The address on the receipt led James to what appeared to be an abandoned antique shop in one of the city's less reputable districts. Half the windows were boarded with weathered plywood, the other half so caked with grime that seeing through them was impossible.
The sign above the door had faded to near illegibility, its painted letters worn by decades of weather.
James checked the receipt again. This was definitely the place. One large pepperoni, extra cheese, payment processed online. Customer name: Will Thorne.
He was twenty-nine and had been living paycheck to paycheck for nearly a decade, ever since dropping out of college to care for his father during cancer treatment. Not that it had made a difference. His father died anyway, leaving James with substantial medical debt and no degree to help him pay it.
Pizza delivery wasn't exactly a career path, but it paid his studio apartment rent. Barely.
The shop's front door was unlocked, which struck him as unusual for a building that looked this abandoned and in an area like this. He pushed it open and called out.
"Pizza delivery! Anyone here?"
"Hello?"
No response.
The smell hit him immediately, old wood and accumulated dust that made his nose itch. The interior was larger than the exterior suggested, packed floor to ceiling with the kind of miscellaneous items you would find at a pawn shop. Sheet-covered furniture stacked nearly to the rafters, boxes of books, display cases filled with ugly antique jewelry, and random knick-knacks occupying every available surface.
"Hello?" James tried again. "Pizza for Will Thorne?"
Still nothing.
He moved deeper into the shop, reasoning that the customer might be in the back and unable to hear him from the entrance. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and dust motes drifted through the weak light filtering in through the dirty windows.
Near the back of the shop, James discovered a section that seemed distinctly different from the rest. The items here appeared genuinely valuable rather than yard sale rejects in the front. Marble statues, figurines carved from precious stones, ornate vases, furniture that probably cost more than his annual salary.
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Then he saw it, tucked away in a far corner.
The mirror.
It stood against the rear wall, taller than he was, framed in dark wood carved with ornate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light. The wood grain appeared to pulse with some kind of energy. The mirror itself looked ancient, the sort of antique that belonged in a wealthy collector's mansion or a museum. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn it had been commissioned by royalty centuries ago.
He stepped in front of it, drawn by something he couldn't articulate. His reflection looked wrong somehow. Distorted, as if he were viewing himself through water rather than glass. He couldn't explain it precisely, but he knew the mirror wasn't showing him an accurate reflection. It seemed to thrum with the same pulse he felt in the wood grain.
He raised his hand experimentally, and his reflection mimicked the gesture, but not simultaneously. There was a delay, barely a split second, but enough to make his skin crawl and send a chill up his spine.
"What the hell?" he said aloud, jerking back.
He leaned closer, trying to understand what was wrong with the thing. His reflection leaned in as well, just a beat slower, as if copying him rather than mirroring him.
The hair on his arms stood up. This was seriously unsettling. He should leave, forget about the pizza order, and get the hell out of this place.
But he couldn't look away. It was as if his feet had rooted themselves to the floor and his gaze had locked onto the mirror's surface.
He was just beginning to panic about his inability to look away when he sensed something behind him. He looked at his reflection's background just in time to see a massive bookshelf toppling toward him.
He had perhaps half a second to think "oh shit" before it slammed into his back with the force of a freight train. The impact launched him forward, face-first toward the mirror.
Time stretched. James saw his reflection rushing toward him, saw the terror on his own face as he realized what was about to happen. Then he hit the mirror with a sound like shattering crystal.
The glass exploded outward in a cascade of razor-sharp fragments. But the mirror didn't just break, it disintegrated into particles as fine as dust. That wasn't the worst part, though.
The worst part was the sensation of himself shattering.
He was certain most of his bones were broken, could feel blood running down his face and into his eyes and mouth, but that physical damage was nothing compared to whatever had shattered inside him. Something deeper. Something that felt like the very core of his identity had been smashed into uncountable pieces. Like his veins had been stretched until they snapped.
Pain, unlike anything he'd ever experienced, flooded through him. It felt like being shocked with thousands of volts of electricity, if you could somehow survive the experience instead of dying instantly. Only a thousand times worse.
He tried to scream, but no sound emerged. His vision went white, then black. He was losing awareness, coming apart like sand thrown into the sea.
Then even that thought scattered like dust, and James Kard ceased to exist.
There was no transition, no gradual awakening. One instant, James was dying on the floor of a dusty antique shop, and the next, he existed somewhere else entirely.
He floated in absolute nothingness. Not darkness, darkness implied the absence of light, and this place seemed to exist outside such concepts. It wasn't black or white or any color. It simply wasn't.
And neither was he, exactly.
James tried to look down at himself and realized he had no body to examine or even a head to look down with.
He possessed some waning awareness and consciousness but no form or substance. Just a fragment of awareness floating in a vast, endless void.
Panic should have seized him immediately. He should have been screaming, thrashing, desperate to escape. Instead, he felt oddly detached, as if watching events unfold to someone else.
It was difficult to describe the sensation for a mind that had always been embodied, but James gradually became aware that pieces of himself were loose. Drifting. Like a dropped jigsaw puzzle, pieces slowly floating apart.
He tried to pull himself together but had no idea how to accomplish it. How do you grab parts of your soul when you have no hands? How do you call back scattered thoughts, memories, and feelings when you have no voice?
He should have been terrified, but he felt nothing, no worry or fear.
Time passed. Or perhaps it didn't.
In a place without light to mark day from night, without a heartbeat to count seconds, time became meaningless. James might have been there for minutes or a millennium. He had no way to determine which.
What he did know was that he was disintegrating.
The pieces of himself drifted further apart, each taking some essential component of his identity. A memory of his seventh birthday party floated past, complete and intact but no longer his. The sound of his father's laugh, the taste of his mother's chocolate chip cookies, the feeling of grass between his toes on summer afternoons, all of it becoming untethered, dissolving into the endless nothing.
He should have been terrified. Should have fought against it, struggled harder to maintain himself. But the dispersal brought with it a strange sort of peace.
He wasn't just losing the good memories; the bad ones were fading away, too. His father's death, dropping out of college, and the last several miserable years. Years since he'd had a single positive memory. The sharp edges of his identity were smoothing away, leaving something softer, more diffuse.
