Gray skies stretched endlessly over the ruins of a once-thriving world, casting a somber gloom over the shattered remnants of civilization. Buildings stood like skeletal sentinels, their windows shattered, their walls fractured and crumbling. The streets were a graveyard of debris, littered with dust, rubble, and the rusted remains of long-abandoned vehicles.

A gas station sat in the midst of the desolation, its structure barely holding together. Glass shards glinted faintly on the dust-coated floor.

A shift in the silence.

A pair of shoes stirred amid the debris—old, scuffed, but sturdy enough to have endured miles of hardship. The world seemed to zoom in, tracing the figure slumped against the cold wall.

His clothes, though frayed at the seams and dulled by grime, were made of thick, reinforced fabric—armor against the merciless world. Beneath the layers, subtle glints of metal hinted at hidden weapons, tucked away in folds and straps, ready at a moment's notice. A knife hilt barely peeked from his sleeve, and something heavier pressed against his hip beneath the fabric.

His body stirred sluggishly, shoulders shifting as he pulled himself from uneasy rest. A tangled mass of frizzy, unkempt hair crowned his head, stiff with neglect. Then, his face came into view—gaunt, skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, deep and unyielding, like shadows carved into stone.

His eyelids lifted, revealing sunken, bloodshot eyes—the color of sleepless nights and forgotten dreams. No one looking into them would believe he had just slept. There was no haze of rest, no lingering drowsiness—only sharp, tired awareness, as if his body had paused but his mind had never stopped. His fingers twitched near the concealed blade at his side, instinct overriding exhaustion. Then, with a slow, measured breath, he settled again, gaze lowering yet never truly letting down its guard.

With a slow, weary motion, he pushed himself up. His posture remained hunched, shoulders stiff, as though weighed down by something far heavier than fatigue. Every movement was cautious, practiced, as if even the simple act of rising required vigilance.

His eyes flicked around the room, scanning the dim, dust-laden interior of the gas station. The shattered glass, the overturned shelves, the rusting remains of a world long abandoned—none of it was unfamiliar to him. It was just another stop in an endless journey.

Satisfied that nothing stirred in the shadows, he reached for his bag. The fabric was worn, the seams barely holding together, yet the way he handled it was careful—this was everything he had. His fingers rummaged through its contents before pulling out something small, unidentifiable in the dim light.

Slowly, he brought it to his mouth.

He chewed without reaction, without taste. Whatever it was—dried, hardened, flavorless—it was food only in function, meant to keep him moving, nothing more. Each bite was slow, mechanical, as if he had long since stopped thinking about what he was eating. Hunger was an old companion, one that neither hurried him nor left him entirely.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins, but inside, he simply chewed in silence, swallowed, and moved on.

He stepped out of the gas station, his boots crunching against the dirt and shattered glass. The wind swept through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of rust, decay, and something far older—something that clung to the bones of the dead world around him.

He moved on.

His steps were steady but never hurried, his head kept low, yet his sharp, restless eyes never stopped scanning. Every broken building, every overturned car, every alleyway filled with debris—he took it all in, never lingering, never stopping longer than necessary. There was no destination, no clear path ahead, but still, he walked.

Hours passed in silence. The world was empty of life.

But not of movement.

The undead were still out there—shadows of what had once been human, stumbling in slow, jerking motions, their hollow eyes vacant yet searching. He saw them from a distance, their figures swaying in the ruins, waiting, listening. He never got too close. He didn't need to. He had long since learned that caution was worth more than any weapon.

At times, the roads became too open, too exposed. Without hesitation, he veered toward the underground. He pried open rusted sewer grates, slipping into the depths where the air was thick and foul, but safer. Darkness pressed in, the tunnels stretching in endless, suffocating silence. Yet, he moved through them as if he had done it a hundred times before, his breathing steady, his hands ready.

Above or below, it didn't matter.

He just kept moving.

His footsteps halted, the sound of his boots muffled by the damp, crumbling floor of the underground. The air was thick, humid, and stagnant, laced with the sour, metallic scent of rust, decay, and the foul stench of sewage.

The silence of the tunnels was suddenly broken by an unmistakable sound—the dragging, shuffling footsteps of the undead. Their movements were slow and mechanical. He did not flinch. He was used to it.

