## Chapter Two
Days passed, or perhaps weeks; Ling Han no longer perceived the passage of time. Darkness was his only companion, a physical darkness enveloping his extinguished eyes, and a deeper darkness consuming his small soul. He had left the bodies of his family behind, or rather, what remained of them after wild beasts had gnawed at them, or perhaps those demonic humans had returned to complete their feast. He couldn't bury them; he possessed neither the strength nor the sight for it. All he could do was crawl away, distancing himself from the stench of death and blood that clung to his breath and his days.
Hunger and thirst gnawed at his frail body, but they were nothing compared to the hunger devouring his soul for revenge, and the unquenchable thirst to see his tormentors drink from the same cup. He walked aimlessly, stumbling over roots and rocks, falling and rising, his small hands wounded and covered in mud and dried blood. He heard the sounds of the forest around him, the rustling of trees like the whispers of ghosts, and the distant roars of beasts that made him tremble in terror – not fear of death, but fear of dying before achieving his bitter revenge.
One night, as he lay under a huge tree, shivering from cold and hunger, the whispers began. At first, he thought it was the sound of the wind or night insects. But they soon took on a familiar form, a voice that used to fill his days with warmth and love.
"Han... my little Han..." It was his sister's voice, Ling Xiao. A sad, hoarse voice, as if coming from a deep well.
Ling Han sat up abruptly. "Sister? Sister Xiao, is that you? Where are you?"
"I am here, Han... always with you..." the voice whispered again, very close, as if breathing in his ear. "Why did you let us die, Han? Why didn't you protect us? You said you would become a hero."
Ling Han felt a cold dagger plunge into his heart. "I... I'm sorry... I couldn't... I was small and weak..." he stammered, the tears he thought had dried up began to flow anew, burning like flames.
"Weak?" the voice chuckled, but it wasn't his sister's cheerful laugh, rather a sarcastic and bitter one. "You are not weak, Han. You are a coward. You watched us being tortured, and you did nothing. You are the reason for our deaths."
"No! That's not true!" Ling Han screamed, pounding the ground with his small fists. "They killed us! Those monsters!"
"And they are still alive, aren't they?" his sister's voice continued to torment him. "They are enjoying life, while we rot under the ground. And you are here, crying like a baby. Is this your revenge, Han? Is this the heroism you promised?"
Every word was a whip lashing his soul. He wanted to cover his ears, to escape this voice that had once been his source of happiness, and had now become his greatest torment. But the voice was everywhere, in his head, in his heart, in the air he breathed.
Then another voice joined, his mother's voice, Mei Hua. Her voice was filled with sorrow and blame. "Han, my son... you failed us. We trusted you. We left you as our only hope, but you did nothing but cry."
"Mother... forgive me..." Ling Han cried, feeling like he was drowning in a sea of despair and guilt.
Even his father's voice, Ling Jian, who had always been strong and silent, joined the chorus of accusers. "You should have fought, son. Even if you died, you should have died defending us. But you chose to run. You chose life over our honor."
"I didn't run! I didn't run!" Ling Han screamed, but their voices drowned out his cries. They surrounded him, suffocated him, tore him to shreds.
This nightly torment continued for days and nights. He slept little, waking up to their whispers, their accusations, their mockery. He began to doubt his sanity. Were they really here? Or were they just an illusion created by his sick imagination? It no longer mattered. Whether they were real or an illusion, their pain was real, and their torment of him was real.
Sometimes, the whispers would change. His sister would appear to him in his waking dreams, not as a blaming ghost, but as a gentle guide. She would describe poisonous plants he could use, or weak points in the beasts he might encounter. She would guide him to hidden springs of water, or safe places to hide. But even these rare moments of guidance were tinged with sadness, as if a constant reminder of what he had lost, and the impossible task that awaited him.
One day, as he was fumbling his way through a dense forest, he heard the sound of a fierce fight not far away. Sounds of human screams, and the roar of an angry beast. A morbid curiosity, or perhaps a distorted remnant of humanity, pushed him towards the source of the sound. He moved cautiously, relying on his sense of hearing, which had become incredibly sharp, and his newfound ability to feel vibrations in the ground.
He reached the edge of an open area and hid behind a large tree. Through the sounds and smells – the smell of fresh blood, sweat, and fear – he could paint a picture of what was happening. A group of humans, perhaps three or four, were fighting a huge beast resembling a wild boar, but larger and fiercer, with long, sharp tusks.
The fight was brutal. He heard a sharp cry of pain, then the sound of a body falling to the ground. Then another scream. It seemed the beast was winning.
At that moment, his sister whispered in his ear: "Look, Han. These are humans. Weak, greedy, and murderous. They kill each other, they kill beasts, and they destroy everything beautiful. Are these the only ones you want to take revenge on? Or will you take revenge on their very nature?"
Ling Han didn't answer. He was watching, or rather listening, as emotions warred within him. Part of him felt satisfaction seeing these humans being killed. Another part, very small and fading, felt something akin to pity.
The fight ended with the death of all the humans. The beast roared triumphantly, then began to devour their corpses. Ling Han didn't move from his spot. He waited until the beast moved away, then crawled towards the small battlefield.
He felt the mangled corpses. They were still warm. He touched the weapons scattered on the ground – broken swords and spears. He didn't know how to use them, but he picked up a short sword that was still intact. It was cold and heavy in his small hand.
"Yes, sister..." Ling Han whispered, his voice hoarse and different, like that of an old man trapped in a child's body. "I will take revenge on them all. I will make them taste the hell I live every day. I will become their nightmare. I will become... Ling Han's Hell."
He raised the short sword and swung it awkwardly in the air. He didn't know how to fight, but he knew how to hate. And hatred, as he would later discover, could be a very powerful weapon, especially when you had nothing left to lose.
He stood there, a blind child holding a sword among mangled corpses, the whispers echoing in his ears, promising him power and revenge, and demanding more and more pain and suffering. This was his first lesson in the school of hell, and his teachers were the ghosts of his dead loved ones.
(Approximate word count: 1100 words)