The night was silent but for the occasional rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind passing through the trees. Li Zhen stood in the center of a clearing, his eyes scanning the darkness. His breath was steady, but something inside him churned. It had been days since the vision of the celestial being, and though he had kept moving, the memory of its words still clung to him like a shadow. "Some of you have been guided, shaped, and twisted by forces that seek to use your power for their own ends." What did it mean? Who were these forces, and why was his destiny so entwined with theirs?
As if to answer his questions, the sword vibrated in its sheath. The familiar weight at his side now felt foreign, almost ominous. He reached down to grip its hilt, a sense of foreboding filling the air. Something was about to happen.
A flash of light—bright and sudden—burst in front of his eyes, and the world shifted around him. He blinked and staggered back, but the world refused to remain still. Before him appeared a scene so vivid, so real, that it felt as though he was reliving it.
Li Zhen saw himself standing in the middle of a battlefield. The air was thick with smoke, and the clash of swords rang through the air like thunder. His other self was drenched in blood, his face twisted with fury. The sword in his hand—Li Zhen's sword—glowed with a sinister light. He was a warrior, a force of nature, and yet there was something broken about him. This was not the man Li Zhen remembered being.
The vision twisted, and in the blink of an eye, the battlefield faded, replaced by a peaceful village. In this memory, Li Zhen was standing at the edge of a river, staring out into the water with eyes full of sorrow. Beside him was a child, looking up at him with admiration. "Zhen, will you stay?" the child asked, his voice filled with hope.
Li Zhen's chest tightened as he recognized the child. It was him—the version of himself that had chosen peace, the healer, the one who had turned away from violence.
But the child's face twisted into something else. It became cold, distant. "You are the one who abandoned us. You left us to die," the child whispered, his voice now tinged with accusation.
The vision shifted again, and this time, Li Zhen found himself in a vast, empty desert. The sun blazed overhead, and the ground was cracked and barren. A figure appeared on the horizon—a man, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. As the figure drew closer, Li Zhen's heart skipped a beat. It was him. Another version of himself, one whose face was grim and hardened, the eyes filled with an emptiness that mirrored his own.
"You're lost," the other Zhen said, his voice cold and unfeeling. "You have no purpose."
Li Zhen reached out, but the vision shattered as quickly as it had come, and he was once again standing in the clearing, breathless and disoriented.
"What... what is this?" Li Zhen whispered, his voice trembling as his hand clutched the sword.
"You see it now, don't you?" the sword spoke, its voice low and ancient. "Karma is unraveling. The threads of your past lives are bleeding into one another. The memories that are not yours are merging with your own."
Li Zhen's mind reeled. He had always known that something was off about his resurrection, but now the truth was becoming more twisted than he could have imagined. The memories—those flashes of lives he had never lived—were not just hallucinations or dreams. They were fragments of other versions of himself, versions that had lived out different fates. Some had chosen violence, others peace, some had died, others had lived to see the rise and fall of kingdoms.
But how could these memories be real? If he was nothing but a mere echo of those lives, then who was he, truly? What was his identity, if all these versions of himself had bled into his mind?
The sword hummed again, almost in response to his thoughts. "There is no clear line, Li Zhen. The path you walk is not singular. You are not just one man, but many—woven together by the threads of fate. Each of your lives, each decision, has led you to this moment."
"But why?" Li Zhen muttered. "Why me? Why are all these versions of myself inside my mind? What does it mean?"
The sword was silent for a moment, as if contemplating the question. Then it spoke again, its voice heavy with something akin to regret. "You were never meant to remember. But the threads of fate are not so easily severed. You were always meant to be more than one man, Li Zhen. You are a vessel for the choices of countless lives, the sum of all that came before you."
Li Zhen staggered back, his hand gripping the hilt of the sword tighter. The weight of the revelation was unbearable, but it was undeniable. He was a collection of lives—of decisions made by versions of himself who had lived and died in ways that were both familiar and foreign. And now, those lives were bleeding into each other, and he had no idea how to separate them.
"Who am I, then?" Li Zhen whispered, his voice barely audible.
The sword remained silent for a long moment. Then, in a tone almost too soft to hear, it answered, "You are the one who must choose. The one who must decide whether to embrace the echoes of the past or forge your own path. But be warned, Li Zhen. To sever the threads of karma may come at a cost—one that you may not be willing to pay."
The air around him grew colder, and Li Zhen felt the weight of the sword in his hand more acutely than ever before. The journey ahead was no longer just about finding the truth of his resurrection. It was about understanding the essence of who he was—or who he might become. The echoes of the past had already begun to bleed into his present, and now, it seemed, the only way forward was to face them head-on.
With a determined breath, Li Zhen began to walk again, his mind still swirling with the memories of lives he had never lived, yet somehow knew all too well. He did not know what awaited him, but one thing was certain: the answers he sought were within his grasp. The only question now was whether he was prepared to pay the price for the truth.