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Perhaps this was what death was supposed to feel like. Perhaps the mirror hadn't killed him so much as freed him from the burden of being James Kard, college dropout, pizza delivery driver, profound disappointment to his parents and himself.
Perhaps this nothingness was preferable to the life he had been enduring for the past decade.
He was almost gone. Just a few scattered fragments of consciousness drifting in the vast emptiness. That's when something touched him.
The sensation was such a shock after the endless numbness that it took several moments to process. Something small and warm had attached itself to the largest remaining piece of his soul, wrapping around him like...
A warm embrace.
That was the only way he could conceptualize it, though it had no arms. It was a bead of light, approximately the size of a needle's tip, but its light was steadily dimming. And it was definitely alive. He could feel it pulsing with its own rhythm, different from a heartbeat yet somehow familiar.
As he observed, thin, wispy filaments like spider silk began extending from the bead. They were composed of light and moved with clear purpose. One by one, they reached toward his scattered pieces, following trails he couldn't see or understand.
The first filament found the closest fragment, his father's laugh. The taste of his favorite dish. It gently drew them back. The memory settled into place with an almost audible click, and suddenly James could recall not just the flavor but the day he'd first tried it, despite never having the conscious memory before.
More filaments followed, each retrieving another piece of him. Some found emotions, the contentment of lazy Sunday afternoons, the sharp sting of his first heartbreak. Others collected sensory memories, abstract thoughts, and half-formed dreams. All of it slowly, carefully gathered back together.
But the bead wasn't merely retrieving what had been lost. As the filaments drew his scattered essence back, James became aware they were also filling gaps where pieces had already dissolved beyond recovery with something else. Not replacement memories or emotions, but a kind of spiritual mortar holding everything together.
He could feel himself becoming something again. The bead's influence was subtle but unmistakable, weaving itself through his restored consciousness like veins of gold through marble.
As more of himself returned, James found he could think more clearly, and observe more precisely. The bead continued its work with infinite patience, sending out new filaments to capture the last fragments of his dispersed soul. And as it worked, he began to sense something like warmth radiating from their connection.
Not physical warmth, he still had no body to experience such things. But something deeper, more fundamental. The warmth of relief after a long day of hard work.
By the time the bead finished its work, James somehow felt more real than he'd ever been while alive.
He floated there in the timeless void, wrapped in that gentle warmth, connected to the mysterious bead that had saved him from dissolution. Questions crowded his restored mind. What was this place? What was the bead? Why had it helped him? But for now, he was content to simply exist.
For the first time since the mirror shattered, James Kard felt whole.
And he was no longer alone.
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He woke underwater, in depths where no hint of life existed. The darkness was warm and safe. James floated in warm liquid, surrounded by steady, rhythmic thumping that formed a constant background noise. Sometimes he felt pressure, gentle pushes and movements that rocked him like waves. The sound was muffled but constant, a whooshing, pulsing symphony that had become his entire world.
Where am I?
The thoughts came slowly, like surfacing from deep water. His mind felt strange, fragmented. He knew things but couldn't grasp them fully yet. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
Then the walls began closing in.
Pressure. Crushing, relentless pressure from every direction. The safe darkness became a prison, squeezing him, forcing him forward into a space too small for his body. He tried to resist, tried to remain in the warmth, but something far stronger than himself was pushing him out. Terror gripped him.
I'm going to die again. This time, by being crushed to death.
What's happening to me?
The pressure intensified. His world tilted, shifted, turned upside down. He felt himself moving, being forced through a passage that felt impossible to navigate. The sound changed, the muffled whooshing became louder, more chaotic. New sounds leaked in from somewhere beyond his rapidly squeezing prison.
Then came the cold.
It hit him like a physical blow. Air touched skin that had only known warm fluid. Light stabbed at eyes that had only experienced gentle darkness. And the noise, chaos, voices, and sounds that made no sense crashed over him like a wave.
He tried to scream. What emerged was a thin, wailing cry that sounded nothing like his voice should sound.
This isn't right. This isn't my voice. What's wrong with me?
Rough hands lifted him. Giant faces peered down, speaking in sounds that meant nothing.
James tried to move his arms, his legs, anything. His body wouldn't obey. The limbs that responded were wrong, too small, too weak, moving in jerky motions he couldn't control, flailing wildly.
I'm a baby. Oh god, I'm a baby.
The realization crashed over him as one of the giant faces cleaned him with gentle but efficient movements. This wasn't some strange dream or hallucination. He had been born. Again.
But how did he know that? How did he understand what birth was, what being a baby meant?
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The memories started returning in pieces. A previous life, but viewing it felt like looking at old photographs through cloudy water. Some images were crystal clear; he could see his hands typing on something flat and glowing. He remembered the taste of something sweet and cold, the feeling of fabric against older, larger skin.
But other parts were simply... gone. He knew he loved walking somewhere beautiful, somewhere that made him feel peaceful. He could almost taste the emotion, the peace it had given him. But when he tried to picture the place, there was nothing. Just an aching emptiness where the memory should have been.
The bead. The thought came from nowhere, but it felt important. Some kind of small, bright object that had... done something to him? Saved him? He couldn't remember what it looked like or where he'd encountered it, but he knew it was connected to why he could remember anything at all.
"She's gone, Chen." The words meant nothing to James, but the tone carried exhaustion and sorrow. The middle-aged woman holding him was speaking to an older man.
James looked at the man's face and felt something unexpected. Kindness. Real, deep kindness that seemed to shine from tired eyes. The old man stepped closer and held out weathered hands.
"Let me see him," the man said gently.
"She said his name was Yang," the woman continued. "Left this with him." She held up a small cloth bundle. "And then she was gone before I could even think of doing anything to save her."
I was alone. The knowledge hit him like cold water. Someone had died giving birth to him.
The old man, Chen took James, now Yang, in his arms. Thin but steady. "Hello, little Yang," he whispered. "Don't worry. Grandfather Chen is here now."
