They walked for two days.
No roads. No paths. Just broken stone, tangled vines, and the occasional skeletal remains of a bridge that had long since collapsed into the ravine below.
Yan Mo moved better now. Not fast. Not strong. But steadily. His body remembered how to walk, even if his mind didn't remember why.
Ling Mei led the way, her lantern extinguished, tucked carefully into her pack. She hadn't used it since the night she found him — too risky. Light attracted attention, and right now, they couldn't afford it.
She glanced back at him often. Not because she feared he'd run.
But because she feared he'd vanish.
Like smoke. Like a dream upon waking.
And yet he was real.
He breathed.
He hurt.
He remembered nothing — except one word.
"Yan."
That single syllable had echoed through the storm like a name carved into the bones of the world.
She still didn't know who he was.
Didn't know where he came from.
Didn't understand why the air around him hummed with something old and dangerous.
But she knew this:
When she touched the seal, the world stuttered.
Time stopped.
Sound died.
Even the rain froze midair.
And then... he opened his eyes.
Not with rage.
Not with madness.
But with sorrow.
As if he'd been waiting for someone.
Anyone.
To finally come.
And when he looked at her — blurred, broken, barely alive — something inside her recognized him.
Not logically.
Not rationally.
But deep.
Instinctive.
Like a memory buried before birth.
She didn't tell him that.
Couldn't explain it.
But it was why she hadn't run.
Why she gave him food.
Why she named him Mo.
Why she was leading him toward the Azure Sky Sect, knowing full well she could be expelled — or worse — for bringing an unknown anomaly into sacred territory.
Because some part of her believed:
He wasn't just a man.
He was a return.
And whatever had sealed him away tens of thousands of years ago...
...would come looking for him again.
On the third morning, they reached a narrow valley flanked by red cliffs. A thin river cut through the center, its surface still and dark under the early sun.
"This is the edge of Azure Sky territory," Ling Mei said, crouching by the water. "From here on, patrols run every few hours. We'll need to stay low until nightfall."
Yan Mo knelt beside her, cupping water in his hands. It was cold. Clear. But when he looked down, his reflection didn't feel like his own.
Pale skin. White hair. One eye gold, one black.
A man who shouldn't exist.
He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe.
When he opened them again, Ling Mei was watching him.
"You're thinking too hard," she said.
"I don't know how not to."
She dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out. "Then stop trying to be someone you used to be. Be who you are now. Even if that's just... a guy named Mo."
He almost smiled. Almost.
Instead, he asked, "Why do you trust me?"
She hesitated.
Not because she doubted.
But because she didn't fully understand it herself.
"I saw something," she said quietly. "When I touched the seal."
"What?"
"A flash. Just for a second. Before the world stopped."
She met his gaze.
"There was fire. And a sword. And you — standing in the middle of it all, wearing robes made of light and shadow. You weren't fighting. You were... defying something."
His breath caught.
"And there was a voice," she continued. "Not yours. Older. Distant. It said—"
She paused, frowning.
"'He has returned.'"
Yan Mo said nothing.
But deep inside, the Primordial Shadow stirred.
'She saw a fragment of your past.'
'Foolish girl.'
'Now they'll come faster.'
He ignored it.
Instead, he looked at Ling Mei — really looked at her.
Not as a savior.
Not as a fool.
But as someone who had seen him, even when the rest of the world had erased him.
And for the first time since waking up in the ruins...
He didn't feel forgotten.
He felt found.
That night, they camped beneath an overhang, hidden from the sky.
Ling Mei lit a small fire, just enough to cook a handful of dried roots and a strip of preserved meat. She handed him half without hesitation.
"You've gotten stronger," she said, chewing slowly. "Your breathing's steadier. Your posture's better."
"I don't feel stronger."
"But you are." She tilted her head. "You move like someone who's fought before. Not just trained. Fought. Like your body remembers battles your mind can't."
He stared into the flames. "I keep seeing things."
"What kind of things?"
"A sword," he said quietly. "Not like any weapon I've seen. Curved. Black. With silver veins that pulse like blood."
She frowned. "Never heard of it."
"And a voice," he continued. "Calling me 'Brother.'"
She went still. "What did it say?"
"Nothing clear. Just... sorrow. And warning."
She studied him for a long moment. Then she pulled a small notebook from her robe and flipped it open. She began sketching.
He didn't ask. He just watched.
After a while, she turned the page toward him.
His breath caught.
It was him.
But not as he was now.
Taller. Calmer. Dressed in flowing robes etched with golden patterns. His expression was distant, powerful, almost untouchable.
And both eyes glowed — one gold, one shadowed — balanced, in control.
"That's not me," he said.
"It's how you look in my head," she said simply. "Since I found you."
He looked back at the drawing. At the man in the image.
Something deep inside him ached.
'That was me,' a voice whispered in his mind. Not Ling Mei's. Not his own.
'That was Chen Wuyan.'
The Primordial Shadow spoke only once. Then fell silent.
Later, when Ling Mei slept, Yan Mo sat awake.
The dream came again.
Not a mirror this time.
A battlefield.
Endless mist. Fallen banners. Bodies strewn across cracked earth. And in the center, a man standing alone — him.
But not alone.
At his side stood another figure — cloaked, masked, holding a blade dripping with black flame.
A brother.
An ally.
A betrayer.
The man turned. Lifted his mask.
And for a single heartbeat, Yan Mo saw his face.
Then the vision shattered.
He woke with a gasp.
Ling Mei stirred, half-awake. "You okay?"
He didn't answer.
He just stared at the dying fire, heart pounding, hands clenched.
Because for the first time since waking up in the ruins...
He wasn't afraid of what he might become.
He was afraid of who he used to be.