The journey through the primeval forest felt like exploring a living dream—a dream that was strange, dangerous, and full of its own light. Zhao Huang, now disguised as a hooded adventurer in worn armor, kept moving forward. His main goal was still vague: survive, and perhaps, find a settlement, or at least, signs of another civilization that could give him clues. The forest around him slowly began to change. The giant indigo trees and silver leaves began to diminish, replaced by shorter, more ordinary green species, though their shapes remained unusual—some had leaves like blue needles, some had pale yellow trunks. The glowing mushrooms also became rarer, and the daylight—coming from the purple sun—began to penetrate the canopy more freely. A more "normal" green atmosphere, though still alien, began to feel palpable. He seemed to have left the most magical area and entered a more... terrestrial forest fringe.
The day began to dusk. The purple in the sky turned into deep mauve. The air temperature dropped drastically, and the wind blowing through the gaps in his armor felt piercing, right down to his bones—literally. He needed warmth. Not for himself, as his skeletal body didn't feel cold like living flesh, but for practical purposes: light, and perhaps one day, for cooking if he found food that could be consumed by... whatever he was now.
He decided to stop in a small clearing protected by large rocks. With his rusty sword, he gathered dry twigs and dead leaves. His memory went back to his early days on the streets of Shenzhen, when he and other homeless people sometimes had to make secret campfires under bridges. The simplest method was using a bow drill or striking stones.
He looked for two suitable sticks: one hard and pointed, the other softer with a natural recess. With his dexterous yet stiff bony hands, he began twisting the pointed stick over the recess in the softer wood. It was an exhausting process. His muscle-less hands couldn't provide consistent pressure and speed. Only the dry friction of two pieces of wood was heard, no smoke, no ember. He tried striking stones. He picked two stones that seemed to contain metallic minerals. He struck them together repeatedly. Small sparks flew out, pale yellow, but they were too weak and too short-lived to ignite the dry leaves he had prepared. They died before touching the tinder.
Failure after failure. The sparks died uselessly. The drill stick began to wear down, his hands—or the bony structures serving as hands—felt stiff and uncomfortable. A deep frustration began to gnaw at him. In his previous life, he was a man who could command hundreds with a nod. Here, he couldn't even perform the most primitive task mastered by cavemen. I'm more helpless than when I first arrived in Shenzhen, he thought bitterly. At least back then he had muscular hands and lungs to blow on an ember. Now, he only had a dry skeleton and no breath. How could a skull possibly make fire? It was a torturous paradox.
He was about to give up when his eyes—his perception—fell on his rusty sword. Rust... iron oxide. The stones he had struck earlier also left traces of shiny minerals. A vague memory surfaced, perhaps from a movie or documentary he'd watched in his old life: about flint and steel.
With his sword, he scraped some of the most rusted parts, collecting fine rust powder on a thin, dry leaf. Then, carefully, he took a hard, pointed stone—one without metal content—and struck it hard against a clean, non-rusted part of the sword.
Click! A spark, brighter, larger, and whiter than before, flew out. It landed on the pile of rust powder and dry leaves. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a small wisp of smoke rose, followed by a weak, small flicker of orange-red. Zhao Huang froze, his entire consciousness focused on that tiny point of light. Very, very carefully, he brought it closer to the pile of small twigs he had prepared. He bent over, and although he had no lips to blow, he concentrated his will, trying to direct a flow of air—or some kind of energy—towards the ember. Whether it was his imagination or not, the ember seemed to grow. The smoke thickened, and then—whoosh!—a small flame appeared, licking at the dry twigs.
Fire! He had succeeded! An incredible sense of satisfaction, a small victory that felt so immense, flooded him. He quickly added more twigs, building a small, stable campfire. Its orange light illuminated his surroundings, dancing on the large rocks and the shadows of his cloaked body. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a sliver of control.
Sitting by the campfire, he looked up at the sky. And there, another surprise awaited him. The sky, previously purplish-red with two moons, was now a familiar pitch black, adorned with stars twinkling in patterns similar to the Milky Way. And there was only one moon—a large, silver moon that looked... normal. No second blue moon. No purple glow.
This doesn't make sense, he thought, confused. Was I hallucinating before? Or does this world have regions with different skies? Or... does the sky itself change? It was another mystery to add to the long list of puzzles. He observed the stars, trying to find familiar constellations. Ursa Major, Orion... nothing was exactly the same. The patterns were similar, but not identical. It was like looking through distorted glass. He was in a world similar to Earth, but not Earth. And the rules of its sky seemed capable of change. Was this a strange natural phenomenon, or something more... magical? The unreadable book inside his armor suddenly felt very heavy.
The night passed without incident. Zhao Huang did not sleep—how could a skull sleep?—but he rested, sitting silently near the fire, his eyes—his eye sockets—fixed on the glowing embers, his mind swirling between the past and the uncertainty of the future. As dawn broke, the sun rose—a normal yellow sun, warming the earth with its familiar light. The sky was blue, with white clouds drifting by. The change from a purple sky with two moons to one so normal felt more unsettling than reassuring. Something in this world was profoundly unstable.
