Alan stared at Wang's unconscious form, no urge to strike. He turned to his parents' bodies, each step like treading on knives. Power ebbed, meridians screaming as if snapping. The secret art's backlash gnawed his life force—he wouldn't last long.
He knelt, trembling hands brushing their cold cheeks. Dried tears clung to his mother's the corner of her eye; his father's fingers curled, knuckles white—hands that once led him, shielded him, now still.
"Father… Mother…" Tears scalded their faces. "I'm sorry… so stupid…" He choked, blood froth bubbling. "I shouldn't have trusted him… shouldn't have given up the manual… if I'd been stronger…"
Regret ate him, a venomous snake. He hated his naivety, his weakness—most of all, failing them. If he'd never lusted after Clear Void's fame, stayed in the village… But "if's" died. Only the bloody truth remained.
Vision blurred; wind faded. His body iced over, sinking into cold. With his last strength, he pulled their bodies close, clinging—trying to return to that poor, warm home.
Before darkness claimed him, he saw the hide booklet glow crimson. Its symbols wriggled, forming a light portal. Then suction—violent, unyielding—ripped his soul from his broken body.
A jarring jolt woke him. Blinding lights, disinfectant stench—same as the Wall Street bombing. A nurse scribbled notes, speaking English: "Mr. Alan, you're awake! Seven days unconscious… since the crash…"
Alan stared at his hands—adult, clean, no calluses or scars. Yet he remembered Repentance Cliff dirt under his nails, his parents' cold skin in his palms.
Outside: New York's Fifth Avenue, traffic roaring. On a skyscraper's glass, a robed figure flickered—smirking. And over his chest, a familiar burn: The Remaining Sun Manual, blood-soaked, had followed his soul to this world—familiar, yet alien.