James tried to respond, to somehow communicate that he understood more than a newborn should. But his infant vocal cords could only manage soft mewling sounds. His frustration was immense, an adult mind trapped in a body that couldn't perform any task adults took for granted.
I can't even control when I pee.
The indignity was crushing. But Chen just held him close, humming something soft and wordless while James fought against the limitations of his new body.
Over the following days, James' fragmented memories slowly organized themselves into something more coherent. He had lived before, in a world of metal and glass where towers touched clouds, where thousands flew in giant metal contraptions. He remembered the sensation of sitting in something that moved without walking, a car, his mind supplied the word, though he couldn't quite picture what one looked like anymore.
But the details were slipping away even as he tried to hold them. Like trying to remember a dream after waking, the harder he grasped, the faster they faded. Only the emotions remained clear. The taste of foods he couldn't name. The warmth of... someone. He'd loved someone, cared about someone, but their face was completely gone.
The bead saved some things but not others, James realized. It preserved what it could, but not everything made it through. The pieces that dispersed before the bead appeared weren't recovered. My memory is patchy. He remembered the bead remade him, but like a puzzle with missing pieces. You could still know what the image was supposed to be, but the incompleteness was obvious.
He mourned those lost memories even as he felt grateful for what remained. At least he knew he'd lived before. At least he retained the capacity for complex thought, even if he couldn't access all his previous experiences.
The house where Grandpa Chen lived was tiny and poor. James' adult mind could see that immediately, even through infant eyes. One room with earthen walls and a roof that leaked when it rained. A fire pit in the center with a hole above it that lets smoke out and weather in. Almost no possessions beyond absolute necessities.
But Grandpa Chen treated James like he was precious beyond measure, as if he were the greatest treasure in all the world rather than an orphan infant he'd taken in.
When there was only enough food for one person, which was most days, Grandpa Chen would insist he wasn't hungry and give his portion to Mei, the neighbor woman who had become James' wet nurse. She lived in an equally poor dwelling just a short walk away, but she came daily despite having her own struggles, her own mouth to feed.
"The little one needs to grow strong," Grandpa Chen would say with a smile. "These old bones don't need much."
But James could see the lie in the tremor of Grandpa Chen's hands, in the way his movements became more deliberate, more careful, as if every action required consideration of whether he had the strength to spare.
When nights got cold, and they were growing colder as winter approached with merciless inevitability, Grandpa Chen would wrap Yang in his own blanket, the only warm thing they possessed, and sit shivering by the dying fire, holding him to his chest.
The old man's ribs became more prominent with each passing day, pressing against James' small body.
He's killing himself to keep me alive, James realized with growing horror. This man, who owes me nothing, is literally giving up his own life for me.
The guilt was overwhelming. Here was someone sacrificing everything for a few-month-old baby who wasn't even related to him, and that baby had the mind of a grown man who should have been able to take care of himself.
But James was trapped. His infant body demanded constant care, constant feeding, constant attention. He couldn't tell Grandpa Chen to save his own strength. Couldn't explain that he understood the sacrifice being made on his behalf.
All he could do was lie there and watch this saint of a man slowly waste away from his own generosity.
James could see the cost. Grandpa Chen's clothes hung looser each week on his already thin frame, his movements slower. He was burning himself like a candle to keep James' small flame alive.
I have to remember this, James vowed silently during one of those long nights when Chen dozed fitfully by the fire. When I'm old enough, when I'm strong enough, I have to pay him back. I have to make his sacrifice worth something.
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He tried to recall what skills he'd had in his previous life, what knowledge might be useful. But the memories were too fragmented, too incomplete. He could remember the feeling of competence, of being good at something important, but the specifics eluded him.
It doesn't matter, James decided. Whatever I was before, I'll find a way to be useful here. I'll find a way to take care of him the way he's taking care of me.
Winter came early and harshly. The thin walls provided little protection from the cold, and fuel for the fire became scarce. James' infant body shivered constantly, and he could see his breath in the freezing air inside their small home.
But Grandpa Chen never let James feel the worst of it. The old man would hold him close to his chest, sharing his body heat.
One night, James woke to find Grandpa Chen sitting by the barely glowing embers, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The sight broke something in Yang's infant heart. This man, who had given everything, was finally reaching his breaking point.
Yang wanted to comfort him, wanted to promise that better days were coming, wanted to somehow communicate that his sacrifice was seen and appreciated and would never be forgotten.
But all he could manage was a soft sound, half coo, half sigh. Grandpa Chen looked over and smiled through his tears.
"Don't worry, little Yang," the old man whispered, reaching over to stroke the baby's cheek with a finger worn smooth by decades of hard work. "Grandfather will take care of you. Always."
James wrapped his tiny fingers around that weathered digit and held on as tight as his infant strength allowed. It wasn't much, but it was a promise. A vow that someday, somehow, he would return every kindness this man had shown him.
Grandpa Chen's smile widened, the sadness lifting from his features for a moment.
"You're going to be strong, aren't you, little one?" Grandpa Chen murmured. "Grandfather can see it in your eyes. You understand things. You're going to do great things someday."
I will, James promised silently, his grip tightening on Grandpa Chen's finger. I'll be strong enough to protect you the way you're protecting me. I'll make sure you never have to cry alone in the dark again. I'll make you proud.
The fire popped softly, sending tiny sparks up through the smoke hole. Grandpa Chen began to hum again, that wordless melody that seemed to carry all his love and hope for James' future.
And James, despite the cold and hunger and overwhelming responsibility he felt, closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. This was his family now. This broken-down mud hut was his home. These people who had nothing were giving him everything.
I won't waste it, James vowed as sleep pulled him under. Whatever chance I've been given, whatever reason I'm here, I won't waste it.
Grandpa Chen's humming continued long into the night, a lullaby for the abandoned child who carried the soul of a man determined to repay a priceless kindness.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new hardships, and new tests of their fragile family's endurance.
But tonight, wrapped in love that asked for nothing in return, James felt something he couldn't quite remember from his previous life.
He felt like he belonged.
