Twelve years had drifted by like whispers in the wind since Yan-Shan had taken the infant Yan-Lin into his home. The boy had blossomed from a fragile child into a figure of captivating innocence, his features possessing a beauty that seemed almost otherworldly. His forehead was smooth and untouched, as if fate itself had chosen to spare him from the scars that life often leaves behind. His eyes, wide and clear, held a purity that mirrored the heavens, and his face was often lit by a gentle, unassuming smile—one that spoke of a soul untainted by the bitterness that so often colors the world.
Yan-Lin appeared to move through life as though he were a child of the gods, untouched by the darker shades of human experience. It was as if the weight of hate, sorrow, and suffering were alien concepts to him, unknown and unfelt. His heart overflowed with an unconditional love for those around him, a love so pure it seemed almost naive in its innocence. He embodied simplicity, adorability, and a mischievous spirit that endeared him to the people of the city, particularly the women, who doted on him as though he were a cherished son of all.
His mischief, though, was well-known throughout the town. Yan-Lin's playful pranks were the subject of many a tale, whispered with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. His antics often led to minor chaos, with the parents of other children frequently knocking on the door of Yan-Shan and Yun-Wei's home, their complaints delivered with a mix of frustration and amusement. Every day brought two or three such visitors, each recounting the latest trouble Yan-Lin had stirred up. Yan-Shan would often prepare himself to discipline the boy, but each time, Grandpa Yan, the family's elder, would step in. With a knowing smile and a few gentle words, he would defuse the situation, ensuring that Yan-Lin never faced the stern hand of punishment. Thus, the boy grew up with a spirit unbroken by harsh words, protected by the benevolence of his grandfather.
Yet, on this day, though the sun rose and set as it had done countless times before, there was an undercurrent of something different, something unsettling. The air felt thick with anticipation, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for some unspoken event. As the hours passed, the elders of the city—men and women whose lives spanned decades, their wisdom carved into the lines of their faces—gathered beneath a colossal tree at the heart of the city.
This tree was no ordinary tree; it was ancient beyond measure, its roots deeply entwined with the earth, as though it were a living bridge between the present and a past long forgotten. Its towering branches stretched wide, creating a canopy that seemed to shelter the city beneath its timeless embrace. The tree exuded an aura of ancient knowledge, as if it had borne silent witness to the flow of centuries, watching as generations rose and fell like the leaves it shed with each passing season.
Underneath this venerable tree, a stage had been erected, crafted from fine jade and adorned with materials that shimmered faintly in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. The stage was a sacred space, and upon it sat 25 grandfathers and 20 grandmothers, each one a head of their respective families, each one a keeper of the city's most revered traditions. Their faces were set in solemn expressions, their eyes reflecting the weight of the secrets they held.
One of the grandfathers, a man whose age had bent his back but not his spirit, rose slowly to his feet. He leaned heavily on a staff, the wood polished smooth by the touch of his hand over many years. His eyes remained closed, not out of frailty, but because they had been sealed shut by an event that had taken place exactly fifty years ago. It was said that on the night of a long-forgotten lunar eclipse, he had stubbornly refused to close his eyes, eager to witness the celestial event. From that night onward, he had never been able to open them again. His sightless eyes, though closed, seemed to see more than most, as if they peered into realms beyond the grasp of ordinary vision.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of ages, resonating with an authority that commanded the attention of all who listened.
"Fifty years ago," he began, his tone tinged with the melancholy of long-held regret, "on this very day, I made a choice that cost me dearly. I kept my eyes open, driven by a desire to witness the lunar eclipse that filled the night sky. But in doing so, I lost the light of day forever. Today, I come to warn you all: tonight, when the sun sets and the darkness of night envelops the land, you must eat early and go to bed. No matter what sounds you hear, no matter what feelings stir in your heart, you must not rise from your sleep. And if, by some chance, you do awaken, you must not—under any circumstances—open your eyes. And even with your eyes closed, resist the urge to look towards the heavens." His words fell like a heavy shroud over the gathered crowd, each syllable sinking deep into the hearts of those who listened. After delivering his warning, the old man slowly retreated, his body shaking with a cough that seemed to carry the weight of countless unspoken sorrows.
The crowd remained silent, the gravity of his words hanging in the air like an ominous cloud. The tension was only broken when another figure, an elderly grandmother with hair like silver threads, stood up. Her voice, though soft, carried a certain strength—a strength born from the endurance of many years.
"There is a tale," she began, her words weaving an invisible tapestry of ancient lore, "a story that has been passed down through the ages, from the time when our world was young. In those distant days, when the boundaries between heaven, earth, and the underworld were thin, a great and terrible battle took place—a battle between demons, immortals, and gods. It was during this cataclysmic conflict that our world's Moon God, the guardian of the night sky, lost both his eyes. Now, on the night of a lunar eclipse, when the moon turns blood-red, it is said that if anyone dares to look upon it, they will be struck blind for all eternity. There is no cure, no remedy for this curse. So, if you wish to avoid the fate that befell our old head grandfather, heed this warning: tonight, you must go to sleep early and stay asleep."
Her voice lingered in the still air, wrapping the crowd in an uneasy silence. The story, with its echoes of ancient battles and curses, sent a chill through those who heard it. The meeting concluded soon after, and the people dispersed, each person hurrying back to their homes, driven by a mixture of fear and respect for the elders' words. The streets of the city, usually lively and filled with the sounds of evening activity, grew quiet as everyone prepared for an early night.
As the hours passed, the sun dipped below the horizon, its final rays casting long shadows across the land. The night descended swiftly, bringing with it a heavy, almost oppressive darkness. The stars emerged, their light sharp and cold, like tiny shards of ice scattered across the black velvet of the sky. Yet, despite their brilliance, no one remained awake to see them. The city, usually alive with nocturnal sounds, was eerily silent, its inhabitants hidden away in their homes, their windows shuttered tightly against the night.
The moon rose, and with it, a sense of dread. It was not the familiar pale orb that usually graced the night sky, but a moon of deep, foreboding red. Its glow bathed the earth in a sinister light, casting everything in an unsettling hue. If anyone had been brave—or foolish—enough to look up, they might have seen a figure seated upon the moon, perched as if on a throne. But this was no ordinary throne. It was a massive, pulsating eye, alive and watchful, its surface shifting and changing as though it were a creature of flesh and blood. The eye gazed unblinkingly down upon the earth, and from it flowed rivers of blood, cascading across the surface of the moon and staining it a deeper shade of crimson.
The night was filled with strange sounds—whispers that seemed to come from the moon itself, vibrating through the air like a dark incantation. The sounds were neither words nor music, but something far older, a primal chant imbued with a malevolent energy. It resonated with a power that was both terrifying and mesmerizing, like the voice of some ancient deity long forgotten by the world.
"In the river of time, there is a sea of blood. In that sea, something shines. You wish to see it, but you cannot."
The chant, echoing with the weight of an ancient curse, seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality, carrying with it the essence of something far beyond human comprehension. The city slept, its people unaware of the dark omen that hung above them, the eye in the sky that watched and waited, its gaze unyielding and eternal.