The Swordsman Who Died Yesterday

Synopsis The Swordsman Who Died Yesterday follows the journey of Li Zhen, a legendary swordsman who awakens after his death with no memories of his past. He is trapped in a fragmented world where nothing is as it seems—his resurrection is a mystery, and the very foundation of reality feels unstable. Li Zhen is haunted by visions, cryptic voices, and an enigmatic talking sword that knows more about him than he does himself. As he journeys to uncover the truth behind his resurrection, he finds that fragments of his former self—both allies and enemies—still roam the world, locked in a cosmic dance of fate. With each encounter, Li Zhen must confront the possibility that the self he remembers may not be the truth. He begins a journey to reconcile his fractured identity, facing existential dilemmas and cosmic puzzles. At the heart of Li Zhen's journey lies a profound question: Can one kill the self without becoming the very thing they fear most? Through battles, revelations, and internal struggles, Li Zhen must learn to wield his sword—not just against external enemies, but also against the shadows of his own mind. Prologue The world was silent. A suffocating stillness gripped the air, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves. Li Zhen awoke not to the gentle warmth of the sun, but to the cold embrace of the unknown. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was the vast sky—more distant than he remembered. The stars above glimmered with an unfamiliar coldness, as though they were watching him, not as a man, but as an intruder. The ground beneath him was hard, jagged. His body was heavy, almost foreign, as though it no longer belonged to him. His first thought was simple: Am I dead? But there was no time to dwell on this question, for the world around him was even more unfamiliar than the silence of his own thoughts. The sword, his sword, lay beside him. It was the only thing that seemed to belong here, in this strange place. His fingers closed around the hilt instinctively, as though drawn by an ancient force. The blade whispered, not in words, but in thoughts that invaded his mind. "Li Zhen... do you remember who you are?" The voice of the sword was soft but unmistakable, a voice that carried the weight of forgotten memories. A voice that knew more about him than he did. His chest tightened. The memories were there, buried deep within him, but they were like shadows, fleeting and elusive. He could remember faces—fleeting, blurred—voices that called his name, but all of them faded like mist when he tried to reach for them. He stood, his legs unsteady, and glanced around. The world was still—yet so foreign. The air smelled of earth and decay, the remnants of battles long past. Everything around him felt like a broken mirror, its shards scattered across the land. This place—this world—was not the world he had known. His thoughts drifted back to the question the sword had asked. Who am I? Li Zhen did not know. But he knew one thing: he would find the answer. And in doing so, he would uncover the terrible truth of his resurrection—and the price he must pay for it.