Yang had always felt safe with Grandpa Chen. Even at eight years old, with the memories of an adult life lingering in his mind, he understood that their little mud hut was a place where nothing bad could happen. Grandpa Chen's gentle hands and warm voice kept the harsh world at bay.
Tonight felt different, though. There was tension in the village. Yang had noticed it during the day when they'd gone to the well for water. Hushed conversations that stopped when they approached. Sideways glances that felt heavy with something ugly.
But inside their home, with the small fire crackling and Grandpa Chen humming while he repaired a torn basket, Yang felt the familiar comfort of safety. He sat cross-legged on their threadbare blanket, playing with a few smooth stones Grandpa Chen had found by the river.
"Grandpa, tell me about the spirits in the forest," Yang said, arranging his stones in careful patterns.
Grandpa Chen smiled, his eyes crinkling with the kind of warmth that made Yang feel like he was the most important person in the world. "Which spirits, little Yang? The ones that protect travelers, or the ones that lead the wicked astray?"
"The protecting ones."
"Ah, those are the kindest spirits. They watch over children and old men who mean no harm to anyone." Grandpa Chen's voice carried that gentle cadence that always made Yang drowsy. "They guide lost souls to safety, warn them of danger with whispers on the wind."
Yang was about to ask another question when they both heard it. Footsteps outside. Heavy, deliberate boots on the packed earth around their hut.
Grandpa Chen's hands went still on the basket. The humming stopped.
"Yang," Grandpa Chen whispered, his voice suddenly urgent. "Come here. Behind me."
Yang had never heard that tone from his grandfather before. Fear crept up his spine as he scrambled behind Grandpa Chen's thin frame just as the door burst open.
A man filled the doorway. Yang recognized him, Liu Wei, one of the village merchants. But his face was twisted with something ugly that made Yang's stomach clench with terror.
"Old fool," Liu Wei snarled, stepping into their small home without invitation. "Did you think we wouldn't notice?"
"Liu Wei," Grandpa Chen said calmly, but Yang could feel the tremor in his grandfather's voice. "What brings you here so late?"
"You know what brings me here." Liu Wei's hand moved to something at his belt, the glint of metal in the firelight. "Those men who came through last week. The ones you helped with information about the mountain passes. You think we're stupid?"
Yang didn't understand what they were talking about, but he could feel Grandpa Chen's body tense in front of him.
"I don't know what you mean," Grandpa Chen said quietly.
"Don't lie to me!" Liu Wei's voice exploded in the small space. "You provided information to our competitors. It's going to cost us a fortune in lost trade routes. And for what? A few copper coins?"
"I helped a lost traveler find his way," Grandpa Chen said with a dignity that somehow made Yang's chest swell with pride even through his fear. "Nothing more."
"Helping," Liu Wei spat. "Always helping. Always trying to be the saint while the rest of us struggle to survive."
The metal at Liu Wei's belt was a knife. Yang saw it clearly now as the man drew it from its sheath. The blade caught the firelight and threw dancing shadows on the walls.
"Please," Grandpa Chen said, and Yang heard something break in his grandfather's voice. "The boy. Let me send the boy away."
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Liu Wei's eyes found Yang cowering behind Grandpa Chen's thin frame. For a moment, something that might have been conscience flickered across his features. But it died quickly, replaced by the cold calculation of a man who had already made his choice.
"The boy has seen too much. Knows too much. Just like his grandfather."
"He's eight years old," Chen whispered. "He doesn't understand anything."
"Smart boy, though. I've seen him, always watching, always listening quietly." Liu Wei stepped closer. "Too smart for his own good. Just like you."
Grandpa Chen's hand found Yang's small one and squeezed. "Yang," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Liu Wei. "Do you remember the game we play? Where you run to the forest edge as fast as you can?"
Yang nodded, tears already burning his eyes.
"When I tell you to run, you run to the forest. But this time, don't stop at the edge. Keep running until you can't run anymore. Do you understand?"
"Grandpa..." Yang said, his voice breaking.
"Promise me, Yang. Promise you'll run and not look back," Grandpa said desperately.
"I promise," Yang whispered, knowing how this was going to end.
Liu Wei raised the knife. "Enough talk. Do you think I'm going to let the boy go? Zhao is outside with his brothers. He'll never let the brat get away."
"Run, Yang!" Grandpa Chen's voice cracked like thunder as he lunged forward, throwing his frail body between the knife and Yang. "RUN!"
Yang ran.
Behind him, he heard the wet sound of metal piercing flesh. Heard Chen's sharp intake of breath, cut short. Heard Liu Wei curse as Chen's body hit the ground. Yang knew Grandpa was dead, and he felt an agonizing pain in his chest.
But Yang didn't look back. He crashed through their small garden, trampling the vegetables Grandpa Chen had tended so carefully. His bare feet hit the dirt path, and he dodged the men waiting outside, some of them even falling in their desperation to catch him. But instead of heading toward the other houses, he turned toward the dark line of trees that marked the beginning of the forest.
The villagers will take everything, Yang's mind raced even as his legs pumped. They'll take our hut, our blankets, everything Grandpa worked for. And if they catch me...
He knew what happened to children with no family in their village. He'd seen them, the hollow-eyed ones who scrubbed floors for scraps of food, who bore marks on their backs from the switch. The ones who disappeared entirely when they got too thin to be useful.
This world doesn't care about kindness, Yang thought desperately. Grandpa was good, and they killed him for it.
The forest edge approached faster than ever before. Usually, this was where Grandpa Chen would call him back, where their little games ended, and they'd walk home together hand in hand with Grandpa Chen telling him stories.
But this time, Yang plunged into the darkness between the trees.
Branches whipped his face, drew lines of blood across his cheeks and arms. His small tunic caught on thorns, tore, and left pieces of fabric behind as he crashed through undergrowth that seemed determined to hold him back.
But he kept running. His chest burned. His legs felt like they might give out. Tears blinded him so completely that he was running more by feel than sight, careening off tree trunks, stumbling over roots, driven by pure terror.
Grandpa is dead. Grandpa is dead. Grandpa is dead.
