When the golden light faded completely,

  Sunri found himself standing in a place he had never seen before.

  Not a forest.

  Not a wasteland.

  But a circular stone chamber.

  An ancient chamber,

  its air thick with dust

  and the scent of old parchment.

  The walls were carved with indecipherable runes—

  some glowing faintly,

  others long extinguished.

  There were no doors, no windows.

  The only opening was a round skylight overhead,

  through which an unfamiliar night sky could be seen—

  stars arranged in a spiral,

  nothing like the constellations of his world.

  The chamber was small,

  perhaps twenty paces across.

  The floor was paved with smooth, gray?blue stone tiles,

  each etched with fine, geometric patterns—

  not decorative,

  but deliberate,

  like an ancient formation.

  The walls rose five meters high,

  polished smooth as mirrors,

  catching the faint starlight.

  At the center stood a stone pedestal.

  A book rested upon it.

  Sunri looked up again.

  The sky above was strange—

  stars arranged with uncanny precision,

  as if placed by an unseen hand.

  No moon,

  yet the starlight was bright enough

  to bathe the chamber in cold silver?blue.

  “Pardy?”

  He instinctively tightened his hold on the child.

  Pardy stirred, opened his eyes,

  and—without crying—

  looked around with quiet curiosity.

  Sunri approached the pedestal,

  their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness.

  Pardy reached toward the book,

  but Sunri gently stopped him.

  The book was old.

  Its cover was dark brown leather,

  edges worn thin,

  corners bound with tarnished copper.

  There was no title—

  only a sun?and?crescent emblem pressed into the cover,

  the same symbol on Sunri’s palm,

  the same as Lunelle’s pendant.

  He hesitated,

  then touched the cover.

  Nothing happened.

  The book lay still,

  as if it had waited through countless ages.

  The first page was blank—

  yellowed parchment,

  but no ink.

  The second page was blank.

  The third, the fourth…

  Sunri flipped through quickly.

  Every page was empty.

  “What does this mean…?” he murmured.

  He glanced upward—

  the chamber had no roof.

  A stray thought crossed his mind:

  What happens if it rains?

  At that moment,

  he heard the patter of water.

  The star?sky above began to gather clouds—

  not real clouds,

  but gray mist coiling together.

  “Rain?”

  He froze.

  The next second,

  water fell.

  Not from the sky—

  but from thin air inside the chamber.

  Raindrops appeared four meters above the ground

  and fell straight down,

  as if the chamber itself were producing rain.

  “Wait—!”

  He was drenched instantly.

  Cold water soaked his worn clothes.

  He spun around,

  trying to shield Pardy,

  but the rain fell evenly across the entire chamber.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  Pardy blinked at the drops,

  then pouted,

  letting out a small, unhappy whimper.

  He raised his tiny hands

  to shield his head—

  uselessly.

  “Not good…”

  Sunri ran in circles,

  searching for a dry corner.

  There was none.

  Water pooled on the floor.

  The ancient book darkened with spreading stains.

  “The book!”

  Sunri rushed back,

  trying to shield it with his body—

  but the rain fell from every direction.

  He watched the wet leather

  and thought, panicked:

  If this keeps up, the book will be ruined.

  I’ll have to dry it in the sun tomorrow…

  The moment the thought formed,

  the rain stopped.

  Not gradually—

  instantly.

  The falling droplets vanished mid?air,

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  as if they had never existed.

  Water on the floor began to evaporate,

  rising in faint white mist.

  The stains on the book faded,

  drying visibly.

  Sunri stood frozen.

  He looked down—

  his clothes were still soaked,

  hair dripping.

  He looked at Pardy—

  the child’s clothes were dry.

  Not slowly dried—

  but instantly restored,

  even the forest dirt gone.

  Pardy lowered his hands,

  looked at his clean clothes,

  then at his drenched father—

  and giggled.

  The book and the child had been “tended to.”

  Only Sunri had not.

  The chamber was responding—

  not to sound,

  but to thought.

  “This…”

  Sunri remembered the Mistwood.

  “Could this place also…?”

  He recalled the Mist?horned beast offering the horn fragment,

  Qingyin’s words about creatures sensing intent.

  He had thought “rain,”

  and it rained.

  He had thought “dry the book,”

  and it dried.

  The chamber was reacting to his mind.

  He focused, thinking:

  If only there were a place to rest…

  The chamber shifted.

  Not violently—

  but gently,

  as if rewriting itself.

