Li Yaochen woke to the sound of water dripping from leaves.
Not rain—at least, not anymore. The storm had moved on, leaving behind a forest that smelled of wet bark and old soil. Cold seeped into his bones from the ground beneath him. His first breath was shallow, cautious, as if the air itself might punish him for taking too much.
Pain followed.
It bloomed from his shoulder, sharp and insistent, then crawled down his leg in dull waves. He bit down on a groan and forced his eyes open.
Gray sky filtered through a tangle of branches above. He lay half-curled beside the road, mud caked into his hair and clothes stiff with drying blood. When he tried to sit up, his body refused with a violent spasm that stole his breath.
"Still alive," he muttered, voice cracked.
Alive—but only just.
Li Yaochen waited for panic to take him. It didn't. Panic was loud and wasteful. He had learned long ago that fear, when indulged, only shortened the time you had left.
Instead, he counted.
Shoulder. Bleeding slowed.
Leg. Still responds.
Head. Clear.
That last part unsettled him.
He remembered the blade falling. Remembered the certainty of death. Remembered—no, felt—that impossible moment when the world had frozen, when something unseen had intervened without kindness or malice.
A coincidence, he told himself.
It had to be.
If he allowed himself to believe otherwise, hope would follow. And hope, in his experience, was a more reliable killer than any sword.
Li Yaochen pushed himself up inch by inch, using a fallen branch as leverage. His leg screamed in protest, but it held. Barely. He tore a strip from the hem of his shirt and bound his shoulder with clumsy hands, teeth tightening as the cloth soaked red.
The forest was quiet in the way places became quiet after witnessing something they did not care to remember.
No birds. No insects.
That worried him more than the pain.
He scanned the tree line, eyes lingering on every shadow. The Iron River guard would not chase far into the woods—not for a grain thief—but hunger had taught him that certainty was a lie people told themselves to sleep better.
"I won't stay," he whispered, as if the forest might object.
He limped deeper between the trees, favoring his good leg, keeping low. Each step felt like a negotiation with his body. Every snap of a twig made his heart jolt.
Minutes stretched. Then longer.
Gradually, the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction.
Only then did he notice it.
A sensation—subtle, almost embarrassing in its faintness—resting somewhere behind his sternum. Not pain. Not warmth. More like pressure, as if an extra breath had been lodged inside him and forgotten.
Li Yaochen stopped.
He closed his eyes.
The sensation did not fade.
He frowned. Years of scraping by had sharpened his instincts. Anything new inside his body was either a disease or a death sentence.
Calm, he told himself. Observe.
He focused inward, the way he had seen academy students do during morning exercises, faces serene, pretending to commune with forces that had never answered him. He had never felt anything before. Not once.
This time—
There was nothing to see.
No glow. No voice. No surge of strength.
Just silence.
A silence so complete it felt deliberate.
Li Yaochen's breath caught.
"This isn't funny," he said quietly.
The silence remained.
Not responding.
Not denying.
Watching.
A chill slid down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
He took another step. Then another. The pressure stayed with him, unmoving, unaffected by motion or rest. When he stumbled, it did not help him rise. When his vision swam, it did not steady him.
Whatever it was, it had no intention of carrying him.
Good.
If something was going to kill him, he preferred it to be honest about it.
By midday, the forest thinned. Rocks jutted from the ground like broken teeth, and the air grew drier. Li Yaochen recognized the terrain with a sinking feeling.
The Stone Scar.
A shallow ravine carved into the land decades ago when a sect battle had split the earth and then been quietly forgotten. Monsters sometimes wandered here. So did people who wanted to disappear.
Li Yaochen needed both cover and water.
He slid down into the ravine, biting back a cry as his injured leg gave out. The fall knocked the breath from him, stars bursting behind his eyes. He lay there for a long moment, cheek pressed to stone, tasting iron.
Stand up, he ordered himself.
He didn't.
His body trembled, exhaustion finally claiming its due. Hunger gnawed at him, a familiar ache that now felt sharper, more urgent. The stolen grain sack was gone—lost during the chase.
Of course it was.
A weak laugh escaped him.
"Typical."
He rolled onto his back and stared at the narrow strip of sky above. Clouds drifted past, indifferent and endless.
The heavens did not look down.
They never had.
Li Yaochen wondered, distantly, how many people had died in this ravine without anyone knowing. How many names had vanished without leaving even an echo.
If I die here, he thought, nothing changes.
The idea did not frighten him as much as it should have.
Sleep crept in, heavy and dangerous.
Just before it took him, the silence inside his chest tightened.
Not acting.
Not saving.
Just… holding.
As if marking something.
Li Yaochen frowned in his half-dream, unease stirring.
---
He woke to voices.
Low. Close.
He didn't open his eyes.
"…told you I saw blood."
"Probably a beast."
"Beasts don't steal grain."
Li Yaochen's heart lurched. He forced his breathing to stay slow, shallow. His fingers curled against the stone, slick with sweat.
Footsteps approached. A shadow fell across his face.
"Alive," a woman's voice said. Young. Alert. "Barely."
"Leave him," another replied. Male. Older. "Not our business."
Silence stretched. Li Yaochen felt the weight of decision press down on him, heavier than any blade.
Then—
"He'll die if we do."
A pause.
"…Fine," the man said. "But if he brings trouble—"
"I'll deal with it."
Hands grabbed his shoulders. Pain flared white-hot, and Li Yaochen's eyes flew open despite himself.
Three figures stood above him, cloaks dusty, expressions wary. Not sect robes. Not guards.
Wanderers.
The woman met his gaze, eyes sharp and measuring.
"You're unlucky," she said. "And lucky. Don't mistake one for the other."
Li Yaochen tried to speak. Nothing came out.
As darkness pulled at him again, he felt the silence inside his chest remain unchanged.
Watching.
Waiting.
And for reasons he could not explain, he knew with cold certainty—