Night swallowed the mountain.
Rain hissed against stone, spattering in uneven rhythms across the rawbones path. The old robe clung to his skin, sodden and heavy. Whatever colors it had once boasted had been drowned in mud and shame, threads pulled loose in too many hurried escapes.
He kept it closed with numb fingers, shoulders braced against the wind. Every step—careful, deliberate—carried him further from warmth, but he didn't dare stop.
He stopped remembering his own name a long time ago. Sectless. Outcast. Jinx. These traveled with him, written behind his eyes, heavier than hunger or rain. A thin cord cut into his neck with every fretful movement. The relic. He touched it beneath his shirt, cold but alive, nested against skin that never uncrossed from fear.
Thunder rumbled—distant, drawn out like a warning. He caught himself listening, as if the storm might be a message just for him.
They always said he brought misfortune.
They never mentioned how loneliness could be sharper than a blade.
A memory burned: the great hall flooded with light, benches full of indifferent faces, a master's voice like stone.
"This one brings misfortune. Disasters follow. No sect will have him. Cast him out!"
Sometimes he still heard the echo, even now, as he slipped through the teeth of a world that meant to swallow him. A world of sects, banners, and ancient grudges. All of which agreed on one thing: he had no place here.
Moss squelched under his feet. He crouched, pulled a handful, and chewed it slow—taste bitter, texture coarse. Survival, not comfort. His stomach complained anyway, twisting in on itself, grateful for anything.
He'd gone two days without a real meal. Two days since he last risked a village, last begged for stale bread, last saw a wall not built by nature's own cruel design.
Lightning split the dark again—one, two, three heartbeats—and he saw it: a shadow standing on the bend, unmoving, hood pulled against the rain.
He tensed out of habit, ducked behind a chunk of tumbled granite. Old muscle memory—a life spent running. Was it sect hunters? Or just another hill thief, hoping to rob the only boy poor enough to count his own moss?
He held his breath. Waited. The only sound was rain and the hard, racing percussion between his ribs.
The relic tugged at his skin, demanding notice. It was odd—how alive it felt. Sometimes it beat like a second heart, sometimes it went silent for days. Tonight, it felt alert. Eager.
He slipped it from beneath his shirt. Not much to look at—a broken piece of unknown metal, etched with lines he couldn't read, a color that didn't belong to any world he knew. Sometimes, when the air was thick with danger, it shimmered as if struck by sunlight.
Tonight, under rain and thunder, it pulsed—soft as breath, sharp as longing.
He squeezed it, just enough to feel the ridged surface. It answered like always, a strange sensation not quite warmth, not quite pain, descending from his palm to his groin, spreading outwards. He should have let go, but hunger and fear always pushed him further.
A thought—a whisper, not words but a wild urge—take, use, pay the price.
How many times had he obeyed? In this world, miracles came with a cost.
He slid along the rock, heart in his mouth, every muscle aching to run. That shape remained, motionless, rain blurring its outline. He bit the inside of his cheek until copper filled his mouth.
He breathed and asked the relic silently—not for strength, not for luck, just for enough to not die tonight.
The talisman throbbed—once, twice. The world flickered at the edges, sounds growing clearer. Time slowed; even the rain seemed to hang heavy in the air.
He saw everything: the shadow's slow, almost hesitant shift, the brief glint of steel beneath a sleeve, the tremble of a breath that didn't belong to him.
Pain needled through his back. The relic never gave its gifts for free. He wiped rainwater from his lips with a shaking hand, throat burning with some wordless plea.
He stepped out, slow. If he ran, he'd only die tired. This was his world now—a perpetual dusk, a trial by stone and storm.
He lifted his chin, schooling his face into that familiar mask. Wind battered him, cold and relentless.
"Why are you following?" His voice came out raw, older than his years.
A pause. Then the figure laughed, sharp and bright. "You're quick."
Girl's voice—nothing friendly in it.
He remembered stories: men who vanished on mountain trails, blamed on sectless wretches like him. He clenched the relic tighter.
She moved closer, each stride solid, deliberate. The rain bent around her. "Heard they kicked you from the last one. Said even bandits wouldn't want you."
