The sun was lowering, painting the horizon in the weary orange of a dying day. The group finally stumbled upon what looked like a village—or rather, what was left of it. Its broken gates hung from rusted hinges, groaning as the wind pushed them back and forth like they resented being touched by time. Roofs were caved in, their wood splintered, and walls leaned drunkenly against each other, as though even the memory of life here had long since been swept away. Dust and roots had claimed what was once home to families. Vines wrapped around cracked clay pots, and the skeleton of a well stood choked by weeds.
"Shelter," Jin murmured, almost relieved. His voice felt hollow against the silence of the ruins.
They entered slowly, the horse snorting uneasily as if it, too, felt the weight of lingering ghosts.
The first thing Jin did was untie Ruan. She jerked her wrists free, glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes. Without hesitation, her fist connected with his chest.
"Idiot!" she spat, her voice cracking with anger. "Do you ever think before you act?"
Jin didn't flinch. He sat down on a stone slab, the blow echoing in his chest more in guilt than in pain. His posture was humble, almost apologetic, but he said nothing, letting her vent.
Ruan's hands trembled as she started a fire in the middle of the open square. Sparks rose like lost spirits into the night. She dug into their supplies, setting a pot above the flame, movements harsh and jerky. The smell of dried herbs and grains soon mixed with the smoky air.
Xiǎoyè, on the other hand, remained by the horse. The winged cat sprawled lazily on the ground but kept its glowing eyes fixed on the creature. The horse shied away, stamping nervously, unable to trust such a thing. How could it? The cat bore bat-like wings tucked neatly against its back, a long tail curling in slow motions, and a pale violet glow that ran across its underbelly like liquid fire.
Jin's gaze kept drifting to Ruan. Her silence weighed more heavily on him than any wound he had ever taken. Finally, he tried to speak, his voice low.
"Ruan—"
She turned her head, refusing to meet his eyes. When he reached out, she spun sharply, and to Jin's surprise, there were tears brimming in hers.
Her words tumbled out like broken glass: fragments of anger, fear, and hurt. He couldn't understand every piece—her dialect ran too quickly for him—but he understood the heart of it.
"You don't think! What if we hadn't made the jump? What if you had broken yourself—or killed us both? You act as though your life is disposable!" Her voice cracked, trembling between fury and grief.
Jin's chest tightened. For once, he didn't try to answer with words. He simply placed a steady hand on her shoulder, letting his silence say what she could not hear in language: that he understood, that he was sorry, that he would try. She trembled, then fell into stillness, her breath ragged.
Later, when the food was shared among them, Jin found his attention drifting to Xiǎoyè. The cat sat a little apart, grooming its paw with deliberate grace. Yet its eyes—those unnerving, intelligent eyes—never left him. Jin studied the creature: the strange leathery wings folded like blades, the long supple tail, the faint shimmer that pulsed across its stomach. It was a species he had never seen in all his years. But then again, four hundred years had passed since he last walked the world. What else had changed while he had been lost?
Ruan was the first to drift into sleep, curled beneath a makeshift blanket inside the tent Jin had pitched. Her breathing was uneven but calmer, softened by exhaustion.
Jin, unable to rest, sat outside. The stars spilled like silver dust across the black expanse, countless and unreachable. His thoughts churned with them.
When will I remember? he asked silently. When will the pieces return? When will I know why I was chosen, why I hear the voice, why this path of myths has been forced upon me?
The Martial King—was it nothing but a fable? A cruel trick whispered to desperate men? He clenched his fists, uncertainty gnawing at his spirit.
Restless, he rose and wandered through the broken alleys of the village. His body began to move instinctively, sinking into the stances of the Tide Root Style. His feet glided, his palms shifted, his breath aligned with movements he didn't consciously call forth. It was as though his body remembered something his mind did not.
At the heart of the village stood a shrine. A cracked stone pillar reached skyward, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Upon it, faint carvings depicted a wolf—majestic, its fur etched like waves of fire, its fangs bared in eternal guardianship. Offerings lay long since rotted away at its base.
As Jin stared, a flicker crossed his vision.
A forest. The crash of blades. He stood, clashing against a figure—no, not an enemy. The air was different, alive with joy. Both were smiling, both laughing as their weapons met, eager for the next exchange. Then, just as swiftly, the vision shattered.
Jin staggered back, panting softly, gripping his temple. His heart thundered. What was that? Who was I fighting?
Shaking, he returned toward the camp.
But in the distance, upon the ridges of the mountain, something watched. A wolf, larger than any normal beast, its fur a mantle of shadows and silver. Its eyes glowed with quiet intelligence as it observed Jin. Then, suddenly, it spoke—its voice a low murmur carried by the wind, words too faint for Jin to hear.
"This person...is interesting"
The wolf turned to leave.
And froze.
Xiǎoyè was staring directly at it. The little cat's pupils narrowed to slits, its eyes deepening into a darker, almost abyssal shade of purple. The air between them grew heavy, thick with silent warning.
The wolf bared its teeth in a smile that was all menace, yet strangely amused. Then, with deliberate calm, it turned away, vanishing into the forest.
Xiǎoyè blinked, breaking the tension, and padded toward Jin, tail swaying like a banner. It brushed against his leg, greeting him as though nothing had happened.
But somewhere above, hidden in the cold wind of the mountains, the wolf's laughter echoed faintly—half a growl, half a promise.