Page 17 of Mercy Written in Blood

"You got here fast."

"You sounded worried."

"I am."

Haruki looked towards the breach in the wall. It had once been solid stone; now a section nearly three metres wide had collapsed inward, opening onto darkness.

"What have you touched?"

Ken grimaced.

"Not much."

"Not much isn't nothing."

"We moved a lantern."

"A lantern?"

"We thought it was abandoned."

Haruki pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Anything else?"

"...One book."

"Ken."

"It was falling apart."

"You should've left everything exactly where it was."

"I know."

Haruki took a slow breath. Ken wasn't an archaeologist. He was a builder. He'd made a mistake, and shouting wouldn't undo it.

"Show me."

They ducked beneath temporary supports and stepped through the breach. Immediately the temperature changed — the air colder, stiller, dust hanging motionless in the beams of their torches. The chamber beyond was larger than Haruki expected. Stone shelves lined three walls, most collapsed under their own weight centuries ago, fragments of ceramic jars scattered across the floor. A wooden table stood in the centre of the room, impossibly intact beneath a thick blanket of dust. On it rested a single leather-bound journal.

Haruki approached slowly. Something about the room felt untouched, as though time itself had hesitated here. His torch passed across faded murals — flowers, mountains, flowing water — before settling on a flower unlike the others. A white lotus, its petals painted with extraordinary care despite the centuries that had passed. Haruki found himself staring at it longer than he meant to.

"Boss? You alright?"

He blinked, unsure why he'd taken so long to answer.

"Yeah."

He looked around again. The room had remained hidden for a very long time — long enough that even the dust seemed settled into permanence.

"Nobody comes in here," Haruki said.

"What?"

"Nobody."

"The police?"