His sharp gaze swept across the dimly lit passage, searching for an opening. Two tunnels caught his attention—one close by, just a few steps away, and another farther ahead on the opposite side. Between them lay the remnants of what had once been flowing sewage, now reduced to a stagnant, wet trench. Both tunnels likely led to different compartments of the underground maze, from where he could climb out of a sewer grate, seal off this section, and move on.

The second tunnel, though farther, was the better choice. If he ran now, he could reach it in time, ensuring the undead wouldn't get there first. He made his decision.

But then, amidst the dissonant shuffle, a sound cut through the damp air.

A child's cry.

It was sharp, desperate—a raw wail that echoed through the concrete walls.

He froze. A jolt of something flared inside him, sharp and unwelcome, before he crushed it down. It was probably a child's voice. He neither knew nor wished to find out.

He hadn't come here to help.

For him—Xie Kai—survival was all that mattered.

Compassion, guilt, anything resembling sentiment, had faded away in the early days of the apocalypse. It was too dangerous. Too costly. People died. People were dying.

He pushed forward, but his steps faltered. His fingers curled around the straps of his bag as he hurried toward the passage. Without realizing it, his feet had changed direction—he was no longer aiming for the second tunnel. His composure had slipped, and now he was moving toward the first one, the closer one.

He crouched down to enter in a rush, moving on instinct. A mistake.

Just as his body dipped forward, a sickening sense of wrongness prickled at the back of his mind.

Pure reflex jerked him back—just in time.

A hand shot out from the darkness.

Rotten. Corroded. Blue-tinged flesh stretched over bone.

Its long, blackened nails scraped against the air where his throat had just been. The hand twitched, fingers curling like claws, reaching mindlessly. Even without a bite, even without breaking the skin—those nails alone carried poison. A slow, insidious venom that would fester inside a living body, dragging them into undeath at a crawling, inevitable pace.

His breath hitched for just a second.

Xie Kai's grip tightened around the handle of his knife as he yanked it free from his belt. The blade, dull with age but honed to ruthless sharpness, gleamed under the weak, flickering light filtering through the sewer grates above.

With precise, practiced efficiency, he slashed downward. The edge of his blade sliced clean through the undead's reaching hand, severing fingers with a sickening squelch. The rotted flesh barely resisted—the decay had already softened the tissue—but the creature didn't flinch. It never would.

The undead never felt pain. Never hesitated. Never tired.

It lunged forward, mindless and unrelenting.

Xie Kai sidestepped, his movements swift, calculated. In a single fluid motion, he drew another weapon from his belt—a short, sturdy crowbar, its metal edge worn and dented from years of use. As the creature staggered past him, he swung.

The impact was brutal.

The first strike shattered the thing's shoulder, sending shards of brittle bone snapping beneath the force. The second caved in the side of its skull, splintering bone and rotted flesh like pulp. The undead crumpled, but it still twitched, its mouth opening and closing with mindless hunger.

One more blow—directly to the forehead—stilled it for good.

Xie Kai exhaled sharply, already moving. He turned toward the passage—

But before he could take a step, a blur of movement shot out from behind, where the cry had come from. The sound of dragging footsteps followed, too close now.

His body reacted before his mind did, pivoting sharply just as a boy—the same boy who had cried out—rushed toward him, arms outstretched as if trying to latch onto him for help.

Xie Kai twisted, dodging on instinct, but the child's weak grip still caught onto his sleeve. There was no weight to him.

If Xie Kai hadn't seen him, he might not have even registered the boy's presence at all. Just over ten years old—too young to have known the world before it all fell apart. Too young to remember what was lost.

Xie Kai himself had been twelve when it started. If not for his parents...

It didn't matter now.

He had no time to think.

Five—six. The undead were rushing forward.

Without hesitation, Xie Kai shoved the boy into the tunnel where he had just fought. The kid stumbled, clearly exhausted—injured, maybe? He didn't move with the urgency he should have.

An undead lunged.

Xie Kai whipped his crowbar up, metal clashing against rotting flesh as he blocked the creature's clawed hand inches from his face. Too close.

"Hurry."

His voice came out rough, hoarse—as if it hadn't been used in years.

The boy flinched, then scrambled forward, finally moving.

