The trees were thick and heavy with elongated shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly like an abyss, their branches twisting overhead forming a thick canopy. Shuyan's chest burned as he stumbled backward, trying to keep his footing on the damp forest floor. A branch cracked loudly under his foot followed by his foot being stuck on the mud. The sound broke the stillness of the forest alerting the predators of their prey fleeing.
A low growl rumbled through the trees like thunder. The hunter had arrived.
Shuyan froze, his brown eyes slowly widening and his pupil thinning.
Green eyes glowed in the darkness in front of him, sharp and steady. The beast stepped forward—an iron-furred wolf the size of a horse. Its thick limbs moved with power, muscles rippling beneath silver-streaked black fur. Claws gouged the earth as it came closer.
Shuyan raised his rusty dagger with shaking hands. It was useless. He knew it. But there was no other choice. This thing wasn't something a boy like him could fight. Not even that bastard Jianhong could defeat it. Probably.
He shouldn't have come this deep into Qinling Forest.
He shouldn't have trusted them.
His clothes were soaked in sweat, torn by branches and thorns. His breath came in gasps, each one sharper than the last. His legs felt like they were made of wood, being stuck in the mud.
"This is bad," he whispered.
Really bad.
Just hours ago, he had entered the forest with Jianhong and the others.
They'd been smiling. Laughing.
Jianhong—the son of the village chief and one of the few martial artist in the whole of Shifeng village—had said there was a Greenvein Lotus growing by the cliffs in the outskirts of Qinling forest. A rare herb that could help him break through to Martial Warrior. "Worth enough to feed a family for months," he'd said. "Help me get it, and I'll give you a martial technique."
Shuyan had hesitated. Everyone knew how dangerous the forest was. Even Martial Artists were careful not to go too far in.
But Jianhong made it sound simple. Harmless.
And the reward was too great. Just the thing he had always yearned for. In this world ruled by martial artists, strength was the only foundation that people could live a good life.
And he was after that, hoping to become a martial artst and secure a place for himself in the Wuyang kingdom. Maybe even become a noble or an elder in some sect. But now because of that damned Jianhong, he was stuck here fighting a beast that he had no hope of defeating.
"We just need a distraction," he'd said with such ease. "A quick bait-and-switch. You run out, draw the beast away, and we grab the herb. Easy."
And Shuyan… he believed him. He had been too naïve and greedy.
He'd stepped out first when the beast appeared. Yelled to draw its attention. And when it turned toward him, he ran.
He ran because he thought they'd be behind him soon.
He thought they'd circle back once the danger was clear.
They didn't.
They took the herb and vanished.
Left him behind like he was nothing.
He shouldn't have trusted them.
His arm stung where the beast had clipped him. Blood dripped from his fingers, soaking the hilt of the dagger.
He cursed under his breath, more to himself than anything.
"Idiot…"
He was too slow to be a real hunter. Too weak to be a real fighter. But he had believed that maybe—just maybe—this could be the start of something. That Jianhong really meant to give him that martial technique. That it could be a step out of this muddy, broken life of scraping by, eating whatever birds he could shoot, trading feathers and roots for copper.
He believed because he wanted to. He had been alone in this world since his parents had vanished in the same forest where he was now running for his life. So, he should have known that this wasn't a place to mess around. But he had done just that. Put his life on the line for some vague promise.
That was his real mistake.
The growl came again, louder this time.
The wolf lunged.
Shuyan turned and ran, pulling out his stuck foot from the mud with a jerk. Branches whipped his face. Thorns tore his skin. His lungs screamed. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Stopping meant forfeiting his life. He was still young, he didn't want to die. Not yet
The land dipped sharply in front of him but he didn't stop, and he slid down the slope, boots skidding over wet moss. Behind him, the beast thundered through the underbrush—each step pounding louder, closer.
He couldn't outrun it. He knew that.
But he kept running anyway.
But then suddenly, the ground ahead gave way beneath his feet while he was looking back. But it was too late to stop. His foot slipped from the edge and the cliff's edge vanished beneath him, his feet catching nothing but chilly air.
He fell.
The world spun. Wind roared in his ears. Trees blurred. His body flipped and twisted.
And then—
Nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Everything was heavy.
Shuyan's thoughts floated somewhere between sleep and waking. His limbs felt like they didn't belong to him. Like they were tied down by thick ropes he couldn't see and feel.
His eyes were closed, but even in the darkness, he knew something was off.
It was cold. Not sharp or biting—just deep and quiet, like he was wrapped in a blanket made of water.
Wait.
Water?
His eyes fluttered open. Slow. Heavy. Like peeling bark off a tree.
Blurred light filtered in from above, not natural since he knew sun or even torches didn't produce blue lights. His body drifted slightly, not touching anything solid. He reached up—or thought he did—but his arm moved slow, too slow, like pushing through syrup.
It didn't make sense.
He opened his mouth to breathe, expecting to choke.
But he didn't.
He breathed in.
The water moved through his mouth, down his throat—smooth and strange. Not painful. Not drowning.
Something rested on his tongue, small and smooth like a stone or a fish egg. It pulsed gently, and for some reason, he could breathe.
His heart started pounding now, confusion crashing into panic. He looked around, eyes trying to focus.
He wasn't in the forest.
He wasn't anywhere he knew.
He was… inside something.
The walls around him curved. Glass? Clear, smooth, rounded like the inside of a pipe. He pressed his hand to it—it clinked faintly, a hollow sound, not wood or stone. It was like being inside a giant bottle standing upright.
He blinked hard.
Outside the glass, the room stretched wide, strange lines drawn and floating lights with odd objects sat on the ground—some flickered with symbols he didn't understand. Others pulsed softly with dim lights like beating hearts.
He saw a shadow moving—tall figure, drifting past the glass.
Beast.
No, people?
But not like anyone he'd ever seen. The clothes were tight and black, their face covered with smooth mask that glowed faintly where the eye should've been. The man moved like ghost. Not speaking. Not looking at him.
He wanted to move. Bang on the glass. Shout.
But his arms floated uselessly at his sides. It was like his body wasn't responding to his commands.
Then the water around him shifted.
A low hum vibrated through the tube.
He turned his head—or tried to.
A sharp click echoed, and slowly, the water around him began to change.
It turned red.
Deep red, like fresh blood.
Warm.
He wanted to scream, but nothing came out. His mouth wouldn't open. His body didn't move. All he could do was watch as the water clouded, as the red sank into his skin like dye soaking into cloth.
Then—stillness.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that.
A minute? An hour?
Eventually, everything went dark again.
This happened again.
And again.
He'd wake up, groggy and slow, floating in the strange red water. See the glowing room, the masked figure. Feel the thing in his mouth pulsing quietly, letting him breathe.
Then the red would come.
Sometimes he tried to count the moments before it changed.
Sometimes he tried to scream.
But it was always the same.
And he never knew how many days passed between each waking.
Maybe it had only been three.
Maybe thirty.
Time didn't work here.