The sky was a crisp blue when they broke camp the next morning. Dew clung to the grass like the breath of the earth still hung onto sleep. Jin stretched with a satisfied groan, arms wide open to the wind's embrace. Ruan, however, had already packed up most of their belongings. She wore her usual scowl—half due to their lack of progress, half due to Jin's snail-like pace.
Still, Jin's spirits were high. The world around them had shifted; they were no longer weaving through tangled forests or climbing ridges. The land here had unfurled into a vast, open plain—a sea of golden-green that whispered with the breeze. Dotted across the plain were deer, long-necked goats, and colorful birds dipping low through the air like flying strokes of a painter's brush.
"This is perfect," Jin murmured to himself, then crouched low beside a cluster of violet-tipped stalks poking out from the grass. He pulled out the scrap of parchment he kept folded in his satchel, along with a tiny piece of charcoal he had managed to steal from a campfire days before.
Ruan looked back, annoyed. She had marched ahead ten paces before realizing Jin wasn't behind her. "Tch," she exhaled, walking back with heavy, annoyed steps.
She spoke—sharp, clipped, frustrated. Jin didn't understand a single word, but he could tell it meant: "We are wasting time."
"I just need a minute," Jin said with a grin, not expecting her to understand. "It's nice out here, don't you think? Clean air. Soothing wind. Vibes. Can't explain it."
She squinted at him.
"Come on, Ruan. A guy needs a hobby. Maybe if I draw enough of this stuff, something will jog my memory."
He tapped his temple with the charcoal.
Ruan folded her arms and turned away. If she didn't understand him, she at least understood when to stop trying.
He continued his little ritual—plucking an unfamiliar leaf, smelling it, holding it to the light, then sketching its shape and noting its color, texture, scent. There was an almost boyish wonder in his movements.
A roar tore through the calm.
It was not a roar that belonged to the plain.
It was deeper. Thicker. Heavy as earth cracking open.
Both Jin and Ruan froze.
Ruan's hand instantly slid toward her curved blade. Her stance narrowed, posture lowered—reflex born of training. Jin looked around in every direction, squinting past the swaying grass.
From the southern rise, a massive bear came lumbering forward. Its shoulders alone were taller than a man. Patches of fur were missing, and old scars marred its hide—this wasn't a creature of the forest. This was a rogue apex beast, battle-worn and hungry. Its dark eyes locked on them.
It sniffed the air.
And charged.
Ruan bent her knees, ready to pivot and fight. But Jin threw a hand in front of her.
"No no no no no—what are you doing?!" he shouted.
Ruan looked at him like he was the crazy one.
Then, Jin turned around—
—and ran.
Full speed.
No hesitation.
Ruan blinked. "...Wha—?!"
She turned back toward the bear, which had stopped briefly, confused by the fleeing figure. Then it snarled and gave chase.
"Are you serious?!" she yelled, darting after Jin, furious. "You coward!"
Jin's legs pumped hard across the open field, boots slamming against the soft soil. "Not today, bear! Not today!" he shouted to the sky.
Behind him, the beast thundered closer.
Ruan, teeth clenched, was gaining on him. "You left me!"
"You were gonna fight it!"
"I thought you were!"
"I'm not suicidal!"
Back at the campsite, the horse—clever creature—hid behind a thick shrub, munching grass and watching the chaos unfold like a casual spectator. It snorted approvingly when the bear didn't notice it.
Later...
The trio (two humans and a very smug horse) had stopped a good distance away under the shade of a lone tree.
Jin laid on his back, arms splayed, panting.
Ruan sat cross-legged, arms crossed, glaring.
"Okay…" Jin wheezed. "That… that was bad…"
Ruan muttered something under her breath. He didn't need to understand the words. Her tone said it all: You are the worst travel companion ever.
He gave a guilty chuckle and sat up, brushing dirt off his clothes.
"Sorry for, y'know… leaving you to die and all that."
She said nothing. Just glared harder.
"I'll cook dinner."
Still nothing.
"I'll stop sketching every plant."
Now she looked genuinely pleased.
Nightfall
That night, Jin returned to his drawing, sitting near the firelight. Despite everything, he couldn't help but study a glowing mushroom he had found near their escape route. Ruan sparred alone again, her silhouette moving like wind and wave—agile and vicious.
As he watched her, something tugged at his memory again.
A figure in a similar stance. A woman? A master?
He blinked, the image gone before he could catch it.
"Ruan…" he said softly.
She looked back.
He held up the mushroom like it was the world's treasure.
She tilted her head, confused.
He laughed.
That night, he dreamed again of a palace gilded in jade, of warriors and kings… and a table set for four.
That night, as the stars wheeled quietly above the plains, Jin's sleep was anything but quiet.
