A blinding flash, searing white, followed by an echoing silence that seemed to burrow into the very marrow of his bones, a silence so profound it hummed. One moment, Mark—or was it Mark?—was wrestling with the jammed steering wheel of a dented delivery truck, the blare of an oncoming semi-truck horn a deafening prelude to oblivion, the smell of burning rubber filling his nostrils. The next…
He was lying on his back, staring up at a cracked and peeling ceiling, the plaster decorated with water stains that resembled grotesque faces. A rough, scratchy blanket woven from coarse, unbleached wool covered him, offering little comfort against the chill that permeated the small, sparsely furnished room. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust, dried herbs—lavender and something sharper, like ginseng—and something faintly metallic, like old blood mixed with iron filings. His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, a constant reminder of the jarring transition, each pulse a hammer blow against his skull.
"Junior Brother, you're awake! Thank goodness!" A voice, laced with an odd mixture of relief and anxiety that seemed genuine, shattered the silence. A young man with kind eyes the color of jade and a perpetually concerned frown peered down at him, his features framed by long, flowing robes of pale blue silk, embroidered with silver thread depicting stylized clouds. A simple wooden hairpin held his dark hair in place. Shen Li, the memories whispered, unbidden and unwelcome, into the depths of his mind, a name that felt both familiar and utterly alien.
"I thought we'd lost you for good," another voice chimed in, deeper and more reserved, tinged with an undercurrent of suspicion. A slightly older man with a stern, watchful gaze that missed nothing hovered behind Shen Li. Xue Fen. He wore similar robes, but his were subtly darker, a shade closer to a stormy sky, the embroidery more intricate, depicting swirling dragons. A jade pendant in the shape of a sword hung from his belt. "You took quite a blow."
Mark—no, Zhou Fang, the memories insisted, a phantom echo in his mind—tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea slammed into him, the room spinning violently, forcing him back down with a groan. His body felt alien, weak, as if it belonged to someone else, a poorly maintained vessel. He tentatively flexed his fingers, marveling at their slender length and unfamiliar calluses, the nails neatly trimmed. These weren't the rough, calloused hands of a delivery driver, stained with grease and grime.
"Easy now," Xue Fen cautioned, his voice betraying a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, a hint of calculation. "The Master is preparing a medicinal poultice, a blend of rare herbs and powdered jade. Best to remain still until it arrives."
"Master?" The word felt foreign on his tongue, laden with connotations he didn't understand, a relic from a history he didn't share. What kind of weird cult had he stumbled into? And what was with the medieval cosplay? The silk robes, the archaic language—it was all too bizarre.
Shen Li's brow furrowed, his lips pursing in concern. "Yes, Master. You are a disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect, Junior Brother. Do you... not remember?" He reached out a hand, hesitating as if unsure whether to touch him.
The name triggered a torrent of fragmented images: soaring mountain peaks shrouded in mist, their jagged peaks piercing the clouds, ancient temples with curved roofs adorned with intricate carvings, the glint of steel reflecting the sunlight, and the flash of swirling robes in a choreographed dance of death. But they were fleeting, disjointed, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting a world he'd never known, a world both beautiful and terrifying. He remembered… nothing concrete.
His last clear memory was the blinding glare of headlights, the metallic screech of brakes, and the chilling realization that he was about to die, the taste of fear bitter on his tongue. Now he was here, in this strange room, in this unfamiliar body, surrounded by people who seemed to know him, but whom he didn't recognize, their faces masks of concern and suspicion.
"I…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, the right lie, his mind racing. "I'm afraid I don't remember much of anything, to be honest. My head…" He trailed off, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his skin.
Shen Li and Xue Fen exchanged a worried glance, a silent conversation passing between them, a language of shared secrets and unspoken fears.
"The blow must have been more severe than we initially thought," Shen Li murmured, his voice tinged with concern, his eyes darting nervously towards Xue Fen. "Perhaps we should inform the Master that the Junior Brother's memories are… compromised."
Xue Fen nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Zhou Fang with an intensity that made him shiver, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Indeed. Such a thing could have… unforeseen consequences." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Tell me, Junior Brother, what is the first technique of the Azure Sky Sword Form? Demonstrate it for me."
The question hit Zhou Fang like a physical blow, stealing his breath. The Azure Sky Sword Form? He had no idea what that was. Panic began to rise in his throat, choking him, a cold hand squeezing his heart. He was an imposter, a fraud, and they were starting to realize it. His life, whatever it was now, depended on convincing them otherwise.
"I…" He stammered, desperately trying to recall something, anything, from the jumbled mess of memories swirling in his mind, grasping at straws. But it was no use. The answer remained elusive, hidden behind a wall of pain and confusion, a locked door he couldn't open.
"I… I seem to have forgotten," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper, laced with fear.
Xue Fen's gaze hardened, his eyes like chips of ice. "Forgotten? A core technique of our sect? Such a thing is… troubling." He took a step closer, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Perhaps… a demonstration of your chi cultivation would be more appropriate."