夜幕低垂。空气沉闷，像一层无形的压迫。身后传来低声的窃语，是非交错，悄然刺穿夜色。我静静地听着，直到话语的锋芒割破底线，胸腔翻涌，无法再忍。猛然起身，声音在寂静中炸裂，惊得众人对视，目光交错间，是错愕、惊惧，还是暗藏的幸灾乐祸？
脚下的路，通向未知的遗迹。残败的石板蜿蜒消失在黑暗深处，空气中浮动着尘埃与潮湿的气息。狭长的甬道两侧，错落着几间房屋，低矮到仿佛只容得下一个人的沉眠。木制的阁帘破碎摇晃，透出隐约的光影。墙壁底部，嵌入的浮雕盘踞着诡谲的符号，像是某种祭祀的仪式，或是未曾被世人解开的机关。
我俯下身，指尖划过冰冷的雕刻，终于看清其中的构造——一座中空的法坛，顶部悬挂着一颗圆形器物。刚伸手去触碰，眼前赫然浮现一行淡金色的字：“你有三次机会投掷，三次累加决定你将获得的命运。” 10秒倒计时，无从犹豫。
器物在掌心变幻，化作一颗骰子。我掷出——1，再掷——依然是1。时间不等人，最后一投若仍是1，意味着未知的局限，而非突破。我深吸一口气，手指在骰面掠过，终究选择了最大数字的一面，将其稳稳放入法坛的圆孔之中。
倒计时归零，机关启动。空气震颤，文字浮现：“相加结果为7。坚持到底，你将获得你所求的一切。”
下一瞬，世界颠覆。狂风怒吼着撕裂甬道，黑暗被割裂出细微的光线。骤雨倾盆，冲刷着我的脸颊，冷冽得如刀锋划过皮肤。人们惊恐地四散，宛如风暴中的原始种群，无力对抗大自然的狂怒。阁帘下的基石被卷入风暴，坠落四方，唯有寥寥无几的残石在风中沉默不动。
恐惧在空气中弥漫，越来越多人坚持不住，绝望地等待风暴停息。而有人伸出手，拾起那片遗落的石块，掌心的温度令它们格外沉重。微小的构造，却有千钧之力。
风暴中，一个女子被狂风拉扯，衣角几乎要被撕裂。我握紧手中的残石，向前一步，挡在她身前。她的目光闪烁，指尖冰冷地扣住我的掌心。而身后的其余人，也纷纷拾起石块，将它们分享给风中挣扎的生者。
风暴最终平息，夜色中只剩下少数几个尚能站立的人。
光影交错间，场景悄然转变——
大巴车内，窗外的雨滴顺着玻璃滑落。最后一排的座椅上，女子的手依旧紧握在我的掌心，未曾松开。指尖的温度尚存，像风暴过后残存的一缕余烬，微弱，却足以点燃新的旅程。
Night fell heavy. The air was dense, like an invisible pressure enclosing all. Behind me, hushed whispers tangled with right and wrong, piercing the darkness with subtle blades. I stood silent, listening—until those words sliced past the threshold of restraint. My chest surged. I could no longer bear it. I rose—abruptly. My voice cracked the stillness like a shattering pane. Gasps turned into glances. Some were startled. Others afraid. Or perhaps, beneath it all, they were quietly gloating.
Beneath my feet, the path twisted toward forgotten ruins. Broken stone slabs snaked into the void. Dust hung in the air, mingled with damp, ancient breath. The narrow corridor was flanked by scattered, low-built dwellings—so low they seemed fit only for a body’s eternal sleep. Wooden curtains swayed in the storm-breath, shadows flickering behind them. At the base of the walls, strange carvings coiled—symbols as intricate as they were unreadable. A ritual, perhaps. Or an unopened lock from a time no longer remembered.
I knelt. My fingers traced the cold grooves of the engraving. A structure revealed itself—a hollow altar. Suspended above it: a round object, glimmering faintly. As I reached out to touch it, golden text flashed before my eyes: “You have three chances to throw. The sum will determine your fate.” A countdown began. Ten seconds. No room for doubt.
The object shifted in my palm—became a die. I threw it: One. Again: One. Time pressed. If the final roll was another one, it would mean limitation, not transcendence.
I inhaled. Let my fingertips hover over the die’s surface—and chose the highest number. I placed it into the altar’s round chamber.
Zero. The countdown ended. The mechanism stirred. Air quivered. Letters blazed: “The sum is seven. If you persist, you shall have what you seek.”
Then the world ruptured. The corridor screamed with wind. Darkness split into thin slits of light. Rain pounded down, knifing across my face. People scattered like primal herds in a storm, powerless against nature’s fury. Stones, curtains, foundations were flung into the air, swallowed in chaos. Only a few silent fragments remained unmoved in the gale.
Fear thickened. More and more gave up, clinging to empty hopes that the storm would end. Yet some reached down—picked up a fallen stone. Its weight burned into their palms—small, yet heavy with meaning.
In the storm, I saw a woman—dragged by the wind, her clothes nearly torn away. I tightened my grip on the stone, stepped forward, And stood before her. Her eyes shimmered. Her cold fingers clasped mine. And behind us, others did the same—sharing their stones with those still caught in the tempest.
At last, the storm relented. And in the night that followed, only a few were left standing.
Light and shadow crossed paths, and the scene quietly changed—
Inside the bus, raindrops traced slow rivers down the windowpane. In the last row of seats, her hand still rested in mine—unmoving, unrelenting. The warmth at her fingertips remained, a lingering ember after the storm—faint, but enough to ignite the beginning of a new journey.