Chapter: Echoes Beneath the Falls
The scent hit him gently at first — sweat, dust, dried blood, and the lingering musk of old stables. His robe clung slightly to his skin, stiff with salt. He lifted his sleeve and sniffed lightly. A long pause.
"…I smell like the dead."
No irritation. No shame. Just a quiet, objective truth.
His eyes turned toward the horizon, where the forest loomed like an ancient memory.
"Towards the wilderness… again."
The breeze tugged at his frayed sleeves as he stepped beyond the broken wall. Grass gave way underfoot, dew clinging to his ankles. And then — he ran.
Not as a mortal. Not as a child.
But like wind.
Leaves parted before him. Roots and rocks became invisible as his body glided between them. His tattered robes fluttered behind him like wings of a forgotten era. And through it all, he listened — not with ears, but intent.
Then — faintly — the sound of water. Not the roar of a waterfall. Not the clumsy splash of a well. No, it was subtle. Patient. A gentle river curling through the underbrush.
He sprinted toward it.
When he emerged from the trees, the water glimmered. Crystal-clear, pure enough to mirror the sky.
He crouched beside it, cupping a handful in his right hand.
The sensation stopped him.
This water… feels pure. Too pure.
As if it carried whispers. As if it had memory.
The chill kissed his palm like a greeting from the past. A fragment stirred — soft, yet vivid. A glimpse of radiant pools carved into silver stone, sacred and untouched. A boy — or a man — soaking in spiritual waters that healed not just the flesh, but the soul.
The river's flow sharpened in his ears. Another sound reached him — a stronger, crashing rhythm, like rain pounding against stone.
Waterfall.
He rose slowly, water dripping from his fingertips.
His feet turned instinctively toward the sound. Through tangled roots and thick ferns, he followed it. The air grew fresher. Sharper. Almost holy.
And then — he found it.
A waterfall, pouring from a cliff that seemed carved by the heavens themselves. Mist curled at its base like silver snakes. Trees bent slightly, their leaves glimmering with Qi.
Ashen took a single step forward.
The pressure in the air changed.
Dense. Saturated.
Qi wasn't just present here — it lived here.
The waterfall wasn't loud. It was deep. Reverberating. Like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
He stared at it. His pulse slowed. His mind softened.
Déjà vu struck — not sudden, but slow and sorrowful.
I've been here before. Or somewhere like it.
Under a different fall. In a different time. When pain was practice, and endurance was truth.
He remembered.
Not clearly.
But clearly enough.
Pain. Training. Cuts healed by cold. Sword raised beneath endless crashing water. Each drop like a weight, a hammer, a teacher.
Because the water here was not normal.
It carried spiritual force — so dense, so heavy, that it bent even light.
He slowly removed his robe, folded it beside the rocks. His bare skin was pale, marked only by faint scars that didn't remember how they were earned.
The water was cold.
It hit his ankles like knives.
But he stepped forward.
He stood beneath the waterfall.
At first — breathless.
The weight fell onto his shoulders like a collapsed sky. His knees buckled slightly. His back tensed. His muscles cried.
"This is heavier… just like before."
He sat on a submerged stone, letting the water crash down on him. Legs folded. Spine upright. Breath slow.
The cold became rhythm.
The pain became a hum.
And from the hum — a thread of intent began to emerge.
Not visible. Not physical. But real.
Around him, the air shimmered faintly.
A mist gathered — forming the vague outline of a blade.
It hovered behind him. Like a shadow. Like a truth returning home.
Inside his mind, the pressure built.
Until—
"Truth… cannot be copied. It must be lived."
A voice. His own? Or not?
He collapsed forward.
His body slumped beneath the falls.
But his mind… did not fall with it.
Transition to Flashback
He stood beneath a greater waterfall — higher, brighter, celestial.
Dozens of other swordsmen surrounded him, seated in meditation. Each bore a different aura.
One burned. One flickered. One stood like stone.
But his… his was transparent.
A line etched in silence, cutting sky from earth, dream from delusion.
His blade rose, not to strike — but to understand.
And then—
"To cut the world… you must first cut your ego."
A blade that reveals. A blade that reflects.
That was his.
Return to Present
His eyes opened.
The fall still pounded, but the pain had dimmed.
The pressure was still there… but he could sit beneath it.
Mist clung to his skin like recognition.
Across the water, in the bushes, something stirred.
A beast — but not hostile.
A wolf-like creature, its fur layered with moss and bark, stepped into view. It watched him. Its eyes glowed with a curious intelligence, head tilted slightly.
It didn't growl.
It didn't run.
It simply watched.
Ashen looked back.
Not startled. Not afraid.
They simply stared at one another. Two creatures of instinct. Two beings bound to nature — one by blood, the other by memory.
Then the wolf turned, walking into the trees.
Ashen did not follow.
His gaze dropped to the waterfall again.
And a single question passed through his lips, barely more than breath.
"Who was I?"
The water answered in silence.