Xie Kai gritted his teeth, using all his strength to shove two of the undead backward, forcing them to crash into the ones behind them. The slight moment of disorder was all he needed.

He didn't waste it.

Without looking back, he glided into the tunnel, his clothes scraping against the walls in his haste.

The boy had already reached the manhole cover. Xie Kai saw him struggle, his small hands pressing up against it, trying to push it open.

It wouldn't budge.

Blocked? Or worse—bodies piled on top of it?

Xie Kai didn't stop to help. Instead, his eyes darted to the side—

The sewer gate.

Narrow. But he'd used it before.

His hands flew to the rusted bars, forcing them open.

The boy saw it too and quickly followed.

Somehow, they made it out.

Xie Kai didn't waste a second—sealing the lead tightly, dragging a dead body over it. But he knew it wouldn't hold for long. They had to move.

The boy was panting heavily, his breath ragged, but he still noticed something.

Something was wrong.

Xie Kai realized it at the same moment.

Too quiet.

The undead should have already pushed against the gate by now. They should have been clawing, snarling, trying to break through—but they had stopped.

A chill ran down his spine.

His eyes scanned the area, muscles tensed, waiting for something—anything—to move. Nothing.

Then, his gaze landed on the boy.

Shivering. Face deathly pale.

"Run."

They ran. Like hell.

And they had reason to.

The silence shattered.

Undead—countless undead—rushed from every corner, flooding the area like a plague.

It was a trap.

Not just mindless corpses stumbling aimlessly anymore—they had been lured into it.

Xie Kai didn't need to ask how the boy got caught up in this. Didn't have the time, nor the strength to care.

He could fight. He could try to carve out an opening for the kid.

But at the cost of his own life.

But he didn't want to die.

He wanted to live.

His body screamed at him to run, to abandon everything and just survive—like he always had.

Maybe... maybe they both could make it.

But survival, in this twisted world, had become a selfish thing. A fight for one's own life above all else.

He had long forgotten to see the undead as enemies to fight for anyone else—only obstacles in his own path. Even then, the thought of sacrificing the boy? That thought never even crossed his mind. Not once.

So they ran.

But the undead kept coming. Like a tide. Relentless. Unforgiving. Their grotesque forms moved in a swarm, spilling out from every broken corner, from the alleys and crumbled buildings. The city, once full of life, had become a hunting ground for the dead.

Xie Kai's breath came in ragged gasps, but his mind was laser-focused—razor-sharp. He couldn't afford to slow down. Running wouldn't be enough. The horde was closing in. They were being herded, forced into a corner.

His jaw clenched.

He skidded to a stop, muscles coiled tight like a spring. With a fluid motion, he grabbed his crowbar.

He fought with everything he had—each move calculated and precise. The crowbar became an extension of his arm, swinging with deadly accuracy, cutting down the undead with brutal efficiency. His body was a weapon, reacting on instinct, driven by pure survival.

His bloodshot eyes never left the chaos in front of him, the coldness in his expression more terrifying than the monsters surrounding them. Each swing of his crowbar was an extension of his will, each movement a calculated step towards survival.

Then, the boy fired. A shot rang out, cutting through the chaos. It was a familiar sound, the click of the well-used weapon. How had the boy come to have it? Xie Kai didn't care. What mattered was the shot gave them a slight edge—just enough to keep going.

But then there was a sudden burst—smoke and fire. The boy had thrown something, setting off an explosion at the perfect moment. The undead shrieked in fear and recoiled, giving them a brief window of opportunity.

Xie Kai pushed through the crowd, moving fast and hard, clearing a path. The boy stayed close behind, but as they neared what seemed like a way out, something small darted through the mist.

A child.

Xie Kai's instincts kicked in. He sidestepped with expert precision, avoiding the undead girl's claws. But the boy—he wasn't so lucky.

In a split second, Xie Kai threw his hands forward, pulling the boy out of harm's way, his reflexes too fast for the undead to catch him. The boy missed the shot he'd aimed, but he was safe, and that was all that mattered.

But then,

An undead lunged at Xie Kai from behind, waiting for the perfect moment. Xie Kai wasn't ready for it. The claws raked across his shoulder, sharp and fast. The blow sent him stumbling. His clothes didn't protect him; the undead's strength was too much, and the claw pierced through his jacket and skin.

