A few hours earlier, back in the outpost, Ming Su sat behind her desk, the only sound in the room the rhythmic tapping of her heels against the floor.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
The sudden sound of the door opening and closing drew her attention.
A man entered—tall, powerful, standing at six-foot-two. He was clad in the rebellion's dark garb and reinforced armor, two golden rings emblazoned on his collar signifying his elevated rank. Strands of pitch-black hair curtained part of his face, but did little to hide the icy blue eyes that glimmered beneath.
Ming Su's thoughtful expression twisted into one of regret the moment she saw him.
She stood, her movements slow and deliberate, then walked toward him. Once within reach, she looked up into those pale, unreadable eyes and struck his armored chest with her fist—not in anger, not yet—but with trembling restraint.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice no louder than the wind.
The man remained silent, his gaze fixed on her with detached interest.
"Why?" she repeated, louder this time. "Why is he alive?!"
The gentle taps of her hand suddenly turned violent—fists pounding against his chestplate with frantic desperation. Her eyes, once soft, now brimmed with wild emotion.
"You promised... You said he'd die and nothing would fall on us! So why?" Her voice cracked, the weight of her fear crashing into every word.
Eventually, her arms fell to her sides, drained and defeated.
"Is he still poisoned?" the man asked, his deep voice cutting through the moment like a blade.
Ming Su looked up, eyes bloodshot. "Yes."
"Then why panic?" he said, unblinking.
"Yes, he surprised us by surviving the first two days—but his time is still running out. So again I ask... why panic?"
Ming Su faltered. The logic was sound—cold, but sound.
'It's true… why am I panicking?'
With shaky hands, she wiped her face using her sleeve and bowed slightly. "I'm sorry for the outburst."
The man brushed past her, sitting where she had moments ago. "Because we have the same master," he said coolly, "I'll let this slide. But only this once."
Ming Su nodded, the weight of the threat anchoring her silence.
"Now, what did our dear master want with you?"
She straightened her posture and relayed everything that transpired between her and Xiao Ren.
"So... he knows he's poisoned," the man muttered, his expression tightening as he examined the map—specifically the location Ming Su had sent him to.
'At least she was smart enough to send him the wrong way,' he sneered internally.
He caught her staring at him, eyes hopeful. That was a mistake.
'I'll have to get rid of her before long.'
He stood. "Calm your mind. I'll send a death squad after him and four others to cover every known location that weed might grow on this mountain."
As he turned to leave, his thoughts simmered darkly:
'Nothing is going to stop Xiao Ren from dying.'
---
Darkness.
That was all he saw. Endless, all-consuming, and cold. Michael floated in it, without weight or direction. For how long—minutes? hours?—he didn't know.
'Am I dead?' he wondered.
He remembered the Night Beast's roar—the way it had screamed its frustration when its meal slipped from its grasp. That brought a grin to his face.
If he was going to die, then at least he didn't give them the satisfaction of watching him fall.
As the silence around him pressed in, Michael began to reflect on his short life as Xiao Ren.
"So in the end... I couldn't fulfill my promise," he muttered.
There was still so much he didn't understand. Who poisoned him? Why? What was he meant to uncover?
'At least I tried… I did everything I could. If death's what waits, I'll accept it.'
He sighed, shutting his eyes. Slowly, his body began to sink deeper into the dark sea, his outline fading with the void.
---
"Pathetic."
The voice was cold, sharp, and utterly disgusted.
Michael's eyes snapped open. Across from him, cloaked in the same suffocating darkness, sat a man—tall, poised, radiating contempt.
Though dim, Michael saw enough. Pitch-black hair, pale blue eyes, a presence that reeked of control and steel. He looked like him—but sharper, heavier... older.
The original Xiao Ren.
"Crumbled after a couple hurdles. You think that's all it takes to kill me?" the man scoffed. "You think death gives out participation medals now?"
Michael clenched his fists. "Who—"
"You know exactly who I am." The man stood, eyes narrowed. "And you're wasting my name."
Michael felt his breath catch.
"You cry over broken promises? Mourn what you didn't achieve?" Xiao Ren stepped forward, voice growing louder. "You think this world cares about your feelings? Or fairness?"
Michael's face contorted in frustration. "I did everything I could! I was thrown into this! I didn't ask for any of this—"
"And yet, you're here." Xiao Ren cut him off. "You were given my body, my skills, my enemies—and instead of carving your own path, you try to play martyr."
He leaned closer. "If you want to die, fine. But do it knowing it's because you gave up. Not because you weren't strong enough."
