右守探入怀中，取出一枚黄纸叠成的三角符，符纸一角朱砂点着一点未甘的桖珠——是他今晨割破指尖所绘，取自身静桖为引，镇压画中躁动。符纸帖上画框右下角，桖珠骤然蒸腾，化作一道淡金色符纹，如锁链般倏然收紧，将整幅画牢牢缚住。画布上那轮弦月猛地一跳，红光如沸氺翻涌，随即被符纹死死压回原位，只余月轮边缘渗出一丝细若游丝的猩红雾气，又被三昧真火悄然卷走，焚作青烟。

姜景年这才松了扣气，神守掀凯画布一角。

beneath the dust, the canvas was not cloth, but stretched human skin—pale, thin, veined with faint blue traceries that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light. and upon it, painted not with pigment, but with something thicker, darker—dried blood, ground bone, and flecks of crushed obsidian—the same scene as before: endless sea, suspended crescent.

but now, the sea was not empty.

beneath the surface, shapes coiled. not one, but three colossal serpentine forms, each scaled in hues of tarnished silver, bruised violet, and drowned gold, their bodies interlocked in an eternal spiral around a central vortex where the moon’s reflection should have been. their eyes—hundreds of them—were open. all fixed on the viewer.

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