9: Who I am?(7)
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It was dark again.
A familiar darkness — thick, absolute, almost comforting.
The kind of darkness that had weight, the kind that pressed softly against the eyes like silk, the kind that did not terrify Zu Feng anymore. To him, this was peace — a silence deeper than any grave, a void more honest than the false light of the waking world. It was better than that other place — that world of crooked tongues, squinted eyes, and faces that stared at him as though he were something foreign. This darkness at least did not lie.
He lay there for a long while, listening to the absence of sound. Then, somewhere far away, a faint pulse of warmth brushed against his cheek. It was light — weak, almost tender, seeping into his eyelids.
Zu Feng opened his eyes.
The brightness that had once blinded him could not hurt him now. He had adapted to it, the same way the body adapts to scars — by forgetting what it felt like to be whole. Slowly, his blurred vision steadied, and the shapes around him began to return. The carved ceiling came first — that old, painted wood, decorated with images of cranes gliding over ink-dark mountains. Gold lacquer lined the wings, still catching what little sunlight bled through the paper windows. The scent of incense clung to the air, faintly bitter, old — a smell that always hovered when he woke here.
He exhaled, the breath soft, almost disappointed. His hollow eyes moved across the room and then down to his own chest. The same bed. The same weak body. The same reality that refused to let him rest.
"I am alive? Again?"
His voice cracked through the stillness — low, hoarse, almost resentful.
He sat up. The motion should've brought pain, but it didn't — not the way it used to. The ache that usually tore through his abdomen was quiet now, as though it had finally given up on him. He flexed his fingers, watching his thin, twig-like hands tremble faintly in the light. His gaze lingered on the wrist — the same wrist he had cut, the mark now faded, almost gone.
"Chu!" he clicked his tongue, the sound sharp against the still air. "I am alive again, even though the arrow literally passed through this body's skull?"
He raised his hand, running his fingertips across his temple — the exact spot where the arrow had pierced through.
The skin there felt strange. Uneven.
A bump.
His eyes shot open, his breath catching. A trail of sweat slid down the side of his face, glistening against the morning light. His heart thudded once — a heavy sound that echoed through his chest.
"It is true. The arrow has penetrated my skull…" he thought.
He looked up, eyes settling on the window. Beyond it lay the orchard, soft and still under the daylight. The same orchard that had seen him fall, that had watched him die. His voice turned into a whisper, barely audible.
"I had actually died?"
The moment the words left his mouth, something sharp exploded in his head.
A surge of agony — pure and electric — tore through his skull. The world blurred. His vision fractured into streaks of red and white. His teeth clenched, fists curling as his body convulsed. He could feel the veins pulsing in his neck, his temples throbbing, the rush of blood echoing in his ears.
The pain was so intense it drove him to his knees. Blood splattered from his lips, trailing down his chin, painting the wooden floor. His eyes were wide, unblinking, filled with the effort to contain a scream. His breath came in short, violent bursts.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pain receded.
The silence after it was deafening.
He lay there for a few moments, his chest heaving, the aftertaste of iron thick in his mouth. Slowly, he wiped the blood away with the back of his trembling hand. His voice came out ragged, whispering to the emptiness.
"Wasn't this body pain-free? How come I'm feeling pain of this extent?"
He tilted his head back, staring upward — past the ceiling, as if trying to see something above it. His eyes were dark and hollow, yet alive with confusion.
"But… anything before that…" he whispered, voice low, "…how am I alive?"
And then —
"You are becoming smart, Guye Zu Feng."
The voice came from below, smooth and deep, echoing from somewhere far too close. It was cold — not the kind of cold that came from winter, but from something ancient, something dead that still remembered how to whisper.
Zu Feng looked down.
There, in front of his hands, lay a creature — its body slender and pale, almost glowing in the dim light. Its scales were white as snow, shimmering faintly with every movement. And its eyes — those eyes — gleamed a furious crimson, slitted and alive, staring directly into him. The creature lifted its head, tongue flicking out like a whip, and the red gleam deepened until it reflected in Zu Feng's hollow pupils.
It was a snake.
"You…" Zu Feng muttered, his voice low but steady, "are Gandolah?"
