She was alive.
With trembling fingers, she touched her torn skin, forcing herself to breathe through the pain. She recognized the swelling, the shallow breaths, the faint discoloration of bruises. Ribs bruised, possibly fractured. Internal bleeding.
Knowledge of her past life's medicine surged forward. She pressed on pressure points, slowed her bleeding with makeshift bindings from her tattered sleeve. It was not much, but it kept her moving.
Step by agonizing step, she dragged herself upright. Her legs trembled, her body screamed, but she staggered forward into the dark.
Shaking, she forced herself onto her knees. Her palms pressed into the dirt, trembling but steady enough to push her upright. Every step was torture, her legs barely able to carry her, but she moved. She would not die here.
Fragments of unfamiliar memory tugged at her mind a place. A secluded estate. A home.
She stumbled forward, guided by instinct more than reason, dragging her battered body through the night.
The trees whispered in the wind like cruel voices mocking her struggle. Her breath came ragged, her lips bloodless, yet she clenched her teeth and forced herself on.
Behind her lay death. Ahead of her, only uncertainty.
But within her chest, beneath the agony and despair, a faint warmth flickered.
A spark.
A flame.
The first stirrings of something ancient, something fierce, buried deep in her blood.
For though the world had abandoned her, she would rise.
She clenched her teeth. She would reach it. She would not die again.
The wilderness loomed around her, shadows shifting with every rustle of leaves. Strange cries echoed in the distance beasts unlike anything from her old world. Fear clawed at her chest, but she pressed forward, each step a defiance against the fate that had scorned her twice.
By the time the faint outline of carved stone walls rose in the distance, her body was failing. Her knees gave way, her vision swam, and she collapsed at the iron gate, her hand clawing desperately against the cold metal before darkness stole her again.
Under the pale lantern light, two figures emerged an old man with silver hair tied neatly behind him, his weathered face marked by years of quiet endurance, and beside him a younger man, tall but weary, his features hardened by bitterness that time had not yet dulled.
The sight before them froze their steps.
Erysimum lay crumpled on the cold floor, her body frail and bruised, her hair tangled across her pale cheeks. Her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible, as if the faintest breeze could carry her away.
"Erys!" Her grandfather's voice cracked as he rushed forward, his hands trembling when they touched her wrist, desperate for a pulse. Relief flickered across his tired face when he found it weak, but steady.
Behind him, a tall young man with a sharp, hardened face knelt as well. His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at the sight of her bruised skin. "Uncle... she's barely hanging on. Let's get her inside."
Together, they lifted her frail body, carrying her through the courtyard that had once been filled with life and pride but now felt hollow, stripped bare by misfortune.
As they laid her carefully onto her bed, the old man's heart twisted. His only grandchild... a child who should have been cherished by the heavens themselves, now reduced to this. His fingers brushed her cheek, lingering there, his sorrow spilling silently from his eyes.
When a child was born into this world, a great blessing was expected to follow. For every newborn carried within them a contractual spirit a bond etched into the very fabric of their soul. These spirits slept until the age of ten, when they awakened, marking the beginning of one's destiny. At awakening, a ring would appear on the right hand's ring finger, and with it, the shape of the spirit would manifest some becoming divine weapons, others taking the form of mighty beasts. Strength, honor, status, hope all of it began there.
But for Erysimum, none of that had come.
A few days before, her tenth birthday had passed. The entire household had waited, hearts trembling with hope that perhaps their misfortunes would be eased by this one child. Yet the day had come and gone, and no spirit awakened. Her finger remained bare. The heavens were silent.
She was henceforth labeled a waste.
In this world where futures were carved by the strength of one's spirit, where clans rose and fell upon the might of their contracted bonds, to be without one was a curse worse than death. It meant no power, no standing, no future. It meant living as prey in a land where the strong trampled the weak.
And that was the fate dealt to his only grandchild.
His vision blurred with tears as he looked down at her fragile face. "My child," he whispered, voice trembling, "how cruel must this world be, to take everything from you before you've even begun?"
Beside him, her uncle's expression hardened further, his eyes burning with unspoken rage. "They dared to lay hands on her because they believe she is weak. If not for this poison binding me, I would—" His voice caught, fury choking him.
The grandfather reached out, placing a trembling hand on his son's arm. His own bitterness was buried deep, but his grief was heavier. "Do not speak of what we cannot change. Our Erys... she is all we have left."
In the silence that followed, the weight of their family's decline pressed down upon them. Once, their household had been a name others feared. Now, it was but an empty shadow. The grandfather, crippled by poison, forbidden to cultivate again or risk death. The uncle, his cultivation severed, his future stolen. The parents gone, vanished into dust, their fates unknown but presumed dead.
And now, the last hope of their bloodline lay before them, fragile, wounded, and branded by the world as worthless.
The old man bent low, brushing his lips against her forehead, his heart breaking as he whispered, "Even if the world calls you nothing, to me... you are everything."