The wind outside screamed like it was trying to claw its way in.
SHUT.
"Damn... it's cold."
The door creaked closed behind Lai Ming. His breath fogged the air. Fingers trembling, he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms through the sleeves of a stretched-out hoodie that had long stopped being warm.
"Stupid heater…" he muttered. "Pick the coldest night of the year to die on me, huh?"
The apartment was a cave—dark, narrow, and dead quiet. He moved slowly, waddling through the shadows like a man who didn't want to wake his own loneliness. His body was heavy, his belly swaying with each sluggish step. His eyes… lifeless. Buried behind swollen lids and puffy flesh, ringed with dark circles like bruises from battles he never signed up for.
Click.
The light flickered on.
It buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow across a space that looked like it had given up years ago. The wallpaper peeled at the corners. The window was frosted over. A mattress lay bare in one corner, a blanket curled on top of it like a corpse.
He exhaled, breath visible in the light.
"Alright... food," he mumbled. "Please tell me I forgot something in there."
He shuffled to the fridge. Yanked it open. Empty shelves. Cold air.
He stared. Closed it.
Then opened it again.
There it was. Like divine mercy:
A chocolate donut, sitting dead center on a single folded paper towel. Slightly squished. But whole.
"Oh damn," he whispered, blinking. "Still got you, huh?"
He picked it up gently, like it might crumble if he breathed on it wrong. "Might be the highlight of my month."
He carried it to the table.
The table wobbled under his weight as he leaned on it. Four legs, three solid. Scratched wood. A rusted folding chair with torn foam and tape wrapped around one leg. His sacred dining set.
He set the donut down like an offering. Turned to the rack near the sink and pulled out the only clean plate—metal, dented on one edge. One spoon, one bowl, one glass, all sitting alone like monks in meditation.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Luxury."
He sat. The chair groaned like it was protesting the cold too.
From his hoodie pocket, he pulled out his phone. Screen cracked. Battery at 23%.
He checked the weather.
-12°C. Feels like -16°C.
He snorted.
"Colder than my unpaid heater bill."
Then tapped over to a video app and started scrolling. The donut was in his other hand now—bitten, slowly. He chewed like it took effort, like warmth might leak out if he rushed it.
He laughed once. Just once. A soft, breathy wheeze that echoed in the room like a ghost trying to remember how joy felt.
"Heh…"
He didn't even smile.
His fingers froze slightly. He shoved the hand back into his hoodie pocket and chewed again.
Lai Ming chewed slowly, eyes fixed on his phone.
He didn't taste it.
He didn't care.
Somewhere else... another Lai Ming chewed.
A ring of golden-brown dough. Crisp on the outside. Warm.
The mountain wind moved gently through his unkempt hair.
Neither of them knew it.
But for one breathless moment, the rhythm matched.
The wind that swept across cracked windows in one world… whispered through sunlit grass in the other.
And so, without fanfare or permission—
The sky was clear.
Too clear.
Sunlight blanketed the mountain, gentle and warm, but it felt like a lie. The wind whispered through blades of grass—lush, tall, and green enough to make a painter weep.
Lai Ming sat on a cliff ledge above a glimmering lake.
Still. Silent.
From a distance, he might've looked like a disciple deep in meditation. But he wasn't. He was just… sitting. Staring.
The water below was pure, smooth like glass, reflecting the blue sky above with lazy ripples. Birds soared quietly in the air. No wires. No machines. No noise—except the wind and the soft crunch of something in his hand.
A golden-brown pastry.
Shaped like a ring. Crispy, oddly familiar.
He bit into it slowly. Chewed without focus. Swallowed without care.
His clothes were thin, worn-down linen robes. They barely hung onto his frame. His body was all bone and emptiness, face sunken and pale—but underneath the malnourishment was something eerily noble. Good cheekbones, a sharp jaw hidden under starvation. Even his dead eyes looked like they used to shine once.
He didn't look like a cultivator.