The words hammered in his skull with each pounding step. The man who had given up everything to keep Yang alive was gone. The gentle hands that had held him as a baby, the warm voice that had sung him to sleep, the patient smile that had made Yang feel like he was the most important person in the world, all of it snuffed out by a knife in the dark.
Yang didn't know how long he ran. Time meant nothing when your whole world had just collapsed. But suddenly, in the middle of his blind flight, he froze.
Fear.
Not the fear he'd been feeling since Liu Wei appeared in their doorway. This was different. Older. Primal. It rose from within him like mist, wrapped around his small body like invisible hands.
Something was wrong here. Something that made his skin crawl and his breath catch in his throat. Every instinct he had, both from this life and whatever remained from his previous one, screamed at him to turn away from whatever lay ahead in the darkness.
Turn right. Turn right, NOW.
The thought came from nowhere, urgent and clear. Yang didn't question it. He veered sharply to the right and kept running, crashing through a different section of forest with the same desperate speed.
Behind him, something howled. Long and mournful and hungry. Yang's blood turned to ice, but his legs found new strength. He ran harder, faster, driven by the knowledge that whatever had made that sound was exactly what his instincts had warned him away from.
His foot caught something in the darkness, and he went down hard, his small body hitting the forest floor with an impact that drove the breath from his lungs. Sharp stones bit into his palms, his knees scraped against something rough and unforgiving. The taste of dirt filled his mouth as his face met the earth.
For a moment, he just lay there sprawled among the fallen leaves. Every part of his body hurt with a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart. His face was a map of scratches from the branches that had whipped at him during his desperate flight. His clothes were torn to rags, hanging from his thin frame in tatters that barely covered his small body. His hands were bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts, dark stains spreading across his torn sleeves.
And Grandpa was still dead.
The grief hit him all at once, like a physical blow to his chest. Yang curled into a ball right where he'd fallen and began to sob. Deep, wrenching cries that seemed to come from the very core of his being, echoing through the silent forest around him.
He cried for Grandpa Chen, who had died protecting him from those terrible men with their cruel laughter and merciless hands.
He cried for their little hut that would never be home again, now probably nothing more than ash and broken memories.
He cried for the safety he'd lost and would never get back, for the happiness that had been torn away in a single horrific night.
He hated himself for howling like a child, hated the weakness in his voice, but the grief tore through him anyway, raw and unstoppable.
He cried until his throat was raw and his chest ached with the force of his sobs. Until no more tears would come and he could only make dry, gasping sounds that shook his small frame like autumn leaves in a fierce wind. His whole body trembled with the aftermath of terror and exhaustion.
Finally, when there was nothing left inside him to pour out, when his heart felt as empty as his stomach, Yang forced himself to sit up. His movements were slow and careful, like those of an old man rather than a child of eight years.
The forest was quiet around him now. No more howling from whatever creature he'd managed to avoid in his panicked flight. Just the normal night sounds, insects chirping, and small creatures going about their business. The moon had moved across the sky while he'd been running. He must have been stumbling through these woods for hours, though time had lost all meaning since he'd watched Grandpa fall.
I can't go back, Yang thought dully, the realization settling over him like a heavy blanket. There's nothing to go back to. Nothing but death and destruction.
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He had to keep moving. Had to find somewhere to hide until he could figure out what to do next, though his mind couldn't begin to imagine what that might be.
Yang struggled to his feet, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his scraped knee. His legs felt like water, weak and unsteady, but he forced them to carry him forward step by agonizing step.
He walked for what felt like forever through the maze of trees, stumbling through the darkness, catching himself on rough bark when exhaustion made him sway dangerously. His small body wanted nothing more than to collapse again, to curl up among the roots and leaves and simply disappear. But Yang knew he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not when those men might still be looking for him.
The sky was starting to lighten when he finally saw it, painted in the soft gray of approaching dawn. A small opening in a rocky outcropping, barely big enough for a child to squeeze through.
The entrance was hidden behind a curtain of hanging moss and twisted vines. Yang approached carefully, his bare feet silent on the damp earth.
It was a cave. Tiny and shallow, carved into the hillside by years of water and wind. The opening was so small that no adult could possibly fit through it.
Even Yang would have to crawl on his hands and knees to get inside.
Yang dropped to the ground and crawled through the opening, his torn clothes catching on the rough stone edges. The passage was narrow, but after a few feet it opened into a small chamber.
The cave was cramped but thankfully dry. As his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness, he could make out small bones scattered across the floor, picked clean by time. The walls were rough stone, but they blocked the outside world completely and provided a kind of safety.
This is as safe as I can be, Yang realized with a mixture of relief and despair. No one can follow me here. No one can hurt me in this small, dark place that barely qualifies as shelter.
His body made the decision for him before his mind could protest. The exhaustion he'd been fighting for hours finally won its battle, and Yang collapsed onto the uncomfortable cave floor. He didn't care about the dirt that coated everything, or the animal bones that pressed against his ribs, or the hardness of the stone beneath his aching body. He was beyond caring about comfort now.
He was alone. Completely, utterly alone in a world that had just shown him exactly how cruel it could be to people who dared to be kind, who tried to help others, who believed in goodness.
The loneliness pressed down on him like a physical weight, heavier than the stone above his head.
But he was alive. His heart still beat in his chest, his lungs still drew air, and his mind still held memories of Grandpa's gentle smile and patient lessons. Whatever else had been taken from him, whatever else had been destroyed, that at least remained.
And somewhere in his eight-year-old heart, beneath all the grief and terror and crushing loneliness, a small flame of determination flickered to life. It was tiny and fragile, barely more than an ember, but it refused to be extinguished.
Grandpa had died to give him a chance to survive, had used his last breath to shout a warning that sent Yang running into the forest. That sacrifice meant something. It had to mean something.
Yang wasn't going to waste it. Whatever came next, however impossible the future seemed, he would find a way to honor Grandpa's final gift.
He would survive. He would live and thrive.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him at last, his small body finally finding rest.
Yang woke curled up on the floor of the small cave, surrounded by dirt and small bones. His eyes were swollen from crying, and his body still trembled slightly from the events of the previous night, from watching Grandpa Chen die.
