They bypassed the main gate.
The outer wall of the Sutra Repository was a solid expanse of stone, stretching from the ceiling to the floor of the underground cavern without a single seam. It appeared to be a flawless monolith, yet Kuon’s prosthetic eye locked onto a single point to the east.
“Here.”
There was a fissure in the wall.
It was barely two spans wide.
Its height matched Asahi’s stature. The stone hadn't simply cracked; it looked as though it had been forced apart. Something had exerted pressure from within, prying the rock open to either side.
“This is recent,” Kuon noted. “The edges of the stone are still fresh.”
Kuon touched the jagged surface.
It wasn't cold.
A faint warmth radiated from deep within the stone.
“Asahi, can you get through?”
Koyoi eyed the width of the gap. Asahi unfastened the clasps of his armor and slid his greatsword through the fissure first. Turning sideways and angling his shoulders, he squeezed his body inside. The sound of stone scraping against metal echoed in the quiet.
“I’m through. It’s a tight fit, but I can manage.”
Asahi’s voice drifted back from the other side. Koyoi followed, and Kuon entered last.
The interior of the wall was a corridor. A space just wide enough for one person to walk stretched between the outer and inner walls. The ceiling was low; even Koyoi had to duck his head. The floor was sand rather than stone, giving way beneath their feet.
Kuon used his prosthetic eye to illuminate the path. A pale blue light filled the narrow space, bringing the texture of the walls into sharp relief.
There were handprints. The impressions of massive palms pressed against the wall. Scars of pure pressure left in the stone.
They belonged to the First God.
The prints were a size larger than Asahi’s hands. Koyoi placed his own hand over one of the marks. His fingertips were swallowed within the massive outline.
It was warm.
A lingering heat still thrummed through the stone. The drawstring pouch at his waist pulsed. He had felt this same warmth at the well in the forest. This was that same heartbeat.
“This person... they walked through here,” Koyoi whispered.
There wasn't just one handprint. A trail of them followed the corridor, spaced at regular intervals along the wall. They moved through the darkness, following the path of the hands.
Groping their way forward.
“Did they walk this without any light?” Asahi asked, looking at the prints.
“They likely had no tools like my eye,” Kuon replied. “They had only their hands to rely on.”
Kuon cast his light further ahead. The passage sloped downward—a gentle but steady descent, leading deeper into the earth.
The air began to change. It smelled of paper.
The scent of aged parchment and ink.
Their senses told them that a vast archive lay nearby. Koyoi walked on, tracing the handprints—following the path of the First God, heading in the same direction, through the same darkness.
The warmth of the prints seeped into his palm, one by one. A body heat from centuries ago still breathed within the stone.
A faint light leaked from the end of the passage. It wasn't gold. It was a vermilion glow.
The three did not falter, descending further into the light.