He let the silence stretch between them, cold fingers around the relic, never showing what it might do.
She flexed her hands, eyeing his empty purse, the robe worn past hope. "You have nothing I want, you know. So why do I keep finding you out here?"
He shrugged, mouth sour with defeat. "Cursed luck."
A grin, sharp as a knife's edge. "Or destiny. The gods love a story like yours. Sectless. Hunted. Still breathing."
Her tone mocked, but something behind it… a flicker of pity, maybe? Or just the subtle thrill of being the predator on the edge of dusk?
He watched her, eyes narrowed. Rain slowed, drops gleaming like molten silver. The relic pulsed again and his vision sharpened: the outline of another blade tucked at her waist, a packet of herbs by her belt, calluses on her knuckles.
Not a common cutthroat. Trained. Maybe from the sects. Or exiled, like him.
She circled him, careful, eyes never leaving his face. "Give it to me."
He said nothing, but his grip on the relic was answer enough.
A shadow of irritation crossed her features. "Don't you know how many would kill for a real treasure, even a broken one?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "They tried."
A pause. The wind eased, as if the mountain itself wanted to listen.
She moved fast—faster than he'd expected—hand darting for his chest, fingers like ice. The relic flared, hot and bright, scalding his palm. He jerked back, off balance, the world spinning sideways, mud sucking at his boots.
Pain lanced through him, sharp, electric. The relic demanded—more, always more. He bit down on a scream, willing his feet to grip earth.
She cursed, staggered back, eyes wild. "What was that?"
He steadied himself, fighting the urge to crumple. "Don't know," he grated. "But it hurts us both."
She wiped water from her nose. "I don't want your death, boy. But if I can't have the power…"
He breathed, ragged and shallow. "Then leave me to the rain."
They stood locked like that—two outcasts, bound by violence and desperation, both expecting only betrayal.
Lightning lit the world. For a heartbeat, the mountain was day-bright, shadows banished.
"I could kill you for it," she said after a time.
He shrugged again, the motion costing him. "Others have tried."
She snorted, stepping back. "Keep your relic, then. See what price the gods demand next time."
He watched her retreat, each step measured. Only when she was gone did he collapse onto the stones, chest shaking.
He pressed the relic to his lips and whispered thanks, or perhaps apology.
High above, the storm raged on. He lay there, rain pelting every inch, the world reduced to shivers and pain. Sleep tried to claim him, but he resisted. Every lesson the world had carved into him screamed: never let your guard down.
He waited, counting each drop.
The wind changed. Far below, the glow of lanterns bobbed, a distant caravan or a hungry mob—he couldn't tell. He listened, guts churning, every sense straining for the next hint of danger.
Memories surfaced between breaths: the warmth of home, laughter bright and close, food that didn't taste of moss or fear. Gone now, all of it.
He pushed to his feet, every limb a misery. Sectless. Always moving.
His steps took him off the path, deeper into the bones of the mountain, led as much by the relic's faint warmth as by his own desperation. Each step was a promise: that he would not die here. Not yet.
As the night stretched on, prey became hunter. He picked up a stick—a branch, brittle but serviceable—and tested its weight.
A shimmer through the trees. Perhaps just rain. Or perhaps, somewhere in the dark, another outcast, another hunter, another story gutting itself on the blade of bad luck. He didn't care. All that mattered was forward.
Hours bled into one another. He found shelter beneath a rocky overhang, loose stones shielding against some of the wind.
He sat, knees tucked to chin, robe wrapped tight. The relic pressed warm against his skin, heartbeat steadying.
He watched the rain fall. Watched it erase his footprints.
He told himself—again, as always—tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, someone might see past the mud and curse and hunger. Tomorrow, he might even find a name again.
But tonight, there was only survival, and a relic that glowed softly in the dark, whispering promises too fragile to grasp.
If the gods watched him, let them. If fate kept a ledger, let it write his story in rain and pain and every step undeterred.
Because for now, for the space of a single storm-wracked night, he belonged to no sect, no creed, no mercy.
Just a boy and his broken luck, armed with pain and hope, standing one more time against the world.