He looked like someone who was done pretending he wanted to be one.
After the last bite, he dusted his hands and stood up—slowly, like his bones ached from doing nothing. He took one step forward, then froze.
Crunch.
Footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn around. Not yet.
Another crunch. Two more pairs this time.
He exhaled through his nose. "...Right on time."
Finally, he turned.
Three men approached from the path behind. All wore the same uniform—faded green robes lined with the crest of the outer sect.
The two flanking the leader were lean, confident, faces painted with smirks sharp enough to cut. They looked like they trained daily and bragged hourly.
The third—taller, broader, and with a face like a chiseled cliff—walked front and center. His aura wasn't strong, but it was steady. Controlled. He had that dangerous calm some cultivators earned by crushing weaker ones.
Lai Ming blinked.
Then tilted his head, almost lazily. "You boys get lost, or did someone send you?"
The bigger one stepped forward. "Lai Ming."
His voice was thick. Annoyed.
"You were warned not to skip morning drills again."
"I wasn't skipping," Lai Ming said, scratching his cheek. "I was meditating."
"While eating?"
"Multi-tasking." He offered a weak smile. "Very advanced technique."
One of the side guys scoffed. "You think you're funny, trash?"
Lai Ming looked at him. Really looked.
Then nodded. "Sometimes."
"You mock the sect's generosity and sleep while others train. You don't even bother pretending anymore," the big one said, jaw tightening.
Lai Ming yawned. Loudly. No effort to hide it.
Then: "You done with your speech, or are you still warming up?"
The two on the sides grabbed his arms roughly.
He didn't resist. Just looked up at the sky.
"Ah," he murmured. "Looks like a good day to die."
"You're not dying," the leader growled. "You're being expelled."
"Oh. Good," Lai Ming replied. "That's less dramatic."
They began to drag him toward the cliffside. The sun was warm. The wind was calm.
He didn't kick. Didn't scream.
He just muttered to himself, so quietly they didn't hear:
"Maybe… I'll take one last nap."
His toes met the edge.
The sky opened in front of him—
endless blue, unbothered by fate.
And then they shoved him.
He fell.
Arms loose.
Eyes closed.
Not in fear.
Not in protest.
Just… tired.
He let gravity carry him, like a thread finally snapping free from the loom of the world.
And far, far away—
Another Lai Ming shifted beneath a thin blanket.
The phone slipped from his hand.
The last bite of the donut still lingered on his tongue.
He turned on his side.
The cold didn't matter anymore.
He pulled the blanket over his head.
His breath slowed.
His thoughts quieted.
He closed his eyes.
Not to dream.
Not to escape.
Just to not be awake.
Two bodies.
One name.
Two worlds.
One thought.
Just a nap.
The wind stilled.
The light dimmed.
And somewhere, in the space between breath and silence—
Ting.
A chime. Not loud. But infinite.
Time held its breath.
The body in freefall didn't crash or spin.
It drifted—soft, slow, like a feather caught in the world's final exhale.
Then his eyes opened.
Still falling.
Still weightless.
But now—
A spark.
Faint. New. Alive.
And the world… noticed.
The air grew still, as if reality itself leaned in to listen.
Time, so eager to watch him die, now hesitated.
Then—gently, unceremoniously—
the lake rose to meet him.
The sky above shrank to a trembling silver disc—
the last image he saw before—
SPLASH.
No scream.
No thrash.
Just the sound of a world breaking open.
Water swallowed him whole, folding around his body like silk.
The impact sent shockwaves through the surface—
then silence returned.
He sank.
Arms adrift.
Hair trailing behind him like black ribbons.
Robes billowing like drowned petals.
Light danced above him, distorted by distance.
He didn't swim.
Didn't fight.
The spark in his eyes didn't flicker.
It held.
And deep beneath the water—
as stillness wrapped around him like a cradle—
his breath returned.
Slow.
Steady.
Not from air—
but from something older.
Something awakening.