  The floor near the wall rose,

  stone flowing like liquid,

  reshaping.

  Within seconds,

  a bed formed.

  Not ornate.

  Not new.

  A patched wooden frame,

  a cotton mattress,

  two pillows,

  a thin blanket.

  Sunri inhaled sharply.

  It was his bed.

  The one from his home.

  The one he had slept on for more than ten years.

  The one with the childhood scratch on the headboard,

  the repaired crack on the footboard,

  the quilt Lunelle had sewn by hand.

  He touched the bedpost.

  The wood grain,

  the warmth,

  even the faint scent of old timber—

  all identical.

  “It really is my bed…” he whispered.

  Pardy wriggled free,

  toddled to the bed,

  patted the blanket,

  and tried to climb up—

  too high for a two?year?old.

  Sunri lifted him onto it.

  Pardy immediately rolled across the familiar fabric,

  hugging a pillow with utter contentment.

  A knot tightened in Sunri’s chest.

  This bed held too many memories—

  Lunelle’s swollen feet during pregnancy,

  the nights he massaged them;

  Pardy sleeping between them after he was born;

  the quiet warmth of a family that felt unreal now.

  He shook the thoughts away.

  If the chamber could create a bed,

  what else?

  He closed his eyes, imagining a bowl of hot porridge—

  the simple kind Lunelle always made,

  rice blossomed open,

  a sheen of rice?oil on top,

  a small dish of pickled radish beside it.

  When he opened his eyes,

  a clay bowl and chopsticks sat on the pedestal.

  Steam curled from the porridge.

  He lifted the bowl—

  the smell was exactly right.

  Just as he was about to taste it,

  he heard soft sipping.

  Sunri turned.

  Pardy sat on the bed,

  holding a broad leaf—

  the same kind the Mist?horned beasts used for mist?milk.

  It was filled with milky liquid.

  Pardy drank in small, delighted sips,

  as if tasting the finest thing in the world.

  Sunri set down the porridge and approached.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Pardy looked up,

  milk on his lips,

  and lifted the leaf as if offering to share.

  Sunri took it.

  The texture, the weight, the leaf?veins—

  identical to those in the Mistwood.

  The scent—nuts and fresh grass—

  unmistakable.

  “You imagined this too?” he asked.

  Pardy tilted his head,

  not understanding,

  reaching for the leaf again.

  Sunri returned it,

  watching the boy drink with quiet fondness.

  This child’s love for mist?milk ran deeper than he thought—

  deep enough to summon it even here.

  He returned to the pedestal,

  lifting the porridge again—

  then paused.

  If the chamber responded to thought,

  could it create something useful?

  A sword, perhaps?

  He didn’t know how to use one,

  but a weapon was better than none.

  He imagined a steel blade,

  sharp,

  leather?wrapped hilt—

  Nothing appeared.

  He frowned.

  A bag of gold coins?

  Still nothing.

  “Is there a limit…?”

  Then he remembered something.

  He closed his eyes again—

  this time picturing Qingyin’s serpent?staff:

  dark wood,

  carved serpent head,

  emerald eyes—

  His hand grew heavy.

  Sunri opened his eyes.

  The staff was in his grip.

  Weight, texture,

  the faint scent of wood—

  all perfect.

  The serpent’s gem?eyes glowed softly,

  as if breathing.

  “It really appeared…” he murmured.

  He tested further—

  imagining a Mist?horned beast.

  Nothing.

  A Riftbeast.

  Still nothing.

  He set the staff down,

  thoughtful.

  The chamber could only create things he had touched—

  non?living things.

  The bed, the porridge, the staff—

  all familiar,

  all once held in his hands.

  The sword and coins—never touched—

  did not appear.

  The beasts—alive—

  could not be replicated.

  “The chamber can only copy non?living objects

  I’ve touched before.

  It cannot create the unknown,

  nor reproduce life.”

  Then what about the ancient book?

  Could it create something?

  “Finally… Mistwood is done.”

  His voice was hollow, his soul halfway gone.

  A soft glow gathered on the ceiling—

  gentle, inviting, almost heavenly.

  The sharp?tongued bird shot down like a thrown brick.

  “Oi. Don’t float upward yet.

  You’re not done.”

  It planted itself beside him, then slowly turned toward the camera—

  leaning in until its beak filled the frame.

  “If you enjoyed this journey, consider leaving a rating or a short review.

  It helps the story grow.”

  The author blinked at it.

  “…Why are you doing a close?up?

  And who are you talking to?”