The wind shifted at dusk.
It wasn't the kind of change one could see—it had no herald, no scent. Just a subtle shift in pressure, like the world taking a breath it didn't plan to release.
Li Zhen felt it in his bones.
He stopped walking.
The forest had grown darker in hue, though the sky was still dimly lit. The path beneath his feet had faded long ago, replaced by overgrown roots and the wet mulch of forgotten time.
The talisman at his waist stirred for the first time in days.
A soft hum. Faint. Like a dying heartbeat.
"There's something ahead," the sword murmured.
"Not death. Not life. Something in between."
Li Zhen continued forward, step by careful step.
And then he saw it.
A village.
Half-swallowed by mist.
Silent, yet inhabited.
The houses were intact, but not cared for. There was no smoke from the chimneys. No barking dogs. No children.
Only one thing moved—a single figure walking slowly down the center of the village road, as if performing a ritual.
He watched from behind the treeline, heart pacing a little faster.
The man walked like he'd forgotten how to hurry. His robes were loose and tattered, but not neglected. There was a sword strapped to his hip.
The hum from the talisman intensified.
Then stopped.
"That's not a stranger," the sword whispered.
"That's you."
Li Zhen stepped forward.
The man halted immediately, as though he'd sensed the shift.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
The man looked just like him—same height, same build, same unmistakable eyes.
But older.
More tired.
The way he stood was different—shoulders lower, as though carrying an invisible burden. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but not defensively.
Like a memory clinging to muscle.
"I thought I'd buried you," the man said.
His voice was rougher than Li Zhen's, as if it had grown used to shouting into the void.
Li Zhen approached slowly. "You know me."
"I was you."
Li Zhen stopped five paces away.
The man stared at him, expression unreadable. "Which one are you?"
"The one who died yesterday."
The man laughed. It was not a kind sound.
"Well," he said. "Then you're lucky. That means you haven't lived yet."
Li Zhen narrowed his eyes. "What do they call you here?"
"I gave up names. Too many people cursed the last one."
"He remembers," the sword said.
"He remembers everything you lost."
Li Zhen took a careful breath. "Then help me remember."
The man shook his head. "No. I won't curse you with that."
"Why not?"
"Because memory doesn't heal. It only sharpens the blade."
He turned to leave.
Li Zhen took a step forward. "You owe me."
That stopped him.
Slowly, the man turned back.
His gaze hardened. "I owe you? You don't even know what you did to me. You left me here. You broke me. You made me bury our friends, abandon our vows, murder what little hope I had left. And now you want answers?"
"I want the truth."
The older version stepped closer. "Then you'll have to take it from me."
There was no warning.
The sword came free of its scabbard like lightning uncoiling.
Li Zhen moved instinctively, parrying the first strike as metal screamed against metal.
The shock of impact rattled his bones.
The man was fast.
Too fast.
They clashed again—once, twice, a flurry of steel and grit. Every movement the man made was one Li Zhen recognized in his own body, but faster, refined by years of repetition and regret.
He wasn't fighting a stranger.
He was fighting the man he would become—if he survived long enough.
"Why are you doing this?" Li Zhen shouted between blows.
"Because you need to know what it costs!" the man roared, slamming his blade against Li Zhen's with force that sent him staggering back.
They circled.
Breathing hard.
The mist around them pulsed with their movements.
"You think this is some grand journey of rebirth?" the man spat. "You think uncovering your past will give you peace? I clawed my way out of hell to forget, and you're diving back in like a fool!"
Li Zhen gritted his teeth. "I didn't choose to come back."
The man lunged.
Their blades locked.
Face to face now.
"I didn't either," he whispered. "But once you start digging, you never stop. And when you find the core of it all—when you remember who you truly are—you'll wish I had killed you today."
He shoved Li Zhen backward and sheathed his sword.
Li Zhen didn't move.
He waited.
But the man just stood there.
Breathing.
Defeated—but not by Li Zhen.
By memory.
"You're not ready," the man said finally. "You don't even hate yourself yet."
Then he walked past him.
And didn't look back.
Li Zhen didn't move for a long time.
The mist began to clear, slowly, revealing the full ruin of the village. Not just decay. Despair. It clung to the walls like mold.
The sword at his side was quiet.
The talisman cold.
And for the first time, Li Zhen didn't feel anger, or confusion, or fear.
He felt pity.
For that man.
For himself.
For what they had become—and what they might still be.
"You survived," the sword finally said.
"But what did you learn?"
"That there's no peace in remembering."
"And will that stop you?"
"No."
He began walking again.
Because the path didn't wait for the weary.
And neither did the past.