The walls sweated, slick with mucus and veins of fungus, glowing faintly with thin colors, breathing with a sickly pulse— the stone looked less like a hallway and more like the inside of something alive.
Left...
Left...
'I will die... Why am I calm about it? Maybe there's nothing worth living for anyway…'
Left...
Left...
'Even if I thought that... What is this heartache?' Why does my chest still hurt?'
Still no lipstick...
Every inch of stone pulsed like ill lungs trapped under skin, the faint wind howled like teeth grinding, and the gloom grew heavier the longer Absentia waited.
Somewhere ahead, or perhaps behind, she could hear something slipping wetly, while her crooked steps painted a trail of blood across the floor like an unraveling red thread.
Too deep.
Not survivable.
Alone.
Her knees buckled.
She couldn't use the black hands to stop the fall; they were still pressed to her wound, so she collapsed unbroken, arms uselessly dangling like the ruptured limbs of a dead roach a child had amused itself with.
Her cheek hit the cold floor, the stone cracking into her skin as the gaping wound at her side screamed.
But something else whispered: "Forward."
So she continued onwards.
Her body dragged through the stern ground, twitching with every heave. The tunnel around her quivered in silent laughter, stinging her nose with rust and rot-sweetness, like overripe fruit rotting in sunlight.
And then—
Hard, but not like the ground, this felt sharp and long.
She stopped.
A sword.
Standing upright as if grown from the ground, its black sheath gleamed like lacquered bone. Not a single speck of rust or mold, it was untouched by time, perfectly still.
She forced herself to get up, "...Katana...?"
The world changed.
Air curdled into pressure, an aura of dominance and tyrannical power overwhelmed the young girl; it was weight, a regal yet authoritative command.
The pressure prickled along her skin, pressing into her wound until her vision swam. "Who allowed you to compare me to such a ridiculous curved toy?"
She flinched, hands rising instinctively to her ears, though the ringing was inside her.
"Huh!? The katana... spoke!?"
The voice clicked its tongue in a silent anger, "I told you... I'm not a katana..."
She stared at the fractalized air, "Did you just talk to me-"
"I am speaking, therefore you are listening."
The voice cooled, acquiring a more neutral tone, lit with a Chinese accent, "I'm a Jian. Yes. I did, in fact, just talk to you. Now." His tone was sharper than the blade, "What do you want, girl?"
"..."
She swayed, lips cracking into a smile, half-smirk, half-grimace. "Nothing... Just surprised, I guess my wish came true? I found someone to talk to! I mean, I just got here, got stabbed, I feel like I'm in... In...—"
"Hia..."
She stopped and chuckled deliriously at the burning memory. She didn't know what she was about to say; it was too foggy. Maybe the blood loss. Maybe she already went insane, and this was just a normal sword.
"..."
Her gaze crawled from the pommel to the tip; it was elegant, severe, and intimidating, in the way old nobles sometimes are before they curse you in iambic pentameter.
'I need answers, even if those answers don't resolve a single question...'
"I just ask..." she muttered, "Let me hold you, just briefly, I need something to fight back, and you seem like a great sword."
"Why? I think you mistook me for a fairy-tale blade, I'm just a husk who tries to satiate his boredom."
"That's fair," she muttered. "Mr. Jian?"
"Fang Shan, and be proud of knowing my name.
"Uh-huh. Fang Shan. Noted."
She pressed her delicate fingers against the jagged wound in her side. Her voice faltered a little. "I really don't have much of a choice. I can barely stay afloat, and I need a weapon to at least stab before I drown..."
He replied, "I have no standards left to maintain, yet at the same time, it will be a new low to be held by such a half-amalgamated joke of a girl."
'What does that even mean...?' She quickly continued, "...Unlucky me", she murmured, a flicker of defiance in her pain-dulled eyes.
A silence stretched.
'This might be my one shot, come on... say something!'
"I'm a man!!!" she offered, almost falling against the wall, "I... Maybe this won't help or make me more interesting, but... I was once a man."
'Let's skip that I also think I'm a cat and a mother, and I really only remember about 1% of those memories.'
If the Jian had brows, they'd be hitting the ceiling. "Seems like a bad joke from heavens, a bad joke someone once told me."
Then silence...
'So I wasn't interesting enough...?'
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Four.
She turned, ready to limp away.
The sword sighed, not a blade's sigh but a philosopher's one, "You are the second gremlin who could insult both heavens and me in a single sentence."
A pause.
"Pick me up, or whatever, if you insist on dragging me into your death, do so. I am curious to see how long you last." His voice was flat, hollowed out by time, "I'm just here to bear witness tales from old."
He continued, with a tone dry as bone, "But do let me say this: if you wield me in combat in reverse grip, I will tear the tendons from your bones."
Her mouth quirked despite herself, "Thanks..." She couldn't help but reply in a really low tone, as she was starting to tire out.
With a monumental effort, she reached down and took the Jian. It felt heavy, solid, and impossibly cold, the moment her fingers closed around the hilt...
Nothing happened.
She adjusted her stance against the wall, her lips curling into a smile. The image of the dollhouse, warm and whole, flashed in her mind.
Cookies, tea, and a bed.
With the weight of the sword in her hand, she took a shaky step forward.
"Move forward!"