling cup of white tea and a journal bound in the familiar leather of her father's workshop.
"Li Wei... you were here," Mei whispered, her "voice covered in dust" as she realized her father had not just been a victim of the "traditional publishing barriers" of the palace, but an active researcher in this "underground world".
She grabbed the journal, her "Golden Finger" picking up a faint, secondary scent on the pages: the lavender of the Empress Dowager. It was the "interest insurance" she needed, proof that her father's "disappearance" was a "conspiracy" involving the highest levels of the "kingdom building" elite.
Behind her, the struggle intensified. Zhao let out a roar of "ruthless" power as he threw the last of the mutated warriors against the far wall, the "cliffhanger" of his control slipping as the gold in his eyes threatened to drown the black. The creature didn't die; it "revived like a zombie," its silver skin knitting back together with a "rough and unnatural" speed.
"Mei! We have to go!" Zhao shouted, his voice now more "beast" than prince, his "character growth" sliding toward a dangerous apex. "The arsenic in the air... it's a 'time-limited' trigger for them!"
As they retreated toward the stairs, Mei clutched her father's journal to her chest, her "main story" finally aligning. She realized that the "monsters" in the cellar were not failures; they were "upgrades" meant to serve a new order. The "pacing" of their journey had just shifted from a search for a cure to a "marathon" for the soul of the empire.