Back on the barren lands of Nanling, Gene's heart was not the same as when he first came.
Gone were Hao Lan's jokes, the bray of their mule, the noise of companions. Only he remained, walking through grass and wind, with loneliness his shadow.
His rations dwindled quickly. By dusk, he had only a few bites left. At a cold stream, he tried catching fish but failed—his hands numb, his body exhausted, old wounds aching. He moved on, searching in vain for fruit.
Night fell, mountains turning to black silhouettes, the wind howling across the wilds. He found a low slope sheltered from the gale, built a small fire from dry twigs, and sat by its wavering glow.
Chewing his hard bread, he kept his ears sharp against the cries of distant beasts.
Then—rustle, rustle.
Not wind. Something scraping across the ground.
Gene's grip closed tight around his blade. The sound grew nearer—slow, heavy, with a strange thump-drag, thump-drag rhythm.
His stomach clenched. He knew that sound.
No, impossible—
From the darkness beyond the firelight, two stiff, black shapes lurched forward, one hop at a time.
The same two zombies.
They had followed him—from the mountain shrine, across unknown miles, all the way here, right outside the Soul Alliance.
Gene's scalp prickled, icy dread racing up his spine. How? The Alliance's wards should have kept them out. Had they waited outside, patient as predators, until he left?
The creatures halted ten yards from the fire. Empty sockets turned toward the flames. They did not approach, but neither did they leave. They simply stood—silent, relentless sentinels.
That night, Gene did not close his eyes once.