I spread my hands.

  “Isn’t this exactly what it means—whoever’s most attached to the village, whoever understands the rituals best, whoever has the purest heart toward the gods—?”

  “You—you are hearing yourself!” Hua snapped, his fan nearly curling in rage.

  “When have I ever been attached to this cursed village? You’re the one joking around—why drag me onto the altar!?”

  “I wouldn’t dare ‘drag’ you,” I said righteously. “You’re the one who set up the statue, who made the offering. I’d never dare touch your sacred handiwork.”

  “That makes even less sense!” Hua’s face turned scarlet. “I’m the host of the pleasure house, and you’d make me the patron of a god of feet?!”

  I shrugged. “Why not? A pavilion is a pavilion, a temple is a temple—seems fitting that a man of such noble rank should sponsor the Foot Deity.”

  “You say one more word, and I’ll nail you to that statue myself!”

  “Enough,” Lian finally said, voice calm as still water. “The oath is complete.”

  Before I could answer, the redwood box on the altar gave a sharp click—and the bottom slid open.

  I froze. Then turned—

  The hollow space beneath was now filled with footprints.

  Black ink lined their edges, stamped one over another across the lacquered red base—every print slightly uneven, left light and right heavy, like someone had pressed the entire village’s steps into the wood. The more I looked, the denser they grew—until a few began to move, writhing slowly, alive.

  “Hell!” I jumped back. “It moves?!”

  Lian’s brow twitched. He lifted a hand toward the center of the blood array. The sigils dimmed half a shade, and a red thread coiled back from my ankle into the box—entangling with the restless prints.

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “The first seal does not bind the soul—but the steps.”

  “The steps?” I echoed blankly.

  Hua approached, fan tapping lightly. “This village,” he said with a cold snort, “I’m afraid that it never had real long-short feet here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He ignored me, flicking his fan at the box. “Look closely. Every footprint here—the missteps are deliberate.”

  “They were faking it?!”

  “Or they were forced to,” Lian said quietly. “Bound by something… a curse.”

  “First Ring of the Soul Locking Array: the Seal of Shape,” he said, voice dropping. “It shackles the body—so none may ever walk straight again.”

  I sank onto the divine throne, feet pulled tight beneath me. “That’s… terrible.”

  The prints faded, ink peeling back to reveal a small carving at the bottom of the box.

  I leaned closer—and felt my throat dry.

  ‘Those who walk straight are false; those who limp are right.’

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I can read that,” I muttered. “It means… walk properly, and you’re marked an outsider—but limp, and you’re one of them?”

  “Exactly.” Lian’s tone was calm. “It’s the backlash of the Seal of Shape—the curse turns inward.”

  The blood array shuddered. The red thread loosened, a faint golden light flickering at its center.

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  “For now,” Lian nodded. “Next relic—the clay jar of words. Be cautious.”

  I dropped to the ground, panting. “For heaven’s sake… what kind of nightmare—”

  But dread crept up my spine. That redwood box… wasn’t just a seal—it was only the beginning. The clay jar and the cloth to come—they were the real calamities.

  Breaking the first treasure only opens the gate.

  Lian’s gaze fell upon the cracked jar. He didn’t touch it immediately. Instead, he crouched, running a finger along the worn surface.

  “This jar,” he said softly, “was used to store words.”

  “Store what?” I asked, baffled.

  “In old superstition, words carry breath. Cursed words—or words of grievance—can wound the spirit.” He tapped the jar. “So the wronged would trap their words inside clay, calling it a Jar of Kept Speech.”

  A chill shot through me. “You’re saying this thing holds—cursed last words?”

  “Not only curses.” A faint smile tugged his lips. “It may also hold pleas, death oaths, confessions… even regret.”

  His finger brushed a blurred inscription, reading low:

  “‘Better the long and short sleep together, than the straight see truth.’”

  My ears rang. “So the village was—”

  “Silenced,” Lian finished quietly.

  “Silenced from what?”

  He was silent for a long moment, then touched the jar again. “To break this seal, we must awaken the speech trapped within. It requires a question and an answer—voice against voice.”

  I was confused. “You mean… a dialogue ritual? Like a crosstalk show?”

  “This isn’t performance,” he said evenly. “We’ll be dragging a century of unspoken truth back into the light.”

  I swallowed hard. “So the village really is hiding something.”

  “Of course.” He nodded toward the jar. “It holds what should never be spoken—the verbal cause and consequence of the whole clan.”

  Then Lian turned to Hua.

  “You’ll answer. I’ll be the one asking.”

  Hua raised an eyebrow, snapping his fan open. “Oh? Why me?”

  “You have a sharp tongue and a clearer mind,” Lian said.

  “What about him?” Hua pointed at me.

  Lian paused, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. “He… excels at talking nonsense.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  Hua laughed outright. “Ha! ‘Excels at nonsense,’ is it? Fine, Master Lian, ask away—I’ll play along.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “My nonsense saved your lives, remember?”

  Hua waved me off. “Your mouth’s good for swearing, not for spell-breaking. Leave this one to us.”

  I sulked in silence. Lian’, composed as ever, faced the jar and began:

  “Why do the villagers walk unevenly?”

  Hua flicked his fan. “Not deformity. Bone rot from a toxin—flesh eaten unevenly, one side first.”

  “Whence came the poison?”

  Hua hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Not from outside. It was the Qu clan’s own making—a calamity brewed by their hands.”

  “Explain.”

  “The Qu were a hidden sect a century ago,” Hua said. “They practiced a forbidden art—Reversed Bone and Twisted Form—hoping to alter the body, to make their steps faster than the wind. But bones are heaven’s design. To change them is to defy fate.”

  His gaze shifted to the shadowed prints beneath the altar.

  “The art backfired. Their bones warped—one leg longer, one shorter. At first a quirk, then disease, then poison.”

  My memory flared—of the cries from the ancestral hall dream. ‘Immortal, save our clan—’

  “Who sealed them?”

  “The Daoists,” Lian’er answered, voice like frost. “A priest came south, found the plague. The Qu begged for mercy, offering soul and blood. The Daoists sealed the village in return.”

  “The contract—the seed?” I began hoarsely.

  “The heart of the curse,” Hua said. “The seed controls bone, soul, and spirit alike.”

  “So this whole village…” I looked down at the glowing runes beneath my feet. “They were sealed willingly?”

  “Yes,” Hua said slowly. “The Qu sought the seal. The Daoists agreed. Three treasures bound the curse—at the price of their three generations’ freedom. Step beyond the village, and the bones will break.”

  The clay jar gave a low crack. Red lines crawled across its surface like veins, curling into a grotesque face.

  Hua kept talking, quick and sharp:

  “Every child is taught: walk straight, see disaster; limp, and live.”

  “Then what of last night’s ghost?”

  “Ah.” His fan stilled. “They call it the God of Feet. But a god should never fear the straight path. That thing was born from fear.”

  Lian’s eyes glinted.

  “And if someone does walk straight again?”

  Hua’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then they are branded—monster, heretic, sacrifice… or cut off to pieces.”

  The jar gave one final click.

  Red patterns bloomed, glowing like open wounds.

  A ribbon of crimson smoke rose from its mouth—spiraling into the center of the array.