The snake's eyes narrowed. The red deepened, burning brighter for a moment. Then, as if amused, its mouth curved slightly — a smile that revealed fangs long and sharp as needles.
"Your personality is also changing, Zu Feng," Gandolah hissed, its tone dripping with mockery and faint approval.
Zu Feng brushed his long hair back with his fingers, the strands falling loosely over his shoulders. His expression didn't change.
"Just tell me why you're here," he said flatly.
The snake slithered forward, its smooth body gliding up his arm with eerie ease. It coiled loosely around him, its scales brushing his neck and jaw as it raised its head near his ear. Its voice came closer, colder.
"You know that you died twice already, right?"
Zu Feng's eyes flicked sideways, meeting the serpent's gaze. His expression hardened.
"Twice?" he asked. "Wasn't the only time I died when the arrow shot into my head?"
"No–no–no," Gandolah hissed, voice low and deliberate. "The time you were controlled by your emotions and attempted suicide… don't think of that as suicide."
The snake's head inched closer, until its tongue flicked just before Zu Feng's lips.
"That was a murder."
Zu Feng's eyes widened. His jaw tensed, and his breath caught in his throat. The words echoed inside him, louder than any thunder. Murder.
The snake slid down, trailing along his arm again, its movement soundless.
"And," Gandolah continued, turning slightly as it coiled on the floor again, its crimson gaze fixed on him, "I was the one to revive you."
The serpent waited — expecting surprise, denial, anything. But Zu Feng remained still. His expression didn't change.
"Hm. Looks like you expected it?" Gandolah hissed, its fangs flashing again, amusement curling through its tone.
Zu Feng merely yawned. He rose to his feet, his bare steps soft on the wooden floor. He moved with slow precision — almost mechanical — toward the black robe draped over the chair. He lifted it and slipped it on, the fabric whispering against his scarred skin. Then came the black pants. Then, last, the silver bracelet — fastened quietly over his wrist, hiding the marks of his past attempt.
He stood straight. His back to the room. His gaze fixed on the orchard outside. The faint sunlight filtered through the paper windows, glinting along the black fabric that hung loosely from his shoulders. His hair fell across his face as he narrowed his eyes.
Then he moved.
In a single breath, Zu Feng ran forward, his body cutting through the morning air. He leapt from the porch, his feet touching the ground with a muted thud. The robe flared behind him as he ran — faster and faster — through the familiar path lined with moss and fallen leaves. The orchard stretched before him, quiet and green, but he ignored it all. His focus was sharp, fixed ahead.
The animals scattered as he passed. The same squirrels, the same birds — they darted away in panic. The faintest trace of recognition flickered in his eyes when he saw it — the same squirrel whose crushed remains had once stained the ground.
He ran harder.
His lungs burned, but he didn't stop until he reached it — the tree. The same tree. The same place where he had fallen, lifeless, not long ago.
Behind him, Gandolah followed — a streak of pale white across the earth, the snake's presence slicing through the orchard like a blade of winter. The smaller creatures fled at the sight of it, hiding in the shadows of the trees.
Zu Feng stood there, breath uneven, his palm pressed against the bark.
"You got it this quick?" Gandolah said, voice sly, almost amused.
Zu Feng didn't look back. His fingers brushed over the rough bark, tracing the grooves, the same spot where the arrow had entered. The texture was different now — uneven, scarred.
"As I was about to say before," Zu Feng murmured, his eyes gleaming faintly, "the bark of this tree…"
He smiled — a quiet, unsettling curve of his lips. A spark of intelligence flickered in his eyes, sharp and alive.
"…The bark had been scraped again. As if someone tried to intentionally remove something."
His voice faded into the wind. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted. His breath hitched. His pupils narrowed.
He felt something.
He stared at the bark, then stepped closer, his hand still pressed against it. His voice broke into a whisper.
"This is…"
Zu Feng's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face.
"Hm, it's stretching too long, let me tell you…" Gandolah slithered closer, curling up the tree's trunk until its head was level with Zu Feng's. The serpent tilted its head, its tongue flicking out as its crimson eyes locked with his.
"This is…"
It paused, savoring the moment.
"Poison."
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