Chapter Text
In a quick moment of distraction, hands thrusted him forward. A startled gasp escaped his throat as a familiar pain rattled throughout his chest. His balance fumbled, feet betraying him. As a result, he–
fell.
It was really more of a plummet. His hands flailed in front of him, the force of gravity dominating his attempts to stop himself from falling to his death.
Panic surged through his head. There was nothing for him to latch onto–
Nothing.
Was this really the end? Thirty eight, unmarried, lonesome, and seemingly hated by everyone.
What a way to leave the world behind. The world he had worked so hard to build himself a spot inside and secure it.
But, there was something oddly harmonious about falling from such a height.
The wind slapped against his face, creasing his skin much how it did when he'd soar the skies at intense speeds while aboard his sword.
It was just something about falling that felt so– compelling.
So, mentally freeing.
He extended his arms to the best he could, allowing them to fall free, no longer fighting against the invisible force that worked against him.
So he took one last look at the world below awaiting him, his vision blurred. Maybe the water was from the air, maybe it was from himself.
Maybe he could finally rest?
Maybe.
Sore.
Everything was sore from his head to his phalanges.
As he attempted to engage his abdomen in a simple core movement, he found himself regretting that very decision. Before he could register the fuzzy, cotton-like feeling in his ears, a sharp gust of pain flared throughout his chest, sending him back to his resting position.
His rips ached like nothing he had ever felt before. Like rusted metal, decomposing, cracking, fracturing with every heave of his chest.
With every blink, every slight movement of his head, it swam—actually swam. It was as if his head had enlarged along with the amount of Cerebrospinal trapped within the imprisonment of his skull. His brain felt like a clump of pebbles, riding the currents of his Cerebrosponal fluids.
In short, his head pained him.
He couldn't just lay amongst the— where even was he?!
Around him were– trees? That had to be about right.
He lifted a hand, to feel the flooring below. Something like a firm prickly sponge. Grass, it had to be grass he was laying on. The only problem was that there was a semi-dry substance resting upon the strands of grass.
He raised his hand, hovering it above his face. The sun was setting, or maybe rising. He didn't know and it didn't matter.
Stained on his hand was a deep red liquid.
Blood.
He was bleeding?
Using that same hand, he felt around his body, finding several wounds, hidden amongst layers of rich fabric soaked and stained in crimson. He had wondered why his body felt so sore other than the obvious muscle strain.
Something was obviously wrong with his head, his mind was moving so slow. His Parietal lobe was probably hit somehow or maybe he had a concussion. Who knew?
Okay, back to where he was. Definitely in a forest but, in what territory? The air around was pretty thick with humidity, even with the cover of the tree’s he still couldn't rid of that feeling of warmth. Likely, with his knowledge he was either in Yunping City or, Yiling?
Where was he even from?
He raised his hands above him, blocking the setting sun. The hues in the sky were– appealing. His sleeves were a deep purple-ish violet. He had been from money. He had to be of some importance, purple was a hard color to dye fabric of his material and– his hands, they were scratched and calloused. He had to be a cultivator of some sort. If not that then a laborer.
He brought a shaky hand to his face, feeling around. No, wrinkles, no sagging skin. So he didn't have years of experience, and certainly wasn't an old man. His face felt smooth, excluding the streaks of flakey crust which was probably dried blood.
Speaking of cultivators and cores, how much qi did he even have?
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, focusing on the pulsating flow of qi that coursed through his meridians. When he attempted to pull energy directly from his core, he felt an intangible pressure tug the confiscated qi back into the circling bundle of pure vibrancy.
Exempt from that, the qi circling throughout his core, expanding into his meridians was rather low. Maybe he was a non cultivator.
Probably.
He allowed himself a deep sigh which he regretted. Soft breaths were already enough to make his chest throb. Even as he is now, barely moving with every breath, every movement, every thought came with a dull ache of his body.
His chest felt as if it was being restricted by a tight band.
Persistent.
That's what pain felt like.
Like dogs, always persistent in getting what they wanted. Only ever to survive, or maybe just for praise?
What was he even saying, why did he keep getting sidetracked? His goal was to muster up the strength to leave this exit before he became the next meal for a Yaoguai.
After a few moments of laying on his back which was indeed uncomfortable, he finally mustered up the courage to pull himself up.
Ignoring the protest of every muscle involved in the process of standing to his feet ached. A sudden pang ripped throughout his body, accompanied by an endless mount of needles being mercilessly stabbed into his skin.
With one long bellow of agony, he was able to push himself onto his legs that shook like a newborn fawn.
Tears blurred his vision, accompanied by the constraint sharp pang inside his head. He did everything in his power to stay upright– and failed.
He came crashing down, face front. His head collided with earth, the rest of his limbs followed soon after.
A soundless scream pierced through the woods, the air was knocked right out of him.
Hopeless.
That was exactly how he felt– hopeless.
He couldn't stand, he could hardly breathe.
Dying seemed like his best option.
His head really hurt, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to stand–
It hurt to hold on.
Why was he still holding on?! With cultivation as low as his, he’d scumb to infection even if he somehow made it out of this wretched forest.
For crying out loud, he was exhausted!
More tears flooded his vision, spreading warmth across his cheeks. Hints of dirt following the rivulets that dripped of his face.
He was tired, alone, and in the middle of nowhere.
No one was saving him anytime soon. He might as well just rest one final time.
His eyes slipped closed and his breathing slowed.
This was the end for him.
.
.
.
.
.
End of chapter.