Chapter 8: The Palace of Silence
703 Words
The stairs went down for a hundred steps. Or maybe a thousand. Time lost its meaning in the dark.
The air grew colder with every step, a sharp, dry cold that felt like the inside of a freezer. The smell of incense grew stronger, choking out the scent of the swamp above. It wasn't the sweet smell of temple offerings; it was heavy, medicinal, like camphor and old blood.
"Stop," Han Batou whispered.
We froze. Iron was breathing hard, the sound echoing like a bellows in the narrow shaft.
"Listen," Han Batou hissed.
I held my breath. At first, there was only the sound of our own heartbeats. Then, I heard it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
But it wasn't water. It sounded like metal hitting stone.
We reached the bottom. The stairs opened up into a vast, rectangular hall. My flashlight beam swept across the room, but it didn't hit a ceiling. The light just faded into the gloom above. This wasn't a tomb; it was a cathedral.
"Look at the pillars," Iron whispered, his voice trembling.
Massive columns of black bronze lined the walls, carved in the shape of coiled dragons. Their scales were inlaid with gold that had tarnished to a dull, bloody red. They held up a roof that was lost in shadow.
And the floor... the floor was a mosaic of thousands of copper coins.
"Ten thousand," I murmured, stepping onto the coins. They crunched under my boots. "There are ten thousand coins here."
Han Batou didn't look at the floor. He was staring at the center of the room.
There, in the middle of the bronze forest, stood a single object.
It was a giant tripod cauldron, taller than a man. It was made of a metal so dark it seemed to absorb the light. Green patina swirled across its surface in patterns that looked like storm clouds.
"The Nine Tripods," Han Batou breathed. "Or a copy of them. From the Western Zhou."
He started walking toward it, his eyes wide, reflecting the green metal. "Do you know what this is worth, Chen? This isn't just money. This is history. This is power."
"Boss," Iron said, his voice tight. "Look at the walls."
I turned my light to the side. The walls were covered in murals. But they weren't paintings. They were bas-reliefs, carved deep into the stone.
They depicted a funeral procession. Hundreds of people carrying a coffin. But the people had no faces. Their heads were smooth ovals. And they were walking down into the earth, carrying the coffin toward... us.
"It's a warning," I said.
"No," Han Batou snapped. "It's a welcome."
He reached the cauldron. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the rim.
"Wait!" I shouted.
It was too late.
Han Batou touched the bronze.
CLANG.
The sound didn't fade. It resonated, a low, vibrating hum that shook the floor beneath our feet. The sound of the dripping metal grew louder, faster.
Drip-drip-drip-drip.
"Did you hear that?" Iron asked, raising his machete.
"Hear what?" Han Batou asked, still staring at the cauldron.
"Footsteps," Iron whispered. "On the coins."
I shone my light toward the entrance. The stairs were empty. But the sound was there. A soft, wet shuffling, like bare feet walking through mud.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
"Who's there?" Han Batou yelled, his voice cracking. "Show yourself!"
The darkness beyond the circle of our flashlights seemed to ripple. And then, from the shadows near the bronze pillars, a figure emerged.
It was Rat.
But he wasn't moving right. His head was tilted at a ninety-degree angle, his neck clearly broken. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, and his mouth was hanging slack.
"Rat?" I gasped. "How... we left you upstairs."
Rat didn't speak. He just took another step. Slap.
And then another.
Behind him, from the darkness of the pillars, more shapes began to detach themselves from the shadows. They were gray, bloated, their skin peeling away like wet paper.
The men from the mural. The faceless ones.
"Run," Han Batou whispered.
But we were trapped. The footsteps were coming from all sides now. The sound of wet feet on copper coins filled the hall, a deafening chorus of the dead.
- Writer