He had woken but curled himself tighter into a ball, feeling the twisting hunger pains in his stomach. For a moment, he wanted to stay curled in that ball until he starved to death, because right now that seemed easier than living a life with the pain of Grandpa's loss.
The child in him felt like the world had ended with Grandpa. But his adult mind pushed back.
He remembered everything since birth. He remembered how Grandpa had taken care of him.
Grandpa may have taken him in because of pity initially, but he had loved Yang more than life itself. Since the day Yang was born, Grandpa had stood between him and everything harmful: weather, hunger, and other villagers' taunts about his lack of parentage.
He realized as he lay there on the small cave's floor that he had never felt sadness in this life until last night. Grandpa had loved him so much that losing that love felt like losing one of his senses. The absence was physical and tangible, a hollow ache in his chest that made breathing difficult.
Grandpa loved me so much. He'd be sad to see me like this, Yang thought as he gathered himself and sat up, wiping away tears that had begun falling again.
He would make something of himself. He would live and make Grandpa proud.
Yang didn't know how far into the forest he'd run. Grandpa and he had never gone deep into the forest. They ventured in less deeply than other villagers because Yang was too young and Grandpa too old. They'd mostly gone in to gather root vegetables and to pick berries and wild fruits. They'd never had meat because neither of them could hunt on their own or contribute to a hunting team, and neither had anything to pay or trade with anyone who would hunt.
Their village was near a forest and far away from any large city or town. The closest town or city he knew of was a few weeks' journey away, and he only knew that because a couple of merchant caravans passed through once a year.
Anyway, he couldn't return to the village. He would be killed by the same people who killed Grandpa.
The village only had poor people living in huts, and as the villagers used to say, only Grandpa was stupid enough to take in a young burden like him.
Grandpa had been so old that no one ever expected him to survive long enough to enjoy the fruits of raising Yang. No one believed he could live long enough to be taken care of by Yang in his old age, as he was already too old by the time he took Yang in.
Not even Grandpa himself had expected it. Grandpa had been surviving solely by will, determined to see Yang reach adulthood so he could take care of himself.
But those monsters had taken even that from him.
Yang knew he'd been a city boy in his previous life and had no experience surviving in a wilderness in either life. But he had some knowledge provided by Grandpa that might help. Grandpa had lived his entire life in that village and used to go to the forest to hunt or trap animals when he was younger. Some of those lessons and stories might be useful now.
He had shelter for now, but he needed access to water and food if he were to survive. He'd already exhausted all his strength last night, so he had to find food and water soon, hopefully before nightfall. He could see light entering through the cave's entrance, so he crawled out to have a look.
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It appeared to be afternoon. A few hours before the sun would set again.
Yang decided to look for water first, since that was a much greater priority than food. A person could survive weeks without food, but only days without water. That was something he remembered from... somewhere. His previous life, perhaps, though the specific memory was hazy.
He was in the dense part of the forest, and it was difficult for him to walk because this was not an area where humans came regularly.
He was constantly hit and scratched by thin branches and large bushes as he needed to push through them. His already torn clothes caught on thorns, and new scratches joined the ones from last night.
He had a good memory, which was one advantage his reincarnation had given him, so he made sure to memorize the location of the cave so he could return before nightfall. As he walked, his mind was divided between memorizing the way he'd come, constantly looking for dangers, and searching for food he could eat or a water source.
As he pushed through a particularly thick bush, a thought struck him. Even if he found water, he had nothing to keep it in. If he intended to survive in the forest for the foreseeable future, he needed far more than just knowledge of where water was located. He needed containers, tools, and some way to preserve resources.
But those were problems for later. Right now, he needed to find water.
He suddenly heard the croak of a frog and decided to follow the direction of the sound. As he moved closer, he heard more sounds of life, other frogs, insects buzzing, and the subtle sounds that indicated water nearby.
He found a small spring sprouting from the ground, clear water bubbling up between rocks and forming a tiny pool before trickling away between the trees.
After seeing the water, Yang fell to his knees near the edge and desperately cupped his hands to drink. The water was cold and clear, and he drank until his stomach felt uncomfortably full. He also washed his face and arms after drinking his fill, hissing as the water stung the scratches covering his body.
He sat near the water and considered his situation more carefully. The spring was close enough that he could come here from the cave to drink water daily. But he needed to find a larger source of water eventually. This spring was tiny; it might dry up, or animals might foul it. He needed more options.
Yang stood and started walking in a different direction, looking for something to eat. He found a bush with berries, but didn't recognize them and wasn't desperate enough to risk poisoning himself yet. Water was essential for survival, but a human could survive a few weeks without food. It would be excruciating, but it was possible. Eating the wrong thing, though, could kill him in hours or days.
He looked around for a while longer but couldn't identify anything edible that he was certain about. The forest offered plenty of plant life, but without Grandpa to point out what was safe, Yang couldn't risk it.
He decided to head back to the creek and then the cave, as he was cutting it close to nightfall. He drank at the spring again, filling his stomach with as much water as he could hold, then headed back to the cave the same way he'd come.
As he walked, he started picking up any dry twigs he found. At least this was a task he could manage. Grandpa had shown him how to identify dry wood that would burn well versus green wood that would only smoke. The lesson had seemed pointless at the time; they'd had so little fuel for their fire that they'd burned whatever they could find, but now Yang was grateful for every scrap of knowledge Grandpa had shared.
He reached the cave just as night was falling, with only a little light remaining. The moon had already risen, providing some illumination. By the time he arrived, he had a considerable bundle of twigs, and his arms were aching and full.
He couldn't take them all into the cave at once, so it took him several trips to carry everything inside. He couldn't leave them outside in case it rained or the morning dew wet them. Wet wood wouldn't burn, and fire might be the difference between life and death out here.
Yang got inside his cave and lay on his back after settling the dry twigs against one wall. He wanted to try lighting a fire, but he was too tired, his childish body not used to such work. His muscles ached in ways he'd never experienced before. Even during the hardest days with Grandpa, he'd never pushed himself like this.