He opened his eyes—not to the firelight and open skies—but to the weight of stone and silence. A vast throne room stretched before him. It was carved from black marble veined with glowing silver, towering columns vanishing into shadow. The air was thick with incense and something ancient, like a memory still clinging to the bones of the place.
Jin stood on a ceremonial rug, dull red and old as history. Around him were the three figures from his past dreams—shadowed as always, their faces blurred like fog refusing to lift.
They stood not behind him, but beside him, as if this time, he belonged among them.
The throne above was draped in dark silks, and atop it sat a man cloaked in imperial armor of lacquered jade, golden rings looped across his wrists, a high black headdress casting shadow over his eyes. His presence was iron. His voice, sharpened steel.
"You speak of freedom," the Emperor said, his voice echoing across the throne room. "But your kind only brings fire. You seek to bargain, to twist order into chaos. And you..." his eyes landed on Jin, "you are the most dangerous of them all."
Jin blinked, confused but steady. "What's he talking about?" he asked the figure to his left.
The woman—the one whose voice had once cut through fire—tilted her head and smirked. "He wants a deal. Same as before. He thinks he can bind us with rules and shiny thrones. I say we bind him to a rock and toss him in a river."
The man to Jin's right—the one who always spoke in riddles and self-praise—snorted. "If he had half a brain, he'd know we don't kneel. Not to emperors, not to gods, not to fate. But he's always needed a reminder, hasn't he?"
The third figure didn't speak. He simply cracked his knuckles, eyes never leaving the Emperor.
The throne creaked slightly as the Emperor leaned forward, resting his chin upon one hand.
"Then speak, Jin of No Name. What is your answer? Will you break the fire oath and serve the Empire, or will you burn alongside your... companions?"
Jin's mouth felt dry, yet his voice came out without fear. "You're asking the wrong thing. You want loyalty, but you don't offer trust. You want silence, but you're afraid of what we might say."
He took a step forward.
"And by the way—your hat's stupid."
The three beside him burst into laughter. The woman slapped her thigh, the smug man doubled over, and even the quiet one gave a silent wheeze of a chuckle. The Emperor's face, still shadowed, went red like dying coals in wind.
"Enough!" he bellowed, standing. "Kill them. All of them!"
With a motion of his hand, the massive gates behind the throne groaned open—and out spilled armored guards like ants from a broken hive. Each one bore glistening weapons etched with talismans and seals.
Jin smiled wide.
The quiet man stepped forward, cracking his neck. "Stretching time."
The smug one unsheathed a crooked dagger, mumbling, "They're lucky I'm not bored yet."
The woman... sat down. Literally. On the back of one of the incoming guards. She summoned a table from mist, placed a porcelain kettle atop it, and began pouring herself tea.
"I'll join when someone bleeds loud enough," she yawned.
The battle was a blur of motion and style.
Jin wasn't the strongest or the fastest—but he was clever. He tripped his enemies into each other, turned spears into stilts, and used thrown helmets like makeshift projectiles. One particularly unlucky guard got caught in the silk sleeve Jin whipped loose and flung across the chamber.
Meanwhile, the smug one was reciting his own poetry as he danced between blades.
"I am the shadow of dusk and dawn,
The whisper in the emperor's yawn—
Ah, missed! Try again, fool!"
Guards dropped like stones.
The woman, sipping tea, finally spoke with mild amusement.
"You really want to impress us, Emperor Nian-Shen Xueli of the Hollow Crown?"
Everything froze.
The name echoed across the hall like a thunderclap. The guards halted. Even the throne cracked slightly beneath the Emperor's grip.
Jin gasped.
Nian-Shen Xueli.
The dream began to fall apart, tearing at the edges like paper burning from the corners. Jin turned to ask her again—but he never saw her face. Not fully.
Just her eyes. Pale violet. Cold as the moon.
Jin Awakes
His eyes snapped open.
He was back in the grassy plains, beneath a blanket of stars. The wind had shifted, colder now, brushing against his damp forehead. His heart thudded hard—like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.
"Nian-Shen Xueli," he whispered aloud.
Another name. A memory—not his own, but familiar. Like tasting a flavor you'd long forgotten. Jin clutched at it, repeating it again and again under his breath, until it carved itself deep into his mind.
"Jin... Nian... Xueli... No, not mine. But close..."
A soft sound caught his attention.
Ruan, curled tightly under her cloak, was trembling in her sleep, arms wrapped around herself. The wind had picked up, and even with the fire nearby, the night was growing bitter.
Jin looked down at his thick tope robe, still warm from sleep. Without a word, he removed it and laid it gently over her shoulders. Ruan stirred slightly, face relaxing, the shivering easing.
He watched her for a moment, then settled back beside her, arms folded behind his head, staring up into the endless sky.
He had a name now.
Not his. But close.
And with it... a direction.