I knelt at the center of the ritual formation, the cold, dusty air of the old scholar's hall clinging to me like a shroud. The paper lantern I'd brought with me cast flickering shadows on the walls, making it seem as though the scrolls stacked around me were shifting, watching me. I felt a shiver run down my spine, but it wasn't fear – not yet, at least. It was anticipation.

My hands trembled as I gazed down at the intricate patterns I'd drawn on the floor. Circles within circles, lines carved with powdered cinnabar, symbols copied from brittle pages that had taken me days to decipher. I'd memorized the summoning spell over countless secret nights, pouring over forbidden texts and practicing the ancient syllables until they felt like a part of me.

But now, as I whispered the words, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a terrible mistake. The syllables scraped my throat like blades, leaving me raw and vulnerable. I felt the weight of my isolation bearing down on me – the loneliness, the emptiness, the cold. I was a ghost within the palace, present but unnoticed. And I'd had enough. So I made a choice.

If a demon answered the call, I'll let it take my body. If it wanted revenge, I'll let it use me to get it. If it wanted to devour me… then at least my suffering would end.

“Let this be the end. One way or another.”

The symbols on the floor began to glow, a soft white light that gradually deepened to red. The air thickened, and a low hum pulsed through the hall, rattling the scroll shelves and sending dust drifting like ash. I kept my gaze down, not wanting to see what I'd summoned. But as the ritual circle cracked, and a sound like a breath gasping awake echoed through the chamber, I felt a jolt of fear.

Something fell into the circle, hard and wet and human-shaped. The lantern flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. My heart stopped. This wasn't how the books described demonic manifestation. Slowly, choking on dread, I lifted my head.

A figure lay half-curled on the floor, barefoot and thin, covered in soot and dried blood. Her clothes were scorched and torn, and she smelled faintly of smoke – the kind from burning villages. Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent under the lantern light, and her hair clung damply to her face. Her chest rose and fell in harsh, unsteady breaths.

And her eyes... Her eyes opened, and I felt a pressure against my ribs, like invisible fingers squeezing. Her gaze was a shade of red that lived, shifting like a newly spilled pool of blood, yet clouded with confusion and pain. I felt my spiritual senses – long dormant – flare violently, and I knew, in that moment, that I'd summoned something extraordinary.

Not a demon. Not a ghost. Not anything the ritual was meant to summon. I whispered, my voice cracking, "…Who are you?" The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was only silence. The figure's gaze locked onto mine, and I felt a jolt of recognition – as though she saw me, truly saw me, for the first time.