Now that he wasn't doing anything, the grief hit again. But he didn't let it consume him. Instead, he thought of the happy memories with Grandpa, the way Grandpa would hum while working, the warmth of Grandpa's hand holding his, the patient way Grandpa had answered his endless questions.
I'm alive because of you, Yang thought as sleep pulled him under. I'll keep living. I promise.
He fell asleep with tears drying on his cheeks, exhausted but alive.
Yang's eyes opened just as the first pale light of dawn began filtering through the cave entrance. His body ached in places he hadn't known could hurt, muscles protesting yesterday's constant movement through the dense forest. His scratched arms stung, and his scraped palms felt raw against the dirt floor.
But he was awake, and he was alive.
He sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his back from sleeping on stone. The small pile of dry twigs he'd gathered yesterday sat against the far wall, untouched. He'd been too exhausted to attempt making fire, but today would be different.
Today, he needed to find food, and that meant he needed to move quickly while he still had strength.
Yang crawled out of the cave into the cool morning air. Rays of golden sunlight broke through the canopy overhead, illuminating patches of moss and making dewdrops sparkle on leaves. Birds called to each other in the branches, their songs echoing through the trees in a morning chorus that would have been beautiful if Yang's stomach wasn't cramping with hunger.
It had been more than a day since he'd eaten anything. The hollow feeling in his belly had transformed into actual pain, a constant gnawing that made it hard to think about anything else.
He needed water first, then food. Water was easier to find, and drinking would help quiet his screaming stomach for a little while at least.
Yang set off toward the spring, moving much faster than yesterday. He knew exactly where he was going now, and could recognize the landmarks he'd memorized during his first trip. That thick bush with the oddly twisted branches. The fallen log is covered in bright green moss.
The journey that had taken him nearly 2 hours yesterday took only half that time today. He found the small spring bubbling up between its circle of rocks, the sound of trickling water as welcoming as anything he'd ever heard.
Yang dropped to his knees and drank deeply, cupping the cold water in his hands and bringing it to his mouth over and over until his stomach felt uncomfortably full. The water helped push away the worst of the hunger pangs, but he knew it was only temporary relief. His body needed actual food, needed nutrients and energy that water alone couldn't provide.
After drinking his fill, Yang splashed water on his face and arms, washing away the dirt and dried blood from yesterday's scratches. The cold water stung the cuts, but it also felt cleansing somehow, like he was washing away some of yesterday's grief and fear along with the grime.
He chose a direction he hadn't explored yet, angling away from both the spring and his cave, and began walking. His eyes scanned constantly, looking for anything that might be edible, any sign of food he could safely consume.
The forest was full of life. Birds flitted through the branches overhead, their bright plumage catching the morning sunlight. Insects buzzed and hummed in the undergrowth. He saw evidence of larger animals, tracks in the soft earth, droppings, patches where something had dug or foraged, but the creatures themselves remained hidden. Yang's larger size, even as a small child, was enough to scare away most of the forest's smaller inhabitants.
As he walked, his mind turned to the practical problems of survival. He needed to find a way to make vessels, containers to carry water or store food. That meant either finding clay he could shape and fire, or learning to carve wood into bowls. Both seemed impossibly difficult with no tools beyond his bare hands and whatever rocks he might find.
He needed a more stable source of food than wandering the forest hoping to stumble across something edible. That meant either learning to hunt, which required tools and skills he didn't have, or finding plants he could harvest regularly.
He should probably move his dwelling closer to the water. Living near the spring would save him hours of walking each day. But water also meant other animals would come to drink, and some of those animals might see a small child as easy prey. The cave's remoteness was a form of safety, even if it was inconvenient.
Yang had been walking for what felt like hours, the sun climbing higher and warming the forest around him, when he spotted a bush heavy with berries. His heart leaped with recognition and relief.
Star berries. Red and plump and wonderful. He'd picked them often with Grandpa, had loved their sweet taste and the way they stained his lips and tongue bright red. Grandpa rarely ate them himself, claiming the slightly harder texture hurt his gums, but he'd always smiled watching Yang enjoy them.
Yang rushed forward, his hands already reaching for the berries. He was so hungry that rational thought had fled entirely, replaced by pure need. He picked a large handful, brought them toward his mouth, and was about to shove them past his lips when he suddenly froze.
The sensation hit him like a bucket of cold water. The same feeling that had gripped him that terrible night when he'd been running through the forest. The same instinct that had made him veer right and avoid whatever had been howling in the darkness.
Danger.
Yang's eyes snapped open, scanning the forest around him. Was there a beast nearby? A predator waiting to strike? He dropped into a crouch, making himself as small as possible behind the berry bush, every sense straining for any sign of threat.
Minutes passed. Birds continued singing. Insects continued buzzing. Nothing lunged at him from the shadows. Nothing growled or snarled or gave any indication that death was imminent.
Yang didn't understand. The feeling had been so strong, so certain. Why was nothing happening?
Slowly, carefully, he stood. In his fear, he'd dropped the berries. They lay scattered on the ground at his feet, bright red against the brown earth. Yang bent and picked them up again, wiping them against his threadbare clothes to remove any dirt.
He raised them toward his mouth once more.
The sensation slammed into him again, even stronger this time.
Danger. Stop.
Yang's hand froze halfway to his face. He stared at the berries, confused and frightened. Then understanding began to dawn, cold and horrible.
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There wasn't danger around him. It was a danger in his hand.
Yang crouched down and grabbed a nearby rock, then carefully placed one berry on a flat stone and crushed it. The juice that oozed out looked exactly like star berry juice, that familiar bright red. But when he examined the crushed remains more carefully, paying attention to details he would have normally overlooked, he saw that the pit looked different. Slightly larger. Shaped wrong.
Horror washed through him, cold and nauseating. These weren't star berries at all.
Fern berries.
The memory surfaced from somewhere in the collection of stories Grandpa had told him over the years. One of Grandpa's brothers had died from eating fern berries, thinking they were the safe star berries everyone picked near the village. The two plants looked nearly identical, tasted identical according to those who survived the mistake, but fern berries were deadly poison.
