The wind changed.
It wasn't dramatic—no howling gusts or stormy cries. Just a slight shift in temperature, a barely perceptible stir in the leaves of trees that shouldn't have been alive. But Li Zhen noticed.
Since awakening, everything around him had felt off, like the stage of a poorly remembered play—set pieces in place, but no actors, no meaning. The silence of the world had weight. The air held memory like breath held too long. And the path he walked, overgrown and cracked with age, led him somewhere his body remembered even as his mind did not.
The sword at his side pulsed once, and then spoke.
"The town ahead is not what it seems."
"I didn't ask."
"But I answered."
He sighed. "Are you always like this?"
"I've had many wielders. All of them tried to command me. You ask questions."
"Because I have none of the answers."
"Good. Stay empty. Emptiness listens."
He said nothing.
The road bent forward into a narrow canyon, stone cliffs rising on either side like the jaws of some forgotten beast. At the far end, the cliffs gave way to ruins—worn buildings of warped wood and half-buried foundations, roofs like broken teeth. The town was not entirely dead. Smoke curled from a chimney. A cracked lantern flickered dimly above a doorway. There were shadows moving behind broken windows.
Li Zhen stepped into the threshold of this place with a strange sensation—like entering a home that once was his, now occupied by strangers.
He passed a rusted gate. Its iron bars swung inward as if welcoming him.
The silence here was different.
It was filled with the suggestion of noise. Faint echoes—footsteps that weren't his, a child's laugh cut short, market stalls creaking in windless air. But none of these sounds had source.
"Where… is everyone?"
"Not everyone is visible. Not everyone wants to be seen."
A man stood behind a stall of rotten fruit.
His back was to Li Zhen. Still as a statue.
Li Zhen stepped closer, cautious.
The man turned.
Their eyes met.
And the man smiled.
It wasn't a pleasant smile. Nor a hostile one. It was the smile of someone who had been waiting a long time—not for a person, but for a pattern to repeat.
"You came back," the man said.
Li Zhen stiffened. "You know me?"
"You left without saying goodbye."
"I don't remember leaving."
The man nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "And yet here you are. Carrying the same sword. Wearing the same face."
"Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter."
"Then what does?"
The man's gaze shifted over Li Zhen's shoulder, to something distant only he could see. "Whether you finish what you started, or run again."
"Finish what?"
But the man had already turned away. His body shimmered slightly—as though light passed through him too easily—and when Li Zhen stepped around the stall, the man was gone.
"That's not the first time you've met him."
"I don't remember."
"You're not meant to yet."
He pressed deeper into the town.
A pair of children darted past him, laughing—but their eyes were empty sockets. They vanished behind a building that collapsed centuries ago. A woman swept dust from a doorstep that had no door. A horse stood in a stall without reins, unmoving, as if painted into place.
Everything felt like a memory. Not his. Just… someone's.
He stopped in front of a mirror.
It leaned crookedly against the outer wall of what might've once been a blacksmith's shop. Cracked in several places. Filthy. But reflective.
He stepped closer.
The man in the mirror did not match him.
Same face. Same sword. But the reflection's eyes burned with gold, and his smile was cruel—sharp in a way that suggested knowledge Li Zhen didn't have. Worse, the reflection didn't move when he did.
Li Zhen reached out.
The reflection didn't.
It stood straight and tall, lips moving silently. Then suddenly, sound snapped into place.
"…you're late."
Li Zhen froze.
The reflection stepped forward—through the mirror.
The glass shattered.
Li Zhen was thrown back, the sword in his hand buzzing violently.
From the shards of broken reflection, a figure rose.
It wore his face. His build. Even his stance. But its clothes were pristine white. The runes on its blade were glowing gold. And its eyes…
They were not human.
"You," Li Zhen whispered.
The double didn't speak. It simply smiled, stepped forward—and attacked.
Steel rang.
Reflex took over. Muscle memory saved him. Their blades clashed, and sparks leapt into the air. The other Li Zhen moved with precision. Efficiency. But something was off. Each blow lacked intent—as if this wasn't a duel, but a test.
"Who are you?" he demanded between strikes.
No answer. Only silence and steel.
The fight was fast. Brutal. But brief.
On the seventh clash, Li Zhen's blade caught the other's shoulder—slicing deep.
Blood poured.
But instead of recoiling, the double simply looked down at the wound, nodded, and said, "You're not ready."
And then he was gone—scattered like mist.
Li Zhen collapsed to one knee, panting.
The town was quiet again. The mirror gone. The fruit stand gone. The children—gone.
He was alone.
Again.
"You found a piece of yourself."
"That wasn't me."
"It was."
"What was it?"
"A fragment. A memory given shape. A reflection that resisted."
"Why did it attack me?"
"Because that's what you did. Once."
Li Zhen stared at the empty space where the mirror had been.
"This place is cursed."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"A bruise on the world."
He stood, sword in hand, the wound on his side beginning to ache.
He hadn't realized he'd been cut too.
The sword said nothing more.
He found shelter in a house with three walls and a collapsed roof. Time passed slowly, or not at all. He wasn't sure.
He sat, arms wrapped around his knees.
Then he whispered, "Am I still human?"
"Parts of you are."
"And the rest?"
"Still deciding."
He closed his eyes.
Behind them: the other him. The golden-eyed reflection. The smiling townspeople. The vanishing children.
The sword's voice returned.
"The dead don't rest when unfinished."
"Am I dead?"
"You were."
"But now?"
"You are an echo pretending to be real."
Li Zhen lowered his head.
And laughed.
Just once.
Soft and bitter.
"I've been alive for a day," he said. "And already, I've fought myself, bled from memories I don't own, and wandered through a town of ghosts who remember more than I do."
"Welcome back."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"That's the first honest thing you've said."
"Is there an end to this?"
"There's always an end. Whether you find it is another matter."
He leaned his head back, staring at the unmoving sky.
And in that moment, a single red leaf drifted down from the ruins of the ceiling—though no tree grew nearby.
He caught it in his hand.
It crumbled into ash.