I woke with blood in my mouth.
Not my blood, at least not all of it. Something sweet had rotted on my tongue. Meat, maybe. Or a human tooth. I didn't check. My fingers twitched first, then my jaw. My spine came last, dragging fire all the way up my back.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just lay there, face-down in the ash, letting the taste of death settle behind my teeth.
The sky was rust-colored. Thick smoke rolled over collapsed rooftops and curled like fingers into the skeletal windows of what had once been a village. Not even flies buzzed here anymore. Everything had already been picked clean.
I shifted onto my back. Bones cracked.
There were twelve bodies within arm's reach. All soldiers. Some missing parts. Some opened like gifts. One had been sewn shut—sloppy threadwork crossing his chest like someone was trying to keep something inside.
My arms worked. My legs were slower. Ribs still screamed when I inhaled. Good. That meant I hadn't been dead long.
I sat up.
The pain came in white flashes, but I welcomed it. Pain meant I was here again. Sixth time. Sixth fucking time.
I counted them under my breath.
"One: the bunker breach."
"Two: the hospital fire."
"Three: friendly fire. Chest shot."
"Four: devoured alive."
"Five… torn from his arms."
I stopped there.
The wind picked up, carrying the copper stench of old blood and engine oil. Somewhere in the distance, something groaned—a long, wet dragging sound. Not human. Not anymore.
I pulled myself to my feet.
There was a corpse near me with intact boots. I took them. Too big, but the blood had stiffened the laces. They'd hold. I found a half-melted knife still embedded in another body's neck and yanked it free. The blade came out with a wet sound, and something slid loose inside the man's throat.
My fingers didn't shake. I hadn't shaken since rebirth number three.
⸻
I walked until the smoke turned gray.
Somewhere between the charred village and the crumbled overpass, I passed a mirror nailed to a tree.
My reflection looked like a corpse that hadn't finished dying. Face cut, one eye still bloodshot. Skin pale enough to see veins. My black hair was crusted with dirt and dried blood, stiff as straw.
But it was still me. Still Jiang Shanshen.
Still the one who kept coming back.
⸻
The memory hit me while I was chewing old ration jerky I'd taken from a pocket that didn't belong to me.
A room. Metal floor. Blood under my nails. Li Qiyan's voice in my ear—young, hoarse, wet with blood.
"Don't leave me—Shanshen, please—"
I bit my tongue until I tasted copper.
He didn't know me now. Not yet. That was the only reason I was still breathing.
I spat into the dirt.
⸻
I found the map half-buried in the chest cavity of a split-open corpse. The ink was soaked red, but I could still read the lettering.
Sector West. Base C17. That's where he was now. Where he always ended up.
The name Li Qiyan echoed like a nail hammered slowly through my temple.
I folded the map with trembling fingers. My lip curled. It was almost funny, if I had anything left in me to laugh.
"One more round, Qiyan," I whispered. "One more, and then we burn this world together."
I didn't know if I meant it.
But I kept walking.