The air around Li Zhen was thick with tension, as though the very fabric of reality itself was holding its breath. He stood on the edge of a cliff, the sky above him painted in streaks of red and gold as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The wind whipped through the trees, sending shivers across his skin, but the chill was not from the air—it was something deeper, something that reverberated in his bones.
The sword at his side hummed softly, almost imperceptibly, its energy crackling like static. For days now, it had been quieter than usual, as if waiting, as if bracing for something. It had spoken of things before, but never in this way. Never with such urgency.
Li Zhen's gaze wandered over the vast expanse of land beneath him. The forest stretched for miles, the canopy of trees thick and ancient, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was not on the forest, nor on the quiet expanse of the horizon—it was on the strange, fragmented memory that had begun to invade his dreams. A memory of his death.
The sword had not revealed much at first, only flashes, fleeting glimpses that were more like fragments of a shattered mirror than anything coherent. But today, as the sun dipped lower, it felt different. It felt as if something was about to break through—something powerful, something that might finally answer the questions that had plagued him since his resurrection.
The sword hummed once more, and this time, its voice was clear, though soft, like a whisper carried on the wind.
"You must face the truth of your death, Zhen," it said. "The threads of your existence are tangled with the past. The moment you died, the moment you fell into the abyss, is not as it seems. You must see the truth as it was—before you can move forward."
Li Zhen's grip tightened around the hilt of the sword, and he closed his eyes. He had known this moment would come, the moment when he would finally have to face the truth of his death—the truth of why he had died. The question had haunted him for so long: How did I die?
The sword was his guide. It had been with him through all of this, guiding him, offering cryptic words and wisdom. But it had never spoken so directly, so intensely, about the past.
With a deep breath, Li Zhen lowered his head, and in the quiet of the fading light, he let go.
In an instant, the world around him shifted. The air seemed to ripple, and the sounds of the forest faded away. He was no longer standing on the cliff, no longer feeling the wind against his skin. He was somewhere else—somewhere between the edges of time and space, between the present and the past.
He stood in the middle of a darkened field, the ground beneath him cold and damp. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of burning flesh and iron. There was no sound—only the oppressive silence that hung in the air like a heavy cloak. And then, as though drawn by some unseen force, his eyes focused on a single point ahead of him.
There, in the distance, a figure stood, cloaked in shadow, its features obscured by the smoke and the darkness. But even from this distance, Li Zhen could feel the power emanating from the figure—a sense of familiarity, a sense that this was someone he had known before.
And then the figure moved.
The sight of it sent a jolt through Li Zhen's chest. It was not a man, not an enemy, not a stranger—it was a version of himself. His heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the face, the stance, the eyes that looked back at him. This was him—but not him. A shadow of himself, a version twisted by something dark and ancient.
The figure raised its hand, and with a single motion, the ground beneath Li Zhen trembled. The sky above him cracked open, the air filled with the sound of rushing wind, and a great fire erupted from the earth, consuming everything in its path.
In that instant, everything became clear.
Li Zhen was falling.
He had been falling for what felt like an eternity, his body weightless, as if the very air had abandoned him. His mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of the vision, trying to understand the truth of what he was seeing. But the fire—the flames—seemed to engulf everything, turning the world into an inferno.
The figure spoke then, its voice distorted by the crackling of the fire, but its words cut through the chaos with an eerie clarity. "You cannot escape what you are, Zhen. You cannot outrun your own fate."
Li Zhen's heart froze. The words rang in his ears like the tolling of a bell. "You cannot escape what you are."
And then, the flames consumed him.
But even as the fire burned, as the world shattered into pieces, a single vision remained.
A flash of a face.
Another version of himself, standing with a hand on the hilt of a sword. His eyes, full of anguish and regret, stared back at him. He could see the pain in those eyes—the weight of the choice that had been made. But this version of himself was different from the one in the field, different from the one in the fire.
This one was standing still, not moving, not fighting. There was no fire. There was no chaos. There was only silence.
In that silence, the sword spoke again, its voice softer this time, as though it were speaking from a place far beyond the vision.
"There were many versions of you, Zhen. Many paths, many decisions. But some choices are made for you. Some fates are not of your choosing."
Li Zhen's mind reeled as the vision shifted once more. This time, there was no fire. No smoke. Just a darkened room, a place he did not recognize. And in the center of that room stood another version of himself.
This version, however, did not have the same anguished eyes. This one had the same calm expression he had seen on himself in the temple. The version that called himself Zhen the Merciful. But this time, there was something else—something more dangerous—something more decisive. This Zhen, his other self, was holding a sword, its edge glowing with a faint, dark light.
And then came the words. The ones that would haunt him forever.
"You were murdered, Zhen. And I chose it. I chose it because it was the only way to stop you. To stop all of us."
The words cut deep, and Li Zhen's breath caught in his throat. He saw the vision for what it was—a truth he had never wanted to face. A truth that would forever change the way he saw himself.
He had not chosen to die. He had not chosen the path of destruction. He had been murdered, betrayed by those he had once trusted. And yet, this version of himself—the one who held the sword—had decided that his death was the only way to stop the chain of events that would unfold.
The sword's voice broke through the haze, its tone somber and grave.
"You see now, Zhen. There were no easy choices. There was no perfect path. Each version of you made a decision that led to this moment. Some chose to die. Some chose to live. But in the end, all paths lead here."
The world around him began to fade, the vision dissipating like smoke in the wind. Li Zhen felt his body return to the present, the cliffside where he had once stood, the sword still in his hand. But the weight of the revelation lingered like a heavy shroud, pressing down on him.
"Some paths," the sword continued, "are not your own. But the choice now lies with you. To move forward. To face what has been. To choose who you will become."
Li Zhen stared into the horizon, the weight of his past, of his death, still clinging to him. The truth had come to him like a wave crashing over a shore—unexpected, powerful, and unstoppable. He had not chosen to die. But in the end, the death of one version of himself had set the stage for the journey he now faced.
And so, with a heavy heart, Li Zhen made his choice. He would move forward. He would find the truth of his existence. And he would never again let his past define him.