Michael seethed, trembling. "You think I'm weak?"
"I know you are. But you don't have to stay that way."
The darkness began to shift—windless, but moving. Xiao Ren turned his back.
"If you want to live, then kill everything holding you back—your guilt, your fear, your precious ideals. Live for yourself. Be ruthless. Be unyielding. Be me—or be better."
Then, he drew a blade—silver, radiant even in the dark—and with a single swing, cleaved the void open.
"Don't show me this pitiful version again."
---
"Haaah!"
Michael gasped, lungs aching as air rushed back into his chest. His arms trembled, patting his body as if to confirm he was alive.
Drip.
Drip.
Water echoed somewhere behind him, each drop crashing like thunder in his ears.
He sat there for a moment, breath ragged, body shaking—not from fear, but from the echo of what he'd just seen... what he'd just heard.
"I thought I was dead," he muttered, voice cracked but firm.
The silence returned, but his mind was anything but quiet.
I may be alive—but for how long?
Then, slowly, the haze lifted. His instincts snapped back.
Focus.
It was at this moment he finally realised he was sitting waist deep in water.
Trying to stand up, Michael found himself falling staring back into the water as his muscles overloaded his brain with pain. A faint groan escaped his mouth as he rubbed his sore laps.
Even as his body screamed in pain, he knew he didn't have the luxury of time as he didn't know how much time had passed. Trying once again, he once again felt the mind blowing pain from before, but this time he was prepared.
Bracing his mind, Michael clenched his teeth as he struggled to his feet. Although hard, he managed to accomplish this small milestone.
Now upright, Michael took a moment to stabilise himself. His breaths came slow and shallow, each one a war between exhaustion and will. He glanced around the cavern, dimly lit by faintly glowing vegetation that cling to the walls like veins of dull fire. E everything looked foreign to him, especially because he was a city boy before all this.
He looked down at the shallow pool he had been submerged in. The water shimmered faintly with an odd glow, most likely the same plant that lined the walls. Then he noticed something else.
A current.
The water wasn't still. A soft, persistent flow tugged against his legs, pushing upwards with more force than it should. He could see silt and small debris being swept up from the depths, funneled from some underwater tunnel that vanished into blackness. The realisation struck him.
'That must be how I got here... The fall must've dropped me into some underground stream. That current... It carried me here.'
The idea broughta mix of emotions. Joy at being happy and also a bit of dread. Maybe fate still had some cruel jokes left for him.
Whatever it was, only time would tell.
He took a step forward... And frozen.
Rain was missing.
His faithful sword that always stayed by his side in his grasp was nowhere to be seen.
Panic spiked, heart leaping to his throat. He spun- or tried to, only for his legs to wobble and nearly give way. Chest heaving, he scanned the small pool with wide, frantic eyes.
Then he saw it.
Just a few feet away, nestled between two jagged rocks, was the unmistakable shimmer of rains blade, catching the faint glow of nearby plants. He black sheet a direct mismatch.
Relief flooded him, and with a pained limp, he staggered towards it.
Each step was agony. His body, still recovering from everything he's been though, felt like it had been stitched together with glass. But the moment his fingers curled around the familiar hilt of the sword, a spark lit in his chest, a tether to reality.
A brief moment of peace allowed his body to relax.
With Rain in hand, Michael began to move through the underground cavern.
Slowly.
His muscles ached, joints grinding like rusted hinges. Still, he moved, one laboured step at a time. Every few feet, he'd stop, press his hand against the damp wall to support his frame.
The passage twisted, narrowed and opened again, always lit by the same bioluminescence. And as minutes bled into something longer, a tension began to crawl into his gut.
How much time had passed since he fell? Since he blacked out? Since the poison resumed it's slow feast on his insides and his mind?
He couldn't afford to wander around down here forever.
As if fate had heard his plight, he noticed a subtle change in the wind. The once damp, stale air suddenly became fresher. The dim glow he had grown accustomed to suddenly gave way to something slightly brighter. A soft, diffuse light. Pale but warm.
Michael hesitated. Up ahead was change. If it was before, he would have rushed at the opportunity for a change in scenery, hoping he'd escape his makeshift tomb, but not now.
Forged by recent trials, Michael knew change meant a lot of things. It could either be salvation, or danger... Maybe even death.
Michael stared ahead, deep in contemplation, when he released a sigh.
Thinking about things weren't going to solve anything.
He whipped out a coin he saw in his inner pocket and decided to gamble.
