Episode 3: The Secret Whisper of the Bone Flute

The warning lights of the X Tribe camp cast mottled shadows on the sand, the patrol members’ leather boots crunching softly over the grains. No one noticed the dark figure clinging to the rock face like a gecko, sliding silently along. The hem of a black robe brushed past thorny camelthorn bushes without disturbing a single leaf.

The face of the Sand Whisperer elder was hidden deep within the shadow of his hood, only a pair of eyes gleaming brightly like obsidian submerged in water. His withered fingers gripped the crevices in the rock with surprising agility—more nimble even than those of a young man. These were hands that had sifted through desert sands for seventy years, capable of cupping scorching grains or snapping the neck of an ambusher.

Inside the central tent of the camp, Su Qing was still analyzing energy parameters on the Oasis Eye AI, the blue light from the screen casting her face pale. The elder’s gaze lingered for three seconds at the tent’s roof before suddenly falling like a withered leaf to the ground, landing without so much as a dust cloud.

From his chest pocket, he produced an object—a half-length bone flute, its surface densely carved with intricate totems, as if painstakingly etched with fingernails. The flute’s broken end was clean and straight, as if forcibly snapped, with a few dark red grains of sand clinging to the edge.

The elder placed the bone flute on a stone block at the tent’s entrance and traced a circle on the sand with his toe—a "peace charm" totem of the X Tribe. Then he turned and melded into the darkness. Where his robe swept, the sand grains automatically aligned into a trail, both guiding and warning.

“Who’s there?”

A patrolman’s shout came from a distance. But the elder had already vanished behind the dunes, leaving only a faint sigh that the wind scattered into the sand.

—

“What is this thing?”

Su Qing stared at the bone flute on the stone block, her brow furrowed tightly. Warriors from the Entropy Reversal Battalion had just delivered it, claiming it was found at the tent’s entrance where the surrounding sand seemed frozen stiff underfoot.

The bone flute was cold in her hands, lacking the usual animal bone’s fishy odor but instead carrying a faint scent of plants and wood. Su Qing examined it repeatedly. The uneven totems depicted scorpions and human faces, the most curious feature being seven holes blocked with fine sand that would not fall out.

“Old Dao, do you understand this?” she called out.

Old Dao, pipe clenched between his teeth, squinted at it for a long moment before hissing sharply, nearly dropping his pipe: “This is… the bone flute of the Sand Keeper! My grandfather said the true Sand Whisperers could speak to the sand using this.”

“Sand Whisperers?” Su Qing recalled the legend Lu Chen had mentioned, beings mysterious even in the desert, able to hear the whispers of the dead. “Why would he leave this behind?”

Old Dao said nothing, rubbing a rough thumb over the totem on the flute. “This totem means ‘warning.’ See the scorpion’s tail? It points west—towards the S Tribe.”

Suddenly remembering something, Su Qing grabbed the flute and rushed out of the tent. Dawn was just breaking, the sun a blazing iron orb perched atop the dunes, its slanting rays already carrying heat.

She raised the bone flute, letting the sunlight pass through its broken end.

A miracle unfolded.

The sand inside the flute holes seemed to come alive, flowing along the path of light and casting fragmented shadows on the ground. Those shadows did not flicker randomly but slowly assembled—a vertical line first, then a crooked character meaning “fire,” followed by the shape of a hand, its fingertips missing, as if severed.

“Fire-Taker’s Severed Finger?” Su Qing read aloud, a chill suddenly climbing up her spine.

“What?”

Lu Chen, returning from equipment checks, stopped dead at the words. He had guarded half the night, his eyes bloodshot, the jade pendant on his waist faintly warm as if something sought to emerge.

“The sand grains on the bone flute are forming this,” Su Qing pointed at the shadow on the ground. “Fire-Taker’s Severed Finger—what does it mean?”

Lu Chen said nothing, his gaze fixed on the shadow of the “amputated finger” hand, his heart suddenly gripped by an icy hand. Instinctively, he raised his right hand, fingers spread. Sunlight fell on its back, revealing dark skin and knuckles pronounced from years of wielding a blade.

At that moment, his right index finger suddenly stung with sharp pain.

Not an external injury, but a burning sensation seeping from the bone’s core, as if a heated needle pierced inward. Lu Chen pressed the finger hard and looked down—on the fingertip appeared a faint golden pattern, as fine as a hair, identical in shape to a totem on the bone flute.

“High Priest, what’s wrong?” Su Qing noticed his pale expression.

Lu Chen remained silent, staring intently at the sand scar. He recalled a childhood story his grandfather told of the “Fire-Taker” legend—a man who first mastered the energy of the Wasteland Bone, said to have the power to ignite sand with bare hands but cut off his own index finger to avoid being consumed by uncontrollable energy.

Could it be…

“Beep beep beep—”

The Oasis Eye AI suddenly blared an urgent alarm, snapping him out of his thoughts. Su Qing hurried back to the tent. On the satellite map, she gasped: the S Tribe’s drill fleet had breached the underground rock layer, and at the bottom right of the screen, a red energy point flickered wildly.

More terrifying was the yellow sand stirred up by the drill’s ascent, mixed with fragments of bone no larger than fingernails, glowing faintly blue under the sunlight like poisoned shards of ice.

“They’ve hit the ‘bone,’” Old Dao’s trembling voice sounded behind them. “The outer seal of the Wasteland Bone is broken.”

Lu Chen’s gaze returned to his right index finger, where the faint golden scar had grown clearer. Suddenly, he thought of the bone flute left by the Sand Whisperer—the break so clean, like it was deliberately snapped. Could it be…

“Prepare to move out.” Lu Chen clenched his fists tightly, knuckles white. “Tell the Entropy Reversal Battalion to bring everyone with totem markings. This time, we might have to clash with the sand head-on.”

As Su Qing nodded, she caught a glimpse of the hourglass in the tent’s corner. The sand, which should have fallen steadily, now seemed magnetically drawn to the bottom, forming a small dune that glowed with the same eerie blue light as the S Tribe’s bone fragments.

Meanwhile, the half-length bone flute had somehow slipped from the stone block onto the sand, broken edge down, as if drinking in the sand. Tiny beads of blood seeped from its carved totems—not red, but the same faint golden color as the mark on Lu Chen’s finger.

Old Dao crouched and used his bone knife to stir the sand around the flute, then froze.

In the sand, besides the shadow of the “Fire-Taker’s Severed Finger,” lay an even smaller symbol—the X Tribe’s “sacrifice” totem—with its very center unmistakably bearing a miniature version of Lu Chen’s fingerprint.

“High Priest,” Old Dao’s voice was hoarse, “this bone flute… is meant for you.”

Lu Chen said nothing, only lifting his gaze toward the S Tribe’s direction. The sky there had turned a pale gray, as if veiled by dirty glass. The wind howled, swirling sand, and faint flute-like sounds drifted through—broken, like crying and laughing intertwined.

He looked down at his right index finger again. The sand scar no longer stung but began to warm, resonating with the jade pendant at his waist, as if transmitting some secret signal.

Fire-Taker’s Severed Finger…

Could this truly be his destiny?