The night rain had not ceased.
Water slid down the broken tiles of the ruined shack, splashing softly against the ground below. Each drop sounded the same as the last—monotonous, endless. Cold wind slipped through the gaps in the window frame, carrying damp chill with it, stripping away the final trace of warmth inside.
Yun Zhan lay on the ground, his back pressed against the icy wall.
His body was exhausted beyond measure, yet his mind refused to sink into rest. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, the dull, stubborn ache at the site of his severed arm would pull him back to wakefulness.
Instinctively, he reached toward the source of the pain.
There was nothing there.
Tears welled at the corners of his eyes.
He was barely fourteen or fifteen. In a single night, his clan had been annihilated, his family erased, his arm severed. What kept him standing now was perhaps nothing more than the girl sleeping beside him—and the hatred burning in his chest.
Yun Zhan glanced at his sister, still asleep. He wiped the tears from his eyes, then took a piece of cloth from nearby and gently draped it over her.
His palm rested lightly on her forehead.
It was hot. Alarmingly so.
Another hour passed.
After two days without sleep, sheer exhaustion finally overwhelmed the pain radiating from the wound. Unaware of it, Yun Zhan drifted into sleep.
—
Fire.
Blazing fire erupted before his eyes without warning.
The night sky burned crimson. Heat and smoke twisted the air as familiar stone walls collapsed and beams shattered with thunderous cracks.
Yun Zhan stood in the main courtyard of the Yun Clan.
The stone tiles beneath his feet were riddled with fractures, blood flowing through the gaps, sticky beneath his steps. The air reeked of scorched wood, rusted iron, and burning flesh—so thick it was nearly impossible to breathe.
Someone rushed past him.
A collateral clansman, clothes in tatters, terror etched across his face.
"Help—!"
He barely managed a sound before a streak of cold light pierced his chest. His voice cut off abruptly, blood spraying as his body collapsed.
Yun Zhan tried to move.
His body would not respond. It was as if he had been nailed in place.
"Yun Zhan—!"
A sharp shout cut through the chaos.
It was not loud, yet it rang with terrifying clarity.
He turned.
The clan leader stood before the ancestral hall.
The old man's robes were soaked in blood, torn at the edges, yet his back remained straight. The night wind lifted his hair, revealing a pale face devoid of panic—only calm acceptance.
Though the clan leader had never paid Yun Zhan much attention, he had never cast him out either.
His gaze cut through flames, corpses, and fleeing figures, landing squarely on Yun Zhan.
That look held no fear.
Only the stillness of someone who already knew the ending.
The clan leader walked forward, each step heavy and sorrowful. His feet splashed through blood, the sound faint—yet unmistakably real.
Yun Zhan tried to speak.
His throat tightened, choking even his breath.
The old man stopped before him.
His wrinkled hands trembled as they rose—but there was no hesitation.
"Remember."
The voice was low and brief, as if compressing time itself into a single word.
Then—
A cold sensation pressed against Yun Zhan's forehead.
It was not a hand.
It was something indescribable.
Weightless, yet overwhelming—like a massive stone stele being forced directly into his consciousness.
Boom—
His vision shattered.
Fragments of images flashed through the darkness, collapsing and reforming too quickly to grasp. He caught only one—
White patterns.
Dense and twisted, like bones fused together into an incomprehensible script. They hovered in the void, unlit, yet painfully clear.
They did not feel like power.
They felt like chains—seals binding something away.
"Go. Don't look back."
The clan leader's voice echoed from afar.
Yun Zhan reached out—
And lost control entirely.
Flames surged upward.
Blades cut through the air as figures closed in. With a single strike, the clan leader sent Yun Zhan flying dozens of meters away. He did not look back.
He turned, facing the inferno alone.
The world collapsed in that instant.
—
Yun Zhan jolted awake.
The broken roof of the shack came into view, rain still dripping down.
His breathing was ragged, chest heaving. His forehead was icy cold, as though something had truly been pressed there moments ago.
He raised his right hand and pressed it to his brow.
There was nothing.
Yet the sensation remained—clear, oppressive. Like an invisible shackle locked firmly in place.
He tried to reach for it with his mind.
The moment he did, his consciousness was repelled.
Cold. Absolute.
He could sense its existence, but it would not allow him near.
Yun Zhan lowered his hand and sat up slowly, leaning against the wall. The familiar ache surged from his missing arm, dragging him back to reality.
He turned toward his sister.
She was curled up in the straw, face flushed, breathing rapid and shallow. Her forehead burned beneath his touch.
The fire from the dream still flickered at the edge of his vision.
He could not wait any longer.
—
By dawn, the rain had finally stopped.
The streets glistened, washed clean yet biting cold. Yun Zhan adjusted his bamboo hat and stepped out of the shack.
The city was busier than the day before. Buildings lined the streets, lively and crowded.
Life continued as usual.
He stood at the street corner for a moment, then approached the nearest shop.
"Are you hiring?"
The shopkeeper looked up, his gaze pausing briefly.
It swept across the burned, twisted features hidden beneath the hat, lingered for an instant on the empty sleeve—
Then moved away.
"No."
Yun Zhan nodded and left.
The second shop.
The third.
Some shook their heads before he even spoke.
He slowly understood—explanations were pointless.
In the eyes of ordinary people, his very existence marked him as an outcast.
At the carpenter's shop, the screech of saws filled the air. Wood shavings scattered across the ground.
"I can do odd jobs."
This time, he stood straight.
The carpenter looked longer.
Burned skin. Scabbed flesh. An empty sleeve.
"You like this—"
Before the sentence could finish, Yun Zhan had already turned away.
The street stretched endlessly ahead.
The scent of steamed buns drifted through the air, stopping him in his tracks.
The bun shop owner noticed the one-armed boy and called out,"What are you staring at?"
Yun Zhan hesitated, then spoke softly.
"Could you…make it cheaper?"
He did not mind starving. Death meant little to him now.
But his sister still needed him.
She was the only family he had left—the one thing he had sworn to protect. And yet, he could do nothing.
The owner laughed lightly, picked up a bun—then released it.
It fell to the ground.
"Eat."
Yun Zhan bent down, picked it up, and blew away the dust. He brushed it clean and turned to leave.
Back in the shack, his sister's condition had worsened.
He broke the bun into small pieces, but she could not swallow any of it.
Yun Zhan stood there, unmoving.
At last, he stepped to the doorway.
His gaze drifted toward the brightest street in the city.
There was light there.
Goods. People. Money.
And a line he was never meant to cross.
He stood for a long time.
Finally, he whispered—
"…I'm sorry."
And made his decision to cross it.