The villagers always destroyed any fern berry bushes they found near the forest edge, making sure no one would accidentally eat them. But here, deep in the forest where people rarely came, they grew freely.
Yang had almost murdered himself. In his desperate hunger, driven by the familiar sight of what he thought was safe food, he'd nearly shoved poison into his mouth. If not for that strange internal warning, that inexplicable instinct that had saved him twice now, he would be dying. Would be convulsing on the forest floor with no one to help him, no one to even know what had happened.
He felt despair settling over him like a heavy blanket. He didn't know how to hunt. Had nothing to hunt with, even if he knew how. He knew that with time, he could figure out how to make simple traps, how to fashion crude weapons, but time was the problem. The longer he went without food, the weaker he would become. Eventually, he'd be too weak to search for food at all.
Yang forced himself to keep walking, to keep searching. He only had a couple of hours before he'd need to start the journey back to his cave. He couldn't afford to waste daylight standing around feeling sorry for himself.
He was walking when his foot suddenly caught on a tree root. Yang pitched forward, landing hard on his hands. Pain shot through his already scraped palms as they hit the ground.
"Stupid," he muttered, wiping his stinging hands on his clothes. He started to stand and started to continued walking.
Then that feeling came again. Gentler this time, less urgent, but undeniable. Not danger, exactly. More like a pull, a suggestion.
Yang was learning to trust this instinct. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it had saved his life. Twice now, if he counted the fern berries and whatever he'd avoided that first night in the forest.
He walked back to the tree he'd tripped over, studying it more carefully. It was old, its trunk thick and gnarled. The root that had caught his foot protruded from the earth, exposed by years of erosion.
Yang knelt at the base of the tree and began to dig with his hands, his small fingers scraping at the dirt. The earth was soft here, easier to move than he'd expected. He'd only dug for a few minutes when his fingers hit something solid.
A root vegetable. Large and pale, shaped like a twisted finger.
Yang's heart hammered with excitement as he dug more carefully around it, working it free from the soil. Then he found another. And another. The tree had an entire network of these vegetables growing around its base.
He gathered as many as he could carry, cradling them against his chest like precious treasures. They were heavy and awkward, but Yang didn't care. This was food. Real, substantial food that might keep him alive for days if he were careful.
Yang made his way back to the spring, moving slowly now with his arms full. He drank again, filling his stomach with water, then began the journey back to his cave. The sun was still high, so he had time, but he wanted to get back while he had enough daylight to attempt making fire.
The return journey felt longer with his burden, but Yang's spirits were higher than they'd been since that terrible night. He had food. Not much, but enough for now. Enough to buy him time to figure out better solutions.
He reached the cave and carefully carried the root vegetables inside, placing them against the wall furthest from his pile of dry wood. The cave was small enough that he had to choose his storage locations carefully, making sure nothing would get in the way of anything else.
Now came the hard part. Fire.
Yang had watched Grandpa make fire countless times, had seen the patient way the old man would work with his fire starting tools. But Grandpa had proper tools, flint and steel that could create sparks with a few strikes. Yang had nothing but wood and stone and determination.
He remembered Grandpa mentioning other methods. The fire plough was one. You took a stick and rubbed it back and forth in a groove on a larger piece of wood, creating friction and heat until eventually, hopefully, you got an ember.
Yang found a flat piece of wood from his pile and used a sharp stone to carve a groove down its length. Then he found a straight stick and began rubbing it back and forth in the groove, pressing down as hard as his small arms could manage.
His arms burned with effort. Sweat dripped down his face despite the cool cave air. The stick felt like it was creating heat; the wood in the groove was definitely getting warm, but no ember appeared.
Yang kept going. His muscles screamed in protest. His hands developed new blisters on top of yesterday's cuts. The light outside began to fade as the sun sank toward the horizon, but Yang didn't stop.
Finally, after what felt like hours, a tiny wisp of smoke curled up from the groove. Yang's heart leaped. He blew gently on the spot, encouraging it, and was rewarded with a small orange glow. An ember.
With shaking hands, Yang carefully transferred the ember to a nest of dry grass and bark he'd prepared, then blew on it steadily, feeding it air. The ember grew, caught the grass, and suddenly there was flame.
Yang quickly fed the small fire with twigs, building it up until he had a proper blaze going in the center of his cave. The smoke found its way out through cracks in the rock overhead, and warmth began filling the small space.
Yang wanted to collapse right there, to celebrate this victory over the fundamental forces of nature. But he still needed to cook.
He took one of the root vegetables and a small branch, trying to skewer the vegetable so he could hold it over the fire. The root was incredibly hard, and it took all his strength and several attempts before he finally forced the branch through. By the time he succeeded, full night had fallen outside.
The day had been productive. More than productive. He had food and fire, the two most essential elements of survival. Yang felt a fierce pride burning in his chest alongside the hunger.
He held the skewered root over the flames, checking it every few minutes to make sure it wasn't burning. The smell of cooking food made his mouth water and his stomach cramp even harder with anticipation. When he finally judged it ready, Yang reached for it, then yelped and dropped it immediately. Too hot.
He waited a few agonizing minutes, then carefully picked it up again. The outer layer was black and burned, but he peeled that away to reveal pale flesh underneath. Yang scooped a tiny bit with his fingernail and brought it to his mouth.
Bitter, with a texture like potato. Not delicious, but not poisonous either. That strange internal sense gave him no warning, no feeling of danger.
Yang took a large bite. Then another. The root was gone in moments, and he wanted desperately to cook another. But held himself back. He needed to save the rest for tomorrow and the days after. He didn't know when he'd find more food.
It had been a few hours since sunset, but Yang's body was already demanding sleep. His days now consisted of constant walking, constant work, and constant vigilance. He needed to wake at dawn to make the most of the daylight, which meant early nights whether he liked it or not.
Yang lay down on the cave floor, his head pillowed on his arm. It would take time to adjust to living like this, time to build up the endurance his child's body needed for this harsh new reality.
His eyes closed. His last thought before sleep claimed him was a simple one: I survived another day.
Then unconsciousness took him as quickly as his head hit the ground, and Yang knew nothing more until dawn came again.