The sandstorms of Dunhuang's Mogao Caves swept through the Twin‑Realm rift, depositing stardust‑like brew upon Chen Yuan's crystal pauldrons. He stood before Cave 220's frescoes, where the once‑graceful flying celestial maidens had warped into writhing tendrils, their flowing sashes transmuted into vessels for primordial Chaos, now looming to drag the Cloud‑Thunder sigils off the walls and into Cthulhu's desert sea. His crystal boots crunched on star‑sprinkled tile, humming as if chanting mantras with each step.
"Old Qing," he muttered, tracing the new Twin‑Realm cartography etched into his crystal arm—gears entwined with the fresco's ribbons—"you pick the most poetic spots for repairs. How about shipping the whole cave back to the Deep Realm as a barrier? Maybe the tentacle folk would go vegetarian at the sight of flying deities—if they could even tell pigment from Chaos ooze." His jade talisman buzzed warmly in reply, guiding living Cloud‑Thunder veins through the mortar, though sparks flew wherever they met the invading Chaos‑tendrils—both a mocking jest and a caution to preserve the Northern Wei brushwork.
Lilith's shadow‑cloak took on dunes' ochre hue as she touched the sandstone. Her silver eyes caught the fresco's star‑paths twisting into alien runes. "Selene's star‑seed senses the First Ancestor's remnant within these walls—his Dao‑core is being drafted into tentacle form by Chaos." Her fingers traced ancient pigment, and the wall bloomed with a fusion of Cthulhu runes and flying‑goddess motifs, "This rift is turning Mogao's art into Chaos‑sketch—Tang‑era minerals are sprouting tentacle crystals!"
Old Mo's wagon foundered in the singing dunes, its mechanical tendrils siphoning star energy from sand but burying its wheels deeper. "In '42 your mother mixed star‑gold dust into her pigments," he cackled, twirling his Twin‑Realm compass whose needle superimposed fractal cave maps, "those gold flecks now fuel the Great Old Ones' trap—nine stories up, your father's seventh anchor bursts colors across Chaos like a painter's palette."
Chen Yuan's fingers snapped shut as the fresco's goddess turned, bleeding violet‑black ooze that etched Cthulhu glyphs on the rock. His bone resonance picked up hundreds of tangled echoes—Tang‑dynasty artisans to modern scholars—souls trapped in pigment now washing away like wind‑blown earth.
"This rift's become a cross‑realm studio?" he groaned, shifting his arm to a yin‑yang brush tool. Primal pigments—cinnabar, azurite, gold leaf, and that star‑dust—flickered under the tip. "Lilith, lock down these minerals with shadow wards so vermilion isn't a tentacle farm; Mo, spin your eyeball‑lamp on the time‑shards in the wall—tonight we're doing Chaos graffiti removal, starting with the flying goddess wings."
As the bristles brushed the wall, his mind dove into the 1942 cave. Moonlight filtered through a scaffold window where Su Mingyue sketched the dancer's swirl, her wolf‑hair brush laced with star‑dust. Above, Chen Yuan's father reinforced flaking pigment with Cloud‑Thunder threads from his mechanical arm.
"Old Qing, you hide anchors in mom's field notes too?" he barked, guiding glowing bristles along gold‑dust trails—etched in his scales mirrored flying ribbons—until he found her scribbled margin note: "Star‑gold must pair with Cloud‑Thunder or pigments mutate to living chaos—overload causes fresco biogenesis." His talisman flared in rebuke, then poured the parents' soul‑imprints into his arm. Suddenly the crystal tip could differentiate thousand‑year mineral from Chaos ooze and even taste the desert sunrise in the vermilion.
Selene's star‑shards snapped into warning glyphs. "Cthulhu's desert worms—feeding through fresco rifts! Their shells are painted with fake star‑gold, dripping Chaos slime!" She radiated the cave's ancient luminescence, "Only your Twin‑Realm Core can stitch pigment to starlight. Don't let them hollow the nine stories into a hive!"