Xie Kai's heart dropped. The sickening scrape of nails against his flesh echoed in his mind. He could feel the sting of it. He didn't need to see the black blood oozing from the wound to know the damage had been done.

His mind raced.

He had to act. But the scratch was near his shoulder—it was too close to his heart. The infection could spread quickly. He could cut off his arm, sever it before the infection reached his chest, but that would cost him everything. His arm. His strength. His ability to fight.

It was too much.

Maybe he could save himself, but what about the boy?

The undead were numerous, but they were just two.

Xie Kai's eyes darkened with resolve. There was no time to hesitate. He made his decision. It would end here.

The boy didn't notice the injury, the dark blood staining Xie Kai's clothes hidden from his view. He was too focused on the chaos around them, too preoccupied with surviving.

"I have a grenade here," Xie Kai said, his voice low but firm. No need for more words. The situation was clear. There was no time for explanations.

The boy, still reeling from the near-death moments, nodded, reloading his weapon quickly. His hands moved fast, shaky but purposeful. He managed to throw a few more smoke bombs—firecrackers, whatever they were—and they exploded in a burst of thick, choking smoke. The undead shrieked and recoiled, but they didn't give up the chase.

Xie Kai stayed a few steps behind, watching the boy rush forward, his face set with grim determination. His body was already starting to give out, the pain from the scratch near his heart growing more intense with each passing second. But he couldn't stop. Not now.

"Go there," Xie Kai ordered, gesturing toward the small gap between the undead—a fleeting chance for the boy to make it out.

Without a second thought, the boy rushed toward the opening, his feet moving as fast as they could manage, his heart pounding. Every step was heavy with the weight of fear, but he didn't dare stop. Not when he could see Xie Kai still fighting for both of them.

Xie Kai stood still for a moment, watching the boy move to safety. His chest was tight, his breath shallow. He could feel the infection spreading, the rot clawing its way through his veins, but there was no time to think about that now.

He pulled out his knife, the metal gleaming under the dim light. His hands were already slick with blood, but that wasn't enough. He knew what needed to be done.

With grim resolve, Xie Kai set to work, cutting into his own hand, each stroke of the knife precise and painful. The blood dripped steadily, pooling on the ground beneath him, but it wasn't enough. The dark blood that spilled from his veins was already thick, the infection too far gone to stop. It didn't matter. He had to do it.

With a final, sharp motion, he pulled the grenade pin.

The sound of it was almost soothing in a twisted way. The undead, attracted to the scent of fresh blood, began to move toward him in a frenzy. The smell was distinct, tempting in this place—fresh, human blood—and they weren't about to let it slip away.

The boy, hearing the sudden shift in the undead's movements, realized something was terribly wrong. The horde was no longer just chasing them—they were focused on Xie Kai, drawn to him like vultures to a dying animal.

Horror filled his eyes as he turned, his heart sinking. There was no mistaking what he saw—Xie Kai was surrounded.

But even as the boy's blood ran cold, he heard the voice.

"Go."

Just one word. Simple, direct.

For the first time, he could truly see Xie Kai's face through the thinning smoke and undead swarm—relieved, almost calm. That was definitely not what he had seen when they first met in the tunnel. It was as though Xie Kai had made his peace. There was no fear in his expression, only a quiet acceptance of what was happening.

Xie Kai didn't flinch. He didn't even look away.

And in that moment, the boy knew the truth. Xie Kai had done everything he could for him.

With a sharp breath, the boy turned away, running faster than he ever had before, the weight of what he was leaving behind pressing down on his chest like a crushing stone.

As for Xie Kai, he wasn't sure what the struggle had been for. When he saw the boy running, something stirred within him—pity. The boy, unaware of the truth, was desperately chasing after a false escape. The living thought they understood the way out, but in reality, neither the living nor the undead had any real direction. They were all trapped in a world where survival was fleeting, where even the boy couldn't outrun the inevitable. Xie Kai's pity deepened, not just for the boy, but for everyone. They were all hopeless, spinning in a world where no one truly knew how to escape.

