Dawn came reluctantly.
The sky split open not with golden glory but with a hesitant gray, as if the world was unsure it should begin again. Dew clung to the edges of broken leaves, and the battlefield of the night before had turned cold and still, a cemetery for forgotten names.
Li Zhen walked alone down a path not carved by feet but worn by time.
The sword at his back no longer felt like a burden. Its weight was the only constant in a world where nothing else remained.
Each footfall echoed questions he hadn't yet dared to ask.
Who had he been?
Who had brought him back?
And—most terrifying of all—was he truly meant to return?
He passed twisted trees that grew in the shapes of hands and rocks that wept sap like tears. Nature here seemed unsure of its own purpose, as if it, too, were questioning its place in the cosmic order. The ground whispered secrets, and the wind spoke in riddles only the insane might understand.
"Why do you hesitate?" the sword asked.
Its voice had grown gentler since the battle. Less mocking. More… curious.
Li Zhen didn't answer at first. He kept walking, his eyes scanning the landscape. The road ahead branched endlessly, but no signs marked direction. Only instinct remained to guide him, and the presence of the sword was like a compass pointing toward something hidden.
"I'm afraid," he admitted finally.
"Of what?"
"Of what I'll find. Of what I already know."
Silence. Then:
"Then you are ready."
He stopped. "What do you mean?"
"The ones who fear the truth are the only ones who deserve to find it."
It was cryptic, as always, but something in the sword's tone had shifted. It no longer spoke as a keeper of riddles but as a companion walking beside him in spirit. He wondered if it was changing too—or if he was simply learning to listen better.
He pressed on.
Hours passed. The landscape changed.
The twisted forest gave way to rolling fields, though these too were wrong. The grass grew in unnatural spirals, forming glyphs he could almost understand. At times he heard laughter on the wind. Not human, not malevolent, just... ancient. Like something that remembered the world before it was named.
By midday, he reached the edge of a ravine.
Below, a great chasm opened like the throat of the earth, and a single rope bridge stretched across it—frayed, trembling, suspended by nothing visible. On the other side stood a gate made of bone and brass, carved with symbols Li Zhen could not read but somehow felt deep in his blood.
He had been here before.
Not in this life. Not since his resurrection.
But in some echo of himself, long buried.
The sword pulsed against his spine.
"Cross it," it said.
"What lies on the other side?"
"Not truth. Not yet. But the path to it."
He nodded, stepping onto the bridge.
It groaned beneath his weight.
Every step brought with it visions—flashes of other lives. A woman's scream. A burning temple. A child holding a severed hand. These were not dreams. They were memories. But not his. Not exactly.
Each belonged to a version of him—some past, some future, some never to exist again.
By the time he reached the other side, his knees shook.
But he didn't fall.
He stood before the gate and reached out. It opened before his hand touched it, swinging inward with a whisper like a sigh of relief.
Inside was not a city or temple.
It was a garden.
An impossible one.
Stone paths wove between floating trees. Water defied gravity, spiraling upward into shimmering spheres. Flowers bloomed only when looked at. And at the center stood a figure, dressed in white, face obscured by a mask shaped like a teardrop.
Li Zhen approached cautiously.
"You came," the figure said, voice neither male nor female.
"You were expecting me?"
"I was expecting someone who once was you. But I see you've changed."
"Do I know you?"
"No. But the sword does."
Li Zhen glanced at the blade, which remained quiet.
"You've walked through death," the figure continued. "You've killed. Been killed. Lost yourself. But still you walk. That alone means you are ready to choose."
"Choose what?"
The masked one extended a hand. In it appeared a small crystal, dark and shimmering, like a fragment of night made solid.
"This is a memory," they said. "One you left behind. A piece of who you were, sealed so the pain wouldn't destroy you. Do you wish to reclaim it?"
Li Zhen hesitated. "What will it show me?"
"Only what you were. Not what you must become."
He reached out and took it.
The moment it touched his palm, the world fell away.
He stood in a battlefield soaked with blood.
Mountains burned in the distance. Corpses stretched to the horizon—men, women, children, beasts, spirits. And at the center stood himself—or a man who wore his face—sword dripping with ichor, eyes hollow.
He saw himself cleave through monks begging for mercy.
Saw him strike down a teacher who wept as she died.
Saw him raise the blade to the sky and scream a name he no longer remembered.
Then the vision ended.
He collapsed.
The crystal shattered in his hand.
The figure in white knelt beside him. "You see now."
"I was a monster," Li Zhen whispered.
"You were a man."
"Is there a difference?"
The figure didn't answer.
The sword spoke instead.
"You carried out what others feared to do. You destroyed to prevent greater destruction. But yes—you lost yourself."
Li Zhen breathed.
Slow. Shallow.
He sat up.
"I want to be different," he said.
The masked figure tilted their head. "Then choose a new path."
"I don't know how."
"You do."
The garden shimmered.
The path behind him was gone. Before him, only one way remained—a narrow trail, winding upward, into a sky that held no sun.
He stood.
"No more running."
The figure faded.
Only the sword remained at his side.
And with it, Li Zhen walked forward—not to reclaim what was lost, but to become something else entirely.
Something new.