Accusations

Chengyu stumbled into the sunlight, his senses overwhelmed by the abrupt shift in reality. The portal's hum faded into the din of a bustling town square, tucked within the embrace of a grand historical Chinese village. The scent of roasting duck mingled with the faint whisper of jasmine carried by a gentle breeze. His gaze swept across the majestic tiled roofs that curved skyward and glistened under the caress of morning light.

"Where am I?" he murmured to himself, fingers brushing against the coarse fabric of his modern clothing—an alien contrast to the silk robes that swathed the villagers around him.

"Who are you? Are you not from here?" A sharp voice sliced through his reverie as an old man with eyes sharp as a hawk's confronted him. The elder's face was etched with lines of suspicion, his finger jabbing accusingly at Chengyu.

"I... I'm not sure," Chengyu replied, Mandarin clumsy on his tongue compared to the lyrical cadence of the locals. "I mean no harm."

"He says he means no harm, yet appears here without so much as a prior whisper?"

"Spy!" spat the elder, recoiling as if the word itself were venomous.

"No, I'm not a spy! I'm just lost!" Chengyu tried to assure them, but the crowd thickened, a barrier of bodies and murmured distrust.

"His clothes! Look at his clothes!" someone shouted from the back, provoking a chorus of agreement.

"Enough!" Chengyu's voice rose, though his heart hammered against his chest. "Please, listen to me. I'm just lost."

"Lost? Or cleverly disguised?" Another villager sneered, moving closer. "You wear the fabric of the unknown, speak with an unfamiliar tongue. How can we trust you?"

"Look at his shoes," a woman observed, pointing at Chengyu's sneakers, "No spy worth the title would wear such absurdities. They would wish to blend in."

"Or perhaps that is what he wants us to think," a young man countered, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Please trust me." Chengyu's plea hung in the air, the words fighting for purchase in a sea of skepticism.

The villagers circled around him, a slow-moving storm of silk and whispers. Chengyu felt his breath catch, the weight of countless eyes upon him. He realized then, with a sinking feeling, how out of place he truly was—like a modern brushstroke on an ancient scroll.

"Perhaps it's a mistake," suggested an old woman, her voice softening, "He has the look of confusion, not deceit."

"Or perhaps it's a ploy," the hawk-eyed elder persisted, "to lower our guard."

"Take him to Lord Hongli," decided another, "Let the leader uncover the truth."

Hands seized him, unyielding and numerous. Chengyu found himself propelled forward, entwined in a dance of fate and suspicion. He looked up at the towering structures that lined the square, their beauty now laced with the bitterness of his predicament.

"Am I a character in some unfathomable narrative?" Chengyu thought, his mind racing. "Or merely a pawn in a game beyond my understanding?"

"Lord Hongli will know what to do," murmured a voice from the crowd, a statement of faith in authority that left Chengyu cold with apprehension.

"Please, just let me explain," Chengyu implored once more, his words dissipating into the crisp morning air, unanswered.

The grip on Chengyu's arms grew tighter as he was marched through the serpentine alleyways of the village. With each step, the shouts and cries of the marketplace rose up like the discord of a hundred flutes out of tune. Fishmongers drawing along carts hawked their slippery wares, herbalists extolling the virtues of roots and leaves, all became a blurred tapestry to Chengyu's dazed senses. Above, banners fluttered beneath eaves, their bold ideograms a mystery that danced just beyond his comprehension.

"Move," grunted one of the men clutching his arm, propelling him forward with a jolt that matched the rhythm of his racing heart.

As they reached the outskirts of the bustling square, an imposing structure emerged, its silhouette slicing into the sky—a palace of ancient design, with upturned eaves that seemed to defy gravity, and intricate latticework that whispered secrets of a bygone era. Yet, there was something else—an undercurrent of foreign influence in the pointed tips of the structures, the delicate frescoes that adorned the walls, blending two worlds into one. It was familiar, yet not quite, as was everything.

"Foreign devil," spat a voice, as Chengyu stumbled over the raised threshold and into the dim coolness of the palace interior.

"I mean no harm," Chengyu hopelessly ventured, but again, his plea was ignored, lost amidst the shadows and the echoes of his own footsteps as he tentatively stepped forward. He instantly felt a cold gaze upon him and briefly glanced up. When he saw who it belonged to, he jumped and returned to staring at the ground.

A man—from his noble countenance and proud stance, he could have been none other than the Lord Hongli—loomed at the end of the grand corridor, an imposing figure framed by the elaborate backdrop of his throne. His gaze was sharp, piercing through Chengyu as if trying to unravel the yarn of his soul. He stood, clad in robes that bore the weight of tradition and power—a tiger among men, fierce and unyielding.

"Where do you hail from?" Lord Hongli demanded, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

"From... from afar," Chengyu stammered, his thoughts a tangled skein. "I'm not sure how I arrived here. One moment, I was standing near a well, the next, I was tumbling into it and suddenly here."

"His words are like rice paper—transparent and easily torn," muttered a man in a strange hat. He must've been one of Lord Hongli's advisors. His face was as faded and lined as the maps found in old libraries and his voice creaked like rusty hinges.

"Enough speculation." Lord Hongli's command reverberated, silencing the murmurs. "Take him away. I have more pressing matters to attend to. We shall decide his fate later."