The rock groaned as a titan worm burst through, its carapace embossed with warped flying‑maiden carvings, tentacles wrapping broken wood from the ninth story, each tipped with star‑dust but reeking of Chaos. Chen Yuan's arm flipped to archaeologist mode—drills crowned with Cloud‑Thunder—avoiding fragile Tang brushstrokes, yet alarms blared: the shell's mineral matches the fresco stone.
"Boss revealed as cultural export?" he laughed, pulling out a brush‑blade to inlay true ribbon‑patterns onto the shell. Golden dust and Cloud‑Thunder pigments absolutely shuddered in resonance, sending halos of stardust across the chamber. "Lilith, sever its link to the wall's mineral matrix! Selene, lock onto the shell's real core—Mo, pour Heart‑Furnace shards into my paint pot. Let's give the worm a cross‑realm tattoo—straight from its own desert star‑chart!"
When the blade grazed its core, his mind was pulled into the Rift. He witnessed mingled memories: Dunhuang's cave guardians and Cthulhu's sand‑dwelling clans, all inscribed with matching runes; father's diary pages tracing the Twin‑Realm anchor map beside fresco coordinates, reading:
"Yuan'er, Mogao's maidens are the Rift's guardians. Never let them close their eyes."
"Why not say so earlier?" he grinned. His arm sprouted dual‑realm wings of ribbon and starlight, the goddess's sash threading across constellations, weaving a living mural that sealed away Chaos. Ribbons passed through starlines, painting the fresco in moving light across both realms. "Old Qing, tone down the poetry—Elder God, stop munching murals or I'll tattoo you with Buddhist sutras from the Library Caves, each leaf illustrated with flying maidens!"
The titan worm's shell gave way to translucence, revealing the stolen anchor: a gold‑leaf amulet etched with Cloud‑Thunder and flying ribbons, my mother's fingerprint still faint at its edge. Chen Yuan slotted it into the Twin‑Realm Core and watched maps of desert and fresco overlay upon his arm, transforming Chaos leaks into pigment and star‑dust—a fragrance of stone azure and desert moon.
Lilith's eyes shimmered in wonder as shadow‑magic merged with fresco light. She brushed a metallic ribbon across the goddess—now sprouting star‑dust‑flowered tassels—"The rift heals, and the murals themselves… dance across realms, their ribbons trailing cosmic sands."
"Report to the National Museum cross‑realm maintenance, stat," he laughed, pressing the Core into the mural's heart. Ribbons flicked across Rift skies; stardust and sandstone gleamed in harmony. "Mo, drive us to the Ninth Cave. Time for Ni'ka to install mineral scanners on my arm—last time I scraped a Tang wall in the Palace and they had me lacquer shells for months!"
Their wagon filed out the Rift, the Crescent Lake and Cthulhu's Eye Desert sighed back to life. Chen Yuan felt the Jade talisman pulse in twin currents, his arm automatically carving a crack through Cosmos—one side Mogao's Ninth Cave, the other an alien star‑observatory. A Han‑dressed restorer across the chasm waved, while a star‑cloaked prophet in Cthulhu garb returned the greeting—two worlds in mirrored salute beneath Cloud‑Thunder's glow.
"Jade talisman," he whispered to the Rift's light, feeling crystalline veins thrum in sync, "if I open a cross‑realm studio selling pigment for Chaos and stardust, do I bill in yuan or star‑gold? Or trade wriggler‑tentacles for rock‑dust? Probably need a permit—mine's the only mechanist licensed to polish murals with a cyber‑arm."
In the Rift's shimmer, the Grey‑Robe scholars and Star‑Kin seers alike took note: here, a defiant soul wove broken art and roaring Chaos into a living bridge of restoration. And in the Library Cave's hush, his parents' reliquary glowed beneath carved scripture—their mechanical heartbeats now echoing in his crystal frame, a testament to the path of the Reverse‑Entropy One.