A dull, persistent buzz intruded upon the timeless silence of Seoryn's consciousness. It was a strange sensation, like a dream of a dream, a forgotten memory trying to surface. In the formless expanse of the spirit realm where she had spent millennia, perception was not tied to the physical. There was no light, no sound, only the ebb and flow of pure energy. This new stimulus was coarse, jarring.
Sound. It was sound. But how? In the spirit realm perception wasn't tied to the physical body.
At that moment, Seoryn's eyes snapped open. The sudden onslaught of light was a physical pain, blinding her. She squeezed them shut, then forced them open again, her ancient pupils constricting as they struggled to adjust to a world of shape and color. Around her, a ring of unfamiliar faces stared down, their features blurred and distorted. They were speaking, their voices a cacophony of harsh, guttural sounds. It was a language she almost recognized, a crude, mangled version of the common tongue, as if it had been worn down and reshaped by countless generations.
Looking down at herself, she saw the familiar sight of her own hands, her own body, clad in the simple linen robes she had worn on that final, terrible day. Her people, the Unntai, were gone. She didn't need to ask; the proof was all around her. The grand dais on which she lay was the only pristine thing in a world of decay. Beyond its edge, the ruins of her home city were being devoured by the forest. Great temples had been reduced to vine-choked mounds of rubble, and elegant spires were now just jagged teeth of stone pointing at the sky. A profound, soul-deep sorrow, held at bay for twenty thousand years, washed over her.
As her vision cleared, the disciples' clothing came into sharper focus. They wore robes of a decent silk, trimmed in a pleasant light blue. But the cut was clumsy, the embroidery simplistic. The fashion has really taken a hit, she thought with a flicker of dark, detached humor. It was easier to critique their tailoring than to face the abyss of time that had opened before her.
Seoryn stood up and bowed to them. "Thank you for helping me. I am Seoryn. I became trapped in that formation unintentionally and am not sure how long had passed.
After she spoke she heard them chat between themselves occasionally she picked up words that seem related to common tongue from before she was sealed away.
Soon a young girl who would be sixteen. About two years younger than herself would have been prior to being sealed.
"Hello…my name is…Mei of the cloud relaxing sect…you…er…what is your name?"
Seoryn blinked. Was she speaking to a toddler who just learned common? They clearly were not from a place that spoke common. Just how long had she been in the Spirit realm?
Dumbing down her language and slowing it down, she said. "Mei. Thank you for your help. I am confused and unsure what is going on. Can you help?"
Mei paused, absorbing the words before nodding. "We…can take you to…our sect to speak to the Elder's… They will understand ancient tongue better than me…"
Seoryn nodded. "Thank you."
As they began the long climb out of the ruined basin, she took the opportunity to truly observe her rescuers. She could sense their ki, the lifeblood of all cultivators. It was raw, untamed, smelling of the forest and the wind. They were Lifeblood mages, their power tied to the elements. The strongest of them, the arrogant one named Jian, was a Foundation mage, but his control was sloppy, his power unfocused. Even in her weakened state, reacclimating to a body that felt like a stranger's, she knew she could have dispatched him with ease in her prime. Before being trapped, she had been a peak Foundation mage herself, a mere half-step from forming her Golden Core. At her young age, she had been a prodigy. Now, she was a relic.
The journey through the ruins of her people's civilization was a silent, walking funeral. Every step was a fresh wound. She saw the collapsed dome of the Grand Observatory, where she had once charted the stars with her father. She passed the skeletal remains of the riverside market, where the air should have been filled with the scent of spices and the sound of laughter. Now, there was only the damp smell of decay and the whisper of the wind through skeletal trees. Despite leaving the spirit realm, her senses remained connected to it. She could see the spirits of this place—not the souls of her people, which were long gone—but the faint, sorrowful spirits of the land itself, weeping over the bones of the city they had once nurtured.
As she moved, she watched warily as the disciples picked through the ruins, gathering spiritually potent herbs that had grown wild and strong in the ki-rich environment, their roots nourished by the dust of her ancestors. It was a desecration, but she said nothing.