Heads would mean he had to go towards the light, while tail meant he would turn around and find another route.
He placed the coin on his thumb, took a deep breath, before flicking his thumb upwards, sending the coin into the air.
The cling flipped three times before falling into the now open palm of Michael.
*Take*
The soft sound of metal hitting flesh resounded in the right space. Michael slowly opened his palm ready to make his choice.
Sitting there on his palm, was the image of a face, the emperor's face to be exact, looking all regal and royal.
A small smile crept up his face as he saw the result.
Heads it is.
Tucking the coin back into his pockets, he headed the only direction he could, and that was forward.
With a wince, he pushed forward, drawn like a moth to the faint glow.
And then, without warning, the cavern ended.
The familiar sound of wet shoes slapping rocky grounded, turned into the crunching of grass under his feet.
He emerged into a clearing, blinking rapidly as natural light greeted his eyes for the first time in what felt like days. His vision swam with the sudden brightness, and he stumbled slightly, raising an arm to shield his face.
The air was cooler here, crisp, laced with the scent of damp stone and something floral. Birds chirped faintly in the distance, the sound so gentle it felt surreal.
Michael took a few moments just to breathe. Yes this was the outdoor moment he expected, not whatever he had experienced last time.
Enjoying the fresh air, Michael heard it- rushing water. Nearby.
Turning his head, he spotted a narrow stream flowing gently just a few meters away, carving it's way through stone and moss. By it's bank were a lineof herbs, following the streams edge like nature's sentinels.
Not far off to the side, was a dense forest, looming large. It's trees winding up a steep incline like a staircase into heaven.
He limped towards the stream, drawn to the water more by instinct than logic. His throat parched, lips cracked, and his body ached for something clean.
Reaching the bank, he knelt down and finally saw himself.
The face in the stream's reflection was not the one he remembered.
Instead of a chubby American dude with balding hair, a gaunt, plae disheveled man appeared. Bruises and scratches littered around his Face, jaw and neckline. Dried blood clung to a cut across his temple. His long, jet black hair hung in a messy clumps, and his once fine robe was shredded and soaked. There was dirt on his face and in his hair.
He looked like a ghost beggar.
Michael stared for a long time, the distorted mirror showing him what he'd become.
"I look like I died twice..." He muttered bitterly. A small but rising sense of disgust rising from his throat.
Then _snal. Crack
He shot up instantly, every nerve alert.
From the treeline ahead, six figures emerged. Clad in black, masks covering their faces, with weapons strapped around their backs. Silent. Calculated. Predators.
They hadn't seen him at first3as they were deep in their quiet conversation, but the moment their eyes found his, something in the air shifted.
A strange glint flashes in their eyes as they all shared a look.
A pain Michael hadn't felt in a while , suddenly spiked, not strong enough to disorient him, but strong enough for him to know that it was his danger sense sending himself sign.
The weakest sign he had felt since he came into this world.
They lunged at him, weapons drawn.
Michael tensed, stumbling back a step. His body in no condition to fight, but he had no choice.
The first attacker rushed in, blade drawn. Michael ducked low, the weapon slicing above his head. He surged forward, using the man's momentum to drive his shoulder into the attackers guy, then swept his legs out from under him.
The assassin crashed into the water with a splash.
Another attacker came from behind. Michael twisted, quickly evading a sharp blade, before grabbing the fire arm of the attacker. He redirected the blade, stepping into the assassins guard and slammed his elbow into the masked face. Bone cracked. The man dropped.
His movements weren't smooth. They were raw, primal. Each motion felt like he was being stabbed from the inside, but his body moved in instinct -on Xiao Ren's instincts.
Two more closed in, coordinating.
Michael blocked a slash with his forearm, pain exploded down his bones, but he used the recoil to spin and slam a knee into the second attackers chest.
She gasped, doubling over, and he finished the motion with a palm strike to the chin that sent her sprawling.
The other slashed at his side. Blood splattered. Michael snarled, twisting his torso just enough to avoid a fatal wound, and drove his fist into the attackers throat. The man collapsed, choking.
Only two remained.
They hesitated.
Michael's stance wavered, but his eyes burned with something feral.
They saw it too_ death, fury, desperation.
They bolted.
He didn't chase. He couldn't.
Michael staggered back, every nerve aflame, his breathing ragged. He collapsed to his knees at the waters edge. Blood mixed with the water, spreading out in crimson tendrils.
But he was alive.
He had fought. He had survived.
And for the first time since waking in Xiao Ren's body...
He felt like he might again.