Chen Yu did not leave Earth immediately.
If anything, the world felt closer.
Sounds carried farther. Faces lingered longer in his attention. Even crowds moved with a rhythm he could anticipate before it formed. None of it felt supernatural—only sharpened, as if a thin veil of dullness had been lifted.
He told no one.
Some instincts did not need names to be obeyed.
The first sign that he could not remain came quietly.
A dream—if it could be called that.
Chen Yu stood on solid ground beneath a sky filled with unfamiliar stars. Before him stretched a road paved with stone that was neither old nor new, its surface etched with faint impressions like footprints worn smooth by time.
No one walked it.
Yet it was crowded with absence.
When he reached the road's edge, an unseen pressure stopped him—not forceful, not hostile.
Not yet.
He woke with his pulse steady and his mind clear.
The sensation lingered.
Not a call.
An allowance.
Days passed.
Then, one evening, the world faltered.
Chen Yu was crossing a pedestrian bridge when the city lights flickered in perfect unison. Not off—out of alignment. For a fraction of a second, every reflection doubled, as if the city existed in two overlapping positions.
People froze.
Then everything resumed.
Laughter. Traffic. Noise.
Only Chen Yu remained standing still.
The bridge beneath his feet no longer felt anchored to Earth.
He moved without panic, stepping away from the crowd and into a narrow service stairwell beneath the bridge. The air there was cool, damp, untouched by the city's restlessness.
The pressure returned.
This time, it did not gather.
It closed.
The walls thinned—not physically, but conceptually. Space folded inward, like paper creased along lines he could not see. His breath fogged in front of him, then lingered too long before dissipating.
Chen Yu exhaled slowly.
He did not resist.
He had learned better.
There was no flash.
No tearing sensation.
The world simply… released him.
For a moment, Chen Yu felt as though he were falling sideways—direction losing meaning. His sense of weight stretched thin, then snapped back into place with startling clarity.
He staggered forward.
Stone met his palms.
Cold.
Rough.
Real.
He drew in a sharp breath and pushed himself upright.
The sky was wrong.
Not hostile.
Not alien.
Just unfamiliar.
Stars burned brighter, arranged in patterns that hinted at intention rather than chance. A pale arc—neither moon nor sun—hung low on the horizon, casting silver shadows across a vast, broken plain.
Chen Yu turned slowly.
Ruins surrounded him.
Not collapsed buildings, but abandoned purpose—pillars worn smooth by centuries of wind, stairways leading nowhere, arches framing empty air. The ground beneath his feet bore faint impressions, as if something immense had once moved here repeatedly.
The air carried weight.
Not gravity.
History.
At the centre of the ruin stood a stone stele.
Its surface was blank.
Yet as Chen Yu approached, faint lines surfaced—not carving themselves, but remembering their shape. They did not form words he recognised, but his mind caught fragments of meaning all the same.
Forbidden.
Unreturned.
Those who enter do not leave unchanged.
Chen Yu rested his hand against the stone.
Nothing happened.
And yet—
Something acknowledged him.
He sat among the ruins until the sky shifted, light slowly deepening into darker hues. Hunger arrived later than it should have. Fatigue did not come at all.
Instead, awareness expanded.
He noticed the way the wind curved around broken pillars. How the silence between sounds carried depth. How the ground itself seemed to breathe, barely perceptible, like a living thing in sleep.
He was not alone.
Not in the sense of being watched—
But in the sense of being placed.
As darkness settled, distant movement caught his eye.
A line of lights, swaying gently.
Chen Yu climbed to higher ground and narrowed his focus.
People.
A caravan, moving along a road that skirted the edge of the ruins. Their banners bore unfamiliar sigils. Their speech, carried faintly by the wind, did not match any language he knew—but the cadence was unmistakably human.
Relief came—not as comfort, but as confirmation.
He was not beyond humanity.
Not yet.
Chen Yu waited until the caravan drew closer, then stepped deliberately into view.
The guards reacted instantly—hands moving to weapons, voices rising in sharp commands he could not understand. Torches flared, casting light across his unfamiliar clothing and features.
Chen Yu raised his hands slowly.
Not in surrender.
In openness.
He bowed—shallow, respectful, practised.
A universal gesture.
The tension eased by a fraction.
Enough.
A man at the front of the caravan—older, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp with caution rather than cruelty—studied him carefully. He spoke again, slower this time, as if measuring each sound.
Chen Yu did not understand the words.
But he understood the question.
Who are you?
Chen Yu placed a hand over his chest.
"Chen Yu," he said calmly.
The name hung in the air.
Untranslated.
Yet something in the way the wind shifted suggested it had been heard.
Behind him, far beyond the ruins, the stone stele pulsed once—soft, unseen.
The crossing was complete.
The road ahead—
Had only just begun.
End of Chapter 6