Gene ran until his lungs burned raw, until blood filled his mouth. His back wound tore open again, soaking his shirt.
Still he ran. Through thorns, over rocks, stumbling, rising again.
At last, silence. No bandits, no cries. Only his ragged breath. He collapsed into ferns, trembling uncontrollably.
High above, eagle calls echoed faintly, fading. The fight had ended—but who had won?
Who had sent that white eagle?
Not Ling Yue. She was confined. No—this was someone else. Someone unknown.
For now, he was free.
But not safe.
From the darkness, a sound returned—the heavy, stubborn thump-drag, thump-drag of his two eternal shadows.
Gene laughed bitterly. They were more relentless than hounds.
With shaking hands, he bound his wound anew. He would have to find shelter, food, water—soon.
The following days blurred into hardship. He hid, he scavenged, he endured. The zombies never left.
The scroll of the True Fire of Samadhi he studied by firelight, but it remained a wall of riddles. Still, he kept it close—it might one day be his only chance.
One evening, crouched by a stream, he froze.
From upriver drifted a faint sound. Not beast, not wind.
A flute. Gentle, sorrowful, winding through the wilderness.
Music, here?
Gene pressed himself behind a boulder, every muscle tense. He peered toward the source, heart thundering.