For the first time in a long while, Xie Kai stood tall. The weight he had carried—both physical and emotional—seemed to lift as his posture straightened. His shoulders, once hunched with the burden of survival, relaxed. He surveyed the desolate scene before him, the chaos of the undead closing in around him. There was no hesitation now. He was no longer avoiding the truth; he was facing it head-on. This was his reality, and he was ready to accept it.

All this time, he never knew where he was headed. There had been no clear path, no companion by his side, no plan. The years of survival had left him unattached to the future. Loneliness had become his constant companion, and solitude had, over time, grown familiar. Yet something from his past kept him moving forward. He thought of his parents—his blood kin—who had been selfless in ways no one else ever had been. They were the reason he had made it this far, but now they were gone.

He had walked away from the organization long ago—the one that fought for mankind. It wasn't that he had abandoned their cause, but after the death of his mother, he had no strength left to fight for humanity. He wasn't a hero. All he ever wanted was to protect her. But when she was gone, that became the turning point. He learned to survive alone, trusting no one to stand for his life anymore. He no longer fought for others; he only fought to preserve his own life, something his parents had fought so hard to protect.

As the infection spread through his veins and his body weakened, Xie Kai felt the last traces of fear slip away. The scratch from the undead, too close to his heart, had sealed his fate, but it had also set him free. He wasn't afraid of death anymore. The terror that once held him in its grip had vanished. In this moment, as the infection claimed him, he understood that death was inevitable—but it no longer terrified him. He had become fearless.

The distant explosion of a grenade shattered the silence, its fiery blast tearing through the horde of undead. The blast cleared a brief path, enough to make a difference. It was enough. For the first time in years, Xie Kai felt peace wash over him. Not the peace of victory, but the peace that comes with acceptance. He had done everything he could. Now, it was time to let go. The boy had run, and Xie Kai had given him that chance. The undead were relentless, but for him, it was over.

Looking back, Xie Kai realized that all those years of fighting and running had been in search of something he hadn't known how to find: peace. A way out. The world around him had crumbled, but in that final moment, Xie Kai felt a sense of freedom. Not the kind of freedom that came from escape, but the freedom that came from knowing that peace had finally arrived, in a way he had never expected.

Xie Kai drifted on the edge of consciousness, his mind a tangled web of fragmented memories. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, his body burning with an unbearable heat, as if a wildfire had been ignited within his very bones.

The last thing he remembered was the grenade—the explosion that should have obliterated everything, the horde of undead and including himself. He shouldn't be alive.

But the pain he felt was not the aftermath of an explosion. It was deeper, more insidious, a searing fire that coiled in his lower body like a venomous serpent. His mind recoiled, struggling to make sense of it. He tried to move, to shift even slightly, but his limbs remained unresponsive, weighed down like iron shackles.

A crushing wave of darkness threatened to drag him under once more. No. He could not succumb.

With desperate instinct, his trembling hand shot up to his throbbing forehead. His fingers brushed against something—cold, metallic. What it was mattered not. Without hesitation, he yanked it free and, in a reckless bid to anchor himself to reality, drove it into his own thigh.

Agony ripped through him like a lightning strike. His eyes snapped open, bloodshot and unfocused, breath ragged. This action of his seemed to draw blood but it did not matter, His thoughts remained muddled, but his body tried to moved on raw instinct, driven by a singular, desperate urge—escape.

His first attempt to stand ended in failure. His legs buckled, sending him crashing onto the cold, unyielding wooden floor. Pain jolted through him, rattling his skull and momentarily clearing the haze clouding his mind.

Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself forward, inch by inch, toward the door ahead. His trembling fingers fumbled for the bronze handle, slick with sweat. With a final, desperate effort, he twisted it open. The heavy wooden door groaned on its hinges, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond.

Xie Kai clutched the lacquered doorframe, hauling himself upright. His balance wavered, his vision swimming with dark spots. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sandalwood and lotus incense—ordinarily pleasant, but now suffocatingly strong. His stomach churned in protest.

He staggered forward, barely registering his surroundings. The corridor stretched ahead, narrow yet lavish, lined with silk draperies embroidered with golden dragons and phoenixes. Intricate wooden lattice screens cast shifting shadows under the flickering lantern light. The polished floor, though sturdy, creaked beneath his faltering steps. And yet, despite the grandeur, an eerie silence blanketed the space. No footsteps. No movement. Nothing.

