Cold came first.
Not the clean, dry cold of an air-conditioned office—this cold was damp and stubborn. It clung to skin like wet cloth and refused to leave. The air itself felt heavy, like smoke had settled into it long ago and never fully cleared.
Then came sound.
Voices close to his ears. Hurried footsteps. A woman's strained breathing. The clink of metal against a basin. Someone muttering short instructions that sounded practiced, like they'd done this too many times.
Chen Wei tried to open his eyes.
They opened, but the world didn't become clear—only brighter. Too bright. Shapes were too close, too large, and they wobbled at the edges as if he were looking through water.
He blinked.
It hurt.
Even blinking felt like effort, like his eyelids were heavy doors he wasn't strong enough to move properly yet.
He tried to lift his hand.
Something tiny twitched.
Tiny.
His mind paused, stuck on that one detail.
Why is my hand… so small?
He tried to speak. To ask where he was. To ask what happened. To demand an explanation like an adult would.
But his mouth opened and only a thin, helpless sound came out.
A cry.
The sound startled him. It didn't feel like it belonged to him at all. It was raw and instinctive, the kind of sound a body makes before the mind can catch up.
He cried again, louder—because he couldn't stop it.
Someone let out a tired laugh, cracked with relief.
"He's breathing," an older woman said. Her voice was rough, the kind that had shouted over storms and arguments and pain. "Good lungs."
Another voice, closer, shaking as if it had been holding back tears for hours: "Thank the heavens… thank the heavens…"
Warm hands lifted him.
He was wrapped tighter in rough cloth that scratched at his skin. The arms holding him were strong, steady, and smelled of sweat, smoke, and iron—real smells, not detergent and perfume. He was pressed against a chest that rose and fell with controlled breathing.
A heartbeat thudded beneath his cheek.
Fast. Human. Close.
His thoughts came in broken pieces—fluorescent lights, coffee, spreadsheets, a break room floor—
Then the room around him drowned those fragments with heat and movement.
A man's voice cut through the other sounds.
"Let me see him."
Deep voice. Controlled. Not cruel, but used to being listened to.
The arms shifted, and Chen Wei's blurred vision caught a face leaning over him.
A man in his thirties or forties. Broad shoulders. Tired eyes. Dark hair tied back in a rough knot. There was a faint scar near one eyebrow, pale against tan skin.
He didn't smile.
But he didn't look away either.
He stared at Chen Wei like he was checking details—breathing, color, the rise and fall of his tiny chest—like the man had seen too many babies not make it through the first night to relax.
After a long moment, the man exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that released tension.
"A boy," he said.
The woman holding Chen Wei—his mother, Chen Wei realized with a strange heaviness—made a sound that was half laugh and half sob.
"A boy," she repeated, like saying it again made it safer.
Her arms tightened, not painful but firm, like she was afraid someone might try to take him away.
Chen Wei tried to turn his head.
His neck wobbled like it couldn't support even that small movement. The effort made his vision swim.
But for one brief moment, the room sharpened enough for him to understand what he was looking at.
This wasn't a hospital.
No tiles. No clean white sheets. No machines.
Wooden beams. Rough plaster walls. An oil lamp hanging from a hook, its flame trembling. A basin in the corner stained red-brown.
Blood.
Too much blood.
His stomach sank—not from fear, exactly, but from realization.
This is real.
This is… another place.
His mother's face hovered close. He still couldn't see it clearly, but he could feel her: the warmth of her skin, the tremble in her hands, the unevenness of her breathing.
She whispered, voice cracked and hoarse, "He's here… he's really here."
Something wet touched his cheek.
A tear.
Then another.
Chen Wei didn't know what to do with that.
His mind said, This isn't my mother.
His body didn't care. His body only knew warmth, heartbeat, safety. It calmed despite him.
The older woman—midwife, Chen Wei guessed—cleared her throat loudly, pulling the room back from the edge of emotion.
"We name him," she said. "Tonight."
The man with the scar—Chen Wei's father—looked down again. Something shifted in his expression, subtle and brief, like he wanted to soften and didn't remember how.
His mother swallowed hard, eyes shining.
"Rong…" she whispered.
So that was his father's name.
Chen Rong.
He nodded once, then spoke in a low voice that didn't shake.
"We'll call him Wei."
The midwife hummed. "Wei. Good."
His mother repeated it softly, like tasting the sound. "Wei…"
Chen Rong glanced at her.
"You choose the rest," he said, and his voice gentled—just a little. "You carried him."
His mother blinked as if she hadn't expected that permission.
Then she whispered, "Chen Wei."
The name landed cleanly in Chen Wei's mind.
It fit too well.
Like a door clicking shut.
Chen Wei.
His name.
Hearing it in this room, from these people, made his confusion twist into something sharper.
Because that meant—
This isn't a dream.
I'm really here.
Outside the house, a horn sounded.
Long. Low. Heavy.
Not a car horn. Not a siren. Something older—something meant to carry through night air and over distance.
The room changed instantly.
His mother—Lin Yue—stiffened.
The midwife's face hardened like stone. "Not tonight," she muttered.
A second horn answered the first—shorter, sharper, urgent.
Footsteps ran past the house. Someone shouted in the street.
Chen Wei couldn't understand the words clearly, but he understood the tone: danger.
A young man pushed the door open and stumbled inside, breathing hard. His hair was damp with sweat. He wore a leather vest strapped across his chest, the kind made for movement, not comfort.
"Captain Chen," he said quickly, eyes on Chen Rong. "Outer watch spotted movement near the tree line. Might be scouts. Might be demons."
That last word made the air feel colder.
Lin Yue sucked in a breath like it hurt.
Chen Rong didn't react outwardly. His expression barely shifted, but his posture changed—shoulders squaring, weight settling into his legs like he was preparing to move.
"How far?" Chen Rong asked.
"Not close yet," the runner said. "But they found tracks."
He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "And the smell. Burned iron."
The midwife spat quietly into the basin, like she was trying to throw the bad luck away. "Demon stink. Always the same."
Chen Rong's jaw tightened.
He reached for a cloak hanging on the wall and began fastening it with movements so practiced they looked automatic. Like he'd done this too many times for it to be dramatic anymore.
Lin Yue's voice trembled. "Right now?"
"They don't care if it's night," Chen Rong said.
He finished securing the cloak, then finally looked at her—really looked, as if he was trying to memorize her face without saying goodbye out loud.
"Keep him inside," he said. "No matter what happens."
Lin Yue nodded quickly, too fast, tears sliding down again.
Chen Rong leaned in and pressed his forehead lightly to hers. Quick. Intimate. Not romantic—just real. A silent promise between two people who didn't have time for long goodbyes.
Then he looked down at Chen Wei.
For one heartbeat, his eyes softened.
He reached out and touched Chen Wei's tiny hand with one finger.
Chen Wei's fingers wrapped around it automatically.
A reflex.
But it still felt important.
Chen Rong whispered, so quietly it barely carried:
"Live."
Then he straightened and left.
The door shut behind him.
Outside, the horns sounded again—closer now. Louder. Metal clanked. Men shouted commands. Boots thundered along the street.
Lin Yue rocked Chen Wei, trembling.
"It's okay," she whispered, voice breaking. "It's okay… you're safe…"
But the town didn't sound safe.
It sounded like people getting ready to kill—or die.
Chen Wei's eyelids drooped. His body demanded sleep like a rule of nature. He tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, tried to listen harder.
The sounds blurred together.
His mother's heartbeat became the loudest thing in the world.
And right before sleep took him, one clear thought formed—simple, stubborn, and sharp enough to hurt:
This world is at war.
So I have to survive.
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