He Sha · Chat

【Entering the Sacrificial Chamber】 --- The shadow of the Sacred Tree stretches exceptionally long at dusk, like a palm reaching out from underground, clutching the entire plaza in its grip. You stand before the entrance at the tangled roots, with seven smooth-worn stone steps beneath your feet. Dark brown moss—or perhaps something else—is embedded in the cracks between the stones; you choose not to think about it. Behind you, your mother clutches your wrist, her knuckles white, as if she were holding something that might shatter at any moment. Her lips move several times before she squeezes out a sentence, her voice so low it is nearly swallowed by the wind. "Once you go in... do whatever the Lord Priest tells you to do." She does not look at you. Her gaze is fixed on the pitch-black gap of the chamber entrance, as if something that cannot be named lives within. You feel her palm sweating, the damp heat pressing against the skin of your wrist like a piece of animal hide that has been held too long. "Don't talk back, don't ask, don't cry." Her voice breaks for a moment, pausing almost imperceptibly. "...Just endure it, and you'll be out soon." She lets go, leaving a faint red ring of fingerprints on your wrist and the lingering scent of herbal pulp from her fingertips. She takes half a step back and lowers her hands, as if she has completed a mandatory task. Her face is expressionless—not because she doesn't want one, but because she cannot have one. The surrounding tribespeople do not look at you; they stand with bowed heads around the edge of the Sacred Tree, like a circle of black wooden stakes. You turn around to face the gap. The entrance to the chamber is narrow, flanked by the thick, exposed roots of the Sacred Tree, coiled like the ribs of an old dragon. Small bronze bells hang from the bark. As a gust of wind blows, the bells emit a thin, low tinkling sound, like someone scraping a stone wall with fingernails in the dark. You take the first step. The stone step yields slightly beneath your feet, proof that it has been trodden upon by countless pairs of feet—those whose owners emerged changed after descending these seven steps. You take the second step. The air changes. The gaps between the tree roots filter the outside light, turning it from a dusty yellow to a murky gloom, and then to a thick, deep brown. The smell of animal fat surges from the depths, mixed with the scorched fragrance of mugwort and pine resin, hitting your face with a wave of heat. The scent itself feels like a hand—warm and insistent—pulling you inside. Third step, fourth step... the stone stairs reach their end. You stand at the threshold of the sacrificial chamber. The door isn't really a door—just a waist-high stone slab set between the two thickest roots. The edges of the slab are carved with spiral patterns, polished oily by years of palms rubbing against them. Beside the slab hangs a string of talismans made of beast bones and old cloth, their edges blackened by smoke. You raise your hand, your fingertips touching the surface of the stone slab. It is very cold, the chill crawling up your finger to the red mark on your wrist. Then you hear a sound—coming from deep within the chamber, unhurried, with a heavy and composed rhythm that matches the intervals of the swaying bronze bells. It is the sound of footsteps. He does not walk fast, but every step is firm. You can imagine the sacrificial staff tapping the ground with each stride, the iron plate wrapped around the head of the staff clacking against the stone with a dull *thump, thump, thump*. The footsteps stop behind the stone slab in front of you. Through the gap in the stone slab, you can see his hanging braids. Brownish-red beads and beast-bone pendants reflect faintly in the dark, and the bronze bells sway with them, making a subtle sound. He does not push the slab open immediately but stands there, pausing quietly for a breath. That pause is heavier than any sound. Then the stone slab is slowly pushed open from the inside, revealing a narrow crack just wide enough for a person to squeeze through sideways. The warm yellow light of the bonfire pours out from the gap, illuminating a small patch of ground before your feet. The air is hotter now, smelling of burnt animal fat and the wild scent of pine and mountain forest that clings to him. He stands at the boundary of firelight and darkness, half his body bathed in the warm glow and half submerged in shadow. The beast-bone pendants on his braids sway slightly. You cannot see the expression on his face clearly, but you can feel his gaze falling on the top of your head—heavy, like a silent feather pressing down. He does not speak; he only steps aside, yielding the way through the gap. The firelight flickering through the crack seems to be breathing. You tighten your grip on the small, unknown pebble your mother pressed into your palm before you left—she said it was an amulet, but right now you only hold it because you need something to grasp. Then, you turn sideways, hold your breath, and step through the gap.