And yet... voices. Faint, distant murmurs, carried on an invisible breeze. When he strained to listen, they faded into silence, leaving behind only the pounding of his heart.

Xie Kai's mind refused to process anything. There was no logic, no urgency—only one thought burned within him.

Water. Cold water.

He had to find it.

Driven by that singular need, he stumbled forward, his body moving as if guided by unseen forces.

Then—footsteps.

The rhythmic sound cut through the silence, steady and deliberate.

Xie Kai froze, his head tilting slightly as his unfocused gaze tried to track the approaching figure. The thick haze warped their form, rendering them little more than a shifting shadow gliding toward him. His heart pounded erratically, yet his mind remained blank, detached from the urgency of the moment.

Then, another silhouette emerged beside the first. Two figures, their presence looming over him like wraiths against the dim corridor's flickering lantern light.

The first man carried himself with a distinct air of authority—tall, imposing, his movements deliberate and measured. Was he undead or living? Xie Kai could not tell. Yet something in his steady gait defied the notion of the undead, though Xie Kai's fever-addled mind struggled to trust his own senses.

As the man moved past him, instinct overrode reason. Xie Kai's trembling hand shot out, gripping the stranger's sleeve in a desperate bid for stability. His knees threatened to give way, and without thinking, he leaned forward, his weight pressing against the man's firm frame.

A sharp intake of breath. The man stiffened, muscles tensing beneath the layers of embroidered silk. For a moment, it seemed he would shove Xie Kai away—but instinct won out. A strong arm came up, steadying him just as his burning forehead rested against the cool fabric of the stranger's robes.

A hoarse whisper escaped Xie Kai's lips, barely more than a breath against the man's chest.

"Help..."

The sound startled even himself—raw, unfamiliar. But before he could register the vulnerability in his own voice, the fever surged violently, threatening to drag him back into darkness. His grip tightened involuntarily, fingers curling into the intricate brocade of the man's outer robe. The coolness against his skin was grounding, a tether against the consuming heat.

"Physician."

The word cut through the silence, spoken by a second figure.

Xie Kai flinched. The word rang through his fevered mind like a warning bell. A physician? A doctor? Here? In this place?

Disgust coiled in his gut. There were no doctors in this world anymore—they had been devoured, torn apart by the undead, just like everything else.

A doctor meant the Organization.

Why would those bastards help him now? They had let his mother die.

No—no, he wouldn't go back. He refused to go back. He would rather die than fall into their hands again.

A surge of adrenaline forced weak resistance. "No... not going," he mumbled, breath shallow, fingers trembling as they clung stubbornly to the man's robes. His grip, once desperate, began to loosen, fingers slipping from the embroidered fabric as his strength faded. Yet, just as his hand fell away, it hesitated—hovering in the space between them before sluggishly shifting forward.

With the last of his strength, his trembling fingers brushed against the man's chest, seeking something solid, something steady. Gathering what little willpower remained, he curled his fingers into a weak fist and drummed it feebly against the firm surface beneath the silk—an urgent, wordless plea to move faster.

The hand on his shoulder suddenly shifted, firm and unyielding. With a rough push, the stranger forced some distance between them, though not enough for Xie Kai to collapse entirely. Even through the haze, he could feel the weight of the man's gaze—scrutinizing, assessing.

The second figure, personal attendant judging by his deferential yet clipped tone, hesitated before speaking again. "Young Master, please reconsider. Our lord may not take responsibility for the consequences."

Xie Kai let out a shaky breath, his frown deepening. "No responsibility necessary," he muttered, his fevered gaze flickering toward the man still supporting him.

Then another wave of heat crashed over him like a tidal surge. His thoughts scattered, instincts overriding reason. The unbearable fire within him clawed for relief, and without thinking, he sought the nearest source of coolness. He leaned his face toward the man's hand on his shoulder, and the man's grip loosened slightly.

Seizing the opportunity, Xie Kai forced himself to lean in further. His fingers slid lower, clutching the firm curve of the man's waist.

The movement was subtle yet intimate—too intimate. The servant inhaled sharply, his face paling.

"This... this..." he stammered, torn between propriety and horror.

A heavy silence stretched between them before the man finally spoke, his voice smooth yet unreadable.

"You," he murmured, "I hope you do not regret this."

