Chapter Text
He had awoken in a deep sea of complete darkness, and his first thought was — 'This is not my first life.'
This was the conclusion that he has arrived to once the unrelenting onslaught of hazy, fragmented memories has stopped. He knows the memories aren't his; these are things that he hasn't experienced himself. How they came into his possession, how he was able to access them... The only reason he could think of is that these are from his past life.
The memories tell him nothing of importance, like who he is, where he is, why is he here. They show nothing more but forgotten places with clouded faces and inaudible whisperings. The names of the people in these memories are all but forgotten, and they don't speak of who they are, and what they are to him. All he learns from it is a completely unbearable sorrow. The emotion taints every single one of them, and so he does his very first act as a newborn — he weeps.
His chest heaves as he gulps down air, and it only confirms that he's here, real and alive, in this pitch-black space.
The memories also provide him one crucial fact: that there is a world outside of this place.
He immediately gets up and tries to feel around for something, anything that would suggest that he's not the only thing in this empty space. His hand reaches a wall and he tries to knock on it, signaling that he is in here, trapped, but with his feeble arms, he only manages to make a few muffled noises on the concrete before his arms start to hurt.
He gives up, instead trying to see how far this wall goes, and got his answer rather quickly, learning that he is, indeed, in a room, and a rather small one at that. At the end of his little exploration, he finds a part where the concrete gives way to metal. Once again, he starts banging, making louder noises this time than when he was knocking on concrete. He heard one loud thud in answer and he jumps back, startled. At his feet, a small door flaps open, and from it, lights floods in and a piece of cloth was pushed into the room.
It's a comically small door that even someone like him can't crawl through the opening. It's only big enough to bring a few items in and out of the cell. Still, this is his only connection to the outside world so he scrambles to his way onto the small door, opens up the flap and sticks his arm out.
"Help...help...," his first ever words come out feebly as his calls out to whoever gave pushed in the cloth inside. He is greeted by a stomp on the hand, and he yelps, withdrawing his arm away from the door.
He rubs his arm, trying to diffuse the pain and turns his attention to the piece of cloth on the floor. He picks it up and only now realizes his own nakedness, and uses the cloth to cover himself up. It's of low quality fibers and quite irritating on his skin but it provides a lot more warmth than his long hair could provide at the very least.
He wants to stick his arms out into the little slot on the door but stops himself. Whoever is outside this room is desperate to keep him inside, if the furious stomping is anything to go by. He bites his lip and sinks down onto the cold floor. The little encounter with whatever was outside presents to him one cold fact — This is a prison and he's not going anywhere soon.
He is once more left alone with nothing but the memories to keep him company. He supposes he should be thankful, for without them he has nothing to occupy himself with. They make no sense to him as they usually flit over each other in quick succession, but he will gladly let himself be consumed by them rather than stare at the complete darkness of his cell.
He was snapped out of it when light once again floods to his cell through the small door. A tray was pushed in — it's food, his mind supplies — and it gives him an idea.
He doesn't want to remain in this cell forever, not when there is a world outside where he could breathe. So he sits close to the door this time, and waits for the next opportune moment. He grabs the baozi that was placed on the tray, and munches on it. They haven't provided him with much food, just a measly, stale baozi and a small bowl of congee alongside with what he assumes to be water.
He pays no mind to its horrid taste and continues to chew. He has knows he has no choice and wouldn't get any better options, but, at least it gives him something to do as he waits.
The opportunity comes a good while later.
He had dozed off after his little meal, and was woken up by the telltale creaking sounds of the door opening.
A hand pushes in a tray of food, and before it could retreat, he immediately grabs onto it and clings to it with much desperation. This is his only way out and he must take it. The person at the other side of the door yells in pain as his nails dig into the man's skin.
With his small stature, he eventually loses the tug of war but not before leaving claw marks on the arm. In retaliation for his little stunt, those from the outside poke at him through the door with a stick, striking him until he has no choice but to move away from it. Looks like he would have to give up for now.
He has been withheld food as punishment. He doesn't remember the last time the door had opened. He wants to call out for help but knows it to be futile, and that he will only be met with hostility.
So he lays there on the floor, starving.
Time passes and he can feel himself wasting away. But one day, the mercy of radiant light once again graces his small cell. A tray of food is being pushed in through the door once more, this time with a stick. They place it inside with much less grace than they would have if they used their own hands, and the contents of the tray jostle and spill over.
He weakly pushes himself up and off of the floor to get to his food. He grabs the baozi — because of course, it's a baozi they only ever served the same food every time —and shoves it in his mouth. It's tough to chew especially with how stale it is, but trying to choke down his tears while he's at it certainly does not help.
He hates how helpless he is, how suffocated he feels, and most importantly, hates how lonely he is in this cold, dark cell.
He completely surrenders himself to a monotonous existence after that. It's simply too hard to no be disheartened at his own powerlessness. And so he resigns to a life where he merely waits for his next meal.
That was, until the light comes into the cell at an unexpected time.
He had just finished his meal and was not expecting for the door to open up so soon. Something that is not food gets pushed inside. He gets closer, his curiosity piqued.
He opens the small door to let light in so he could inspect what it could be. He realizes that he knows exactly what it is.
'It's a book,' he thinks, astonished. He wonders why he was given one as he feels through its cover.
The memories he had inherited from his past life comes in handy. Though the stories it contains are all but senseless, they have also provided him with the skills he otherwise wouldn't have — like reading, for example.
"The History of Xianzhou," the book cover says.
He opens it in complete wonder, and was plunged into am entirely different world, a far cry from the world in those hazy memories, far from the world of darkness and the confines of his cell.
For the first time, he finds himself a home in the pages of this book.