With a rough shove, Chengyu was herded out of the hall, down several others, and finally, they came to a stop. The transition left his head spinning, but it must've been disorienting on purpose, because he could offer no protest when he was shoved into a small chamber, the door slamming shut with the finality of a sealed tomb.

I wonder how often this happens, or if I'm the first visitor, or if I'm dreaming. He mused, tracing the grain of the wooden floor with his fingertip. It was old, worn smooth by time and countless pacing feet. If it's all real, will I become a ghost story? Guess I'll be a part of history in some way, no matter how brief.

He observed the room—the simple cot, the basin of water, the scrolls that adorned the wall speaking of myths he'd never heard. The fabric of the place was ancient, yet the dialects that buzzed in his ears outside were not quite right; they held a different cadence, a certain lilt that seemed out of place. As did the art; it was clearly influenced by traditional styles, yet not quite like the glimpses of ancient China in scrolls or textbooks.

"An alternative timeline," Chengyu whispered, the realization settling upon him like the evening fog. "A parallel strand woven into the fabric of history. Or maybe I'm hallucinating. Could be either, but I'd prefer the former."

Chengyu sank down upon the cot, his mind awash with thoughts of home and the impossibility of his situation. He found himself alone again, save for the dust motes that danced in the slanting light of the barred window. Still, those weren't great company, so he continued talking to himself.

"Could it be that in this world, the threads of time weave patterns unfamiliar to my own?" His gaze fell upon the scrolls once more, their tales silent yet screaming to be understood.

Maybe, if I come to understand this place, I might find my way back. But the thought was a mere flicker, a candle threatened by the wind of doubt that whistled through the cracks of his temporary prison.

A soft rap at the door startled Chengyu from his reverie. With the sound of clanking porcelain, the door opened to reveal a servant, her eyes downcast, face half-hidden beneath the wide brim of a woven hat. She carried a tray laden with food. She stepped inside, her movements measured and silent as if she were gliding across the floor. The aroma of spiced meat and steamed rice wafted into the room, mingling with the mustiness of ancient timbers.

"Your meal, sir," she said, placing the tray on the table. Her voice was timid, a ghost of sound barely disturbing the air.

How kind that he would be given a meal. It was also a reminder that they didn't want him dead just yet.

"Thank you," Chengyu replied, his voice gentle to not startle her. He reached for the tray, his fingers brushing over the warm ceramics. Yet before he could indulge in the meal, sounds erupted in the corridor beyond—a tumultuous din that spoke of urgency and distress.

Curiosity pricked at him, sharper than hunger. Despite the servant's protest, he set the tray aside and approached the door, straining to hear more. The commotion swelled, a crescendo of voices that wove anxiety into the fabric of the air. Something was amiss, and within the walls of this foreign palace, ignorance was as much a prison as the locked door.

With that thought, he pushed at the door—it gave way surprisingly. The servant gave a shriek and tugged on his arm, but he shook her off, entering the serpentine corridors lined with finery that he expected to see in a museum.

Chengyu moved swiftly but cautiously, navigating. If was as if the architecture was a labyrinth, designed to bewilder, adorned with intricate carvings that danced shadows upon the walls. His heart thumped a staccato rhythm, a counterpoint to the rising clamor that guided his steps.

He emerged from the twisting passageways into the grandeur a grand hall, and at the end of it, a heavy door. Rushing forward, he pressed against it, and it swung open with a groan that reverberated through the hall. With his heart pounding like a frantic drum in his chest, stepped across the threshold. The scent of incense and terror hung thick in the air, intertwining with the metallic tang of blood that seemed to cling to the silken tapestries adorning the walls. Before him, courtiers fluttered about like disturbed moths, their faces masks of dismay.

"Stop there!" A guard's voice thundered, rough as gravel, and before Chengyu could react, he felt the blunt impact of a gauntlet against his cheek. Stars exploded in his vision, and he tasted copper in his mouth. Pain radiated across his jaw, but he swallowed it down, steadying himself on feet that threatened to buckle.

As he burst into the dining room, amongst a spectacle of opulence—gilded dragons coiled around pillars, silk banners fluttering from the rafters, was chaos incarnate. On the dais were a set of three tables, one for the Lord, then assumedly his wife, and a third mysterious figure. The rest sat in neat rows at a series of smaller tables, receiving food from the trays of passing servants who never stopped making their circuits, even among the commotion.

Amidst it all, Lord Hongli was pacing like a caged tiger. His face was a tempest of emotion, eyes wild, hands clenched into fists that threatened to tear at the very air. Beyond his arms, however, Chengyu saw two ladies on the ground, shuddering, foaming at the mouth.

"What has happened?" Chengyu asked, although he had an inkling that he already knew. His voice cut through the tension, demanding attention.

The man's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "You dare show your face here?" Lord Hongli hissed, his composure fracturing.

Before Chengyu could utter another word, something smacked him upside the head. Then, the solid grip of a guard closed on his shoulder. The impact was sharp, a jolt that sent pain spider-webbing across his skin. Before he could fall to his knees, he was grabbed and jostled up, forced to stand.

He struggled, not against the physical hold, but against the maelstrom of confusion that sought to drown him. "Please, I only want to—" he trailed off, his plea hanging in the air, unanswered.

The guard's grasp tightened into iron bands, encircling Chengyu's arms, dragging him backward. "If you say another word, I'll slit your throat," he whispered.

Chengyu went deathly still and swallowed his words.