A subtle nod to the servant, and the decision was made.

Without another word, he scooped Xie Kai into his arms as if he weighed nothing. The lingering scent of sandalwood and ink clung to his robes, grounding Xie Kai in the brief moment before exhaustion overtook him.

The servant hesitated, casting a final glance at the fevered young man before hastily leading the way through the courtyard.

The door closed behind them with a quiet finality, the lanterns flickering in the wind as if whispering secrets to the night.

Inside, the man paused, his eyes scanning the room with uncertainty. Sensing it, Xie Kai pressed closer, his burning body seeking any relief it could find.

Then, as if realizing something, the man abruptly turned. His gaze landed on the bed behind him, its silk curtains hanging like a veil. In one swift motion, he dropped Xie Kai onto the mattress, letting the fabric cocoon around him.

What happened afterward? He had no idea.

He jolted awake, the searing heat of his fever still clinging to him. But this time, there was something different. The room around him had changed. The silk curtains that had once shimmered with an eerie coldness were gone. The chill of the night air had been replaced by the comforting warmth of a familiar space. His own bedroom.

A laugh escaped him, shaky and disbelieving. "Ah, it was just a dream."

The vividness of the dream lingered for a moment, but the edges of it began to fade. It felt so real, so distant now—as if it belonged to another lifetime. Like he'd slipped between two worlds, only to find himself back here. What kind of dreams was he having these days?

His body ached, the heaviness of the nightmare still clinging to his senses, but the mundane sounds of the house settling into the rhythm of morning began to fill the silence.

"Xie Kai!" A voice called from the hallway—warm, familiar, and full of urgency.

It was his mother, with her usual tone, both concerned and matter-of-fact. "Get up! You have an exam today!" There was a slight edge to her voice, but no panic—just the gentle, insistent expectation of a mother who knew her son all too well.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes as the haze of sleep lifted. The dim morning light filtered through the curtains, and for a brief moment, he lingered in the warmth of his bed. But there was no time for that now. His mother's call was soon joined by the rhythmic footsteps of his older sibling, Yifan, who was already out of bed, always quick to rise even on school days.

"Don't make Mom shout at you again, Kai," Yifan shouted, leaning against the doorframe with her usual authority. She was a senior in high school now, preparing for the college entrance exams, but still had time to scold him.

Xie Kai, still half-asleep, rolled his eyes at her. "I know, I know. I'm up. Can't you see I'm busy and rushing to shower now?" he replied, his voice dripping with the usual annoyance he reserved for her.

"You're just lazy," Yifan shot back, rolling her eyes. "She's worried about your exams, you know."

"Well, I'll pass with flying colors. It's just another one of those routine tests." Xie Kai chuckled, standing up and stretching, his feet hitting the cool floor.

He got ready and went downstairs, finishing his breakfast before anyone else had even sat down.

"Slow down, slow down," his mother chided. "The food's not running away."

But Xie Kai's father, ever the pragmatist, simply said, "The time is what's running out."

Xie Kai stood up from his chair, still with a baozi in his mouth, heading toward the door.

His mother appeared in the doorway, her face lined with worry, but softened by her usual affection. She kissed his forehead as he stood, wearing an apron, wiping her hands, and combing his hair. "Concentrate today, Xie'er. I know you'll do well, but please don't get distracted."

"I won't," he promised, offering a grin. "You'll see. Easy peasy."

She sighed, her smile showing a mix of relief and affection. "Make sure you reach on time," she reminded him, her eyes still holding a trace of concern, as if his whole future depended on this one exam.

His father, always the more laid-back of the two, appeared in the hallway with his usual calm. "Let's not waste any more time. I'll drive you to school." He gave Xie Kai a gentle push, signaling it was time to hurry.

Xie Kai grabbed his shoes, fumbling to put them on in a rush. "I'll be downstairs then, waiting for you," he muttered, hopping on one foot, trying to keep up with the flurry of activity around him.

As he looked down at his shoes and pushed open the door, he didn't see it coming.

A scream rang out from behind.

His head jerked up—too late.

A hand—if it could even be called that—lunged toward his face. The skin was a sickly mix of blue and green, the nails elongated and jagged, still clutching scraps of torn flesh.

Without warning, it grasped for him, as if determined to drag him down into the abyss.