He extinguished the remains of the campfire with soil, making sure no embers were left. With his sword at his hip and his cloak still covering his true form, he set off again. The forest now looked much more "ordinary". Green trees, bushes, the sound of chirping birds—all created the illusion that he was on Earth. But the illusion was disturbed by the occasional sight of a giant insect the size of his bony hand, or flowers that bloomed and closed on their own like mouths.
Around noon, his ears—or his auditory perception mechanism—caught a weak sound of groaning and panting from behind a thick bush. With cautious steps, he approached the source of the sound. Behind a patch of thorny bushes lay a wolf. Its fur was silvery-gray, large, and majestic, but its current condition was pitiful. Its hind leg was trapped in a crude, rusty steel snare, likely a relic of a hunter. Dried blood matted the fur around the trap, and its yellow eyes were narrowed in pain and fear. Beside it lay the half-eaten carcass of a rabbit, likely its prey before it was caught.
Sensing Zhao Huang's presence, the wolf lifted its head. Its wild yellow eyes stared directly into the dark hood. Though injured, its survival instinct was strong. With a deep, threatening growl, it tried to stand, but its trapped leg caused it to fall back with a pained whimper. Without warning, it lunged at Zhao Huang, its maw gaping to reveal sharp teeth ready to bite. The distance was close, the attack sudden.
Zhao Huang's reflexes from decades of street fights saved him. He didn't try to block—his frail body wouldn't withstand the force of a wolf's attack, even an injured one. Instead, he jumped backward, a movement that was awkward and produced a creak from his knees, but enough to make the wolf's teeth snap at the air, just centimeters from his cloak. His heart—if he still had one—would have been pounding. Quick! he thought. This body is slow!
He didn't want to kill this animal. It wasn't a rational threat, just a wounded and frightened creature. In his life, he respected animals—they fought to survive, not for greed or power like humans. He tried to speak, but of course, no sound came out. Instead, he slowly stretched out his bony hands, palms open—a universal gesture (or at least, he hoped so) showing he meant no harm. He stood still, making no sudden movements.
The wolf was not persuaded. To it, Zhao Huang was a foreign threat smelling of metal and death. With the last of its strength fueled by adrenaline, it lunged again, this time lower, aiming to bite Zhao Huang's bony ankle. Its growl was full of desperation.
Zhao Huang tried to stomp on the wolf's head with the metal boot he had found—part of the armor. But the coordination between his brain's (or consciousness's) command and his bony body was still poor. The leg that should have stomped quickly moved slowly and inaccurately. The wolf managed to dodge and bit the tip of the boot, shaking it viciously. Zhao Huang lost his balance and fell backward with a noisy clatter—his armor clanged, his body creaked. It was a deeply embarrassing and frustrating feeling. He, who once could disarm gun-wielding enemies, was now knocked down by an injured wolf.
The attack was the wolf's last effort. Blood loss, the pain from the snare, and the energy expended from two failed attacks finally made it collapse. It fell to its side, its breath short and ragged, its tongue lolling out, its eyes beginning to lose focus. It no longer tried to attack, just lay weakly, occasionally whimpering in pain.
Zhao Huang stood up slowly, straightening his cloak and armor. He approached the wolf again, this time more cautiously. He could see the suffering in the animal's eyes. The steel snare had cut deep into the flesh and likely the bone of its hind leg. If left, it would die from infection or blood loss, or become easy prey for other predators. I can't leave it like this, he thought. In his old life, he had a code: don't harm the innocent. This wolf was not his enemy.
He knelt—a difficult movement for his frame—at a safe distance. He stretched out his bony hand again, this time moving very slowly, and spoke in his mind, as if the animal could hear him. Calm down. I won't hurt you. I want to help.
The pain and exhaustion finally took over. The wolf's eyes rolled back in its head, and its muscular body went completely limp. It fainted. That actually made things easier.
Zhao Huang remembered the cloth he had found with the armor. It was fairly clean and thick. With his rusty sword, he cut a large piece from the edge of his cloak (he decided the cloak was more expendable than the armor). He tore the cloth into several long strips to be used as bandages.
He remembered hearing the sound of trickling water not far away. With quick steps—as quick as he could manage—he headed towards the sound and found a small, clear stream. He wet several of the cloth strips, washing them as best he could of dirt and dried mud. The water felt cold and refreshing on his bony fingers.
He returned to the side of the helpless wolf. With the wet and dry cloths he had prepared, he sat down again. He folded several layers of dry cloth into a thick pad, while the wet ones would be used to clean the wound.
First, he had to remove the snare. That was the difficult part. The steel snare was locked tight, and his bony hands lacked the strength to bend it. Finally, using the tip of his sword as a lever, he managed to pry the snare open wide enough to free the wolf's swollen, bloody leg. The wound looked horrible—the flesh was torn, the bone visible. Zhao Huang immediately took the wet cloth and began carefully cleaning the area around the wound, wiping away dried blood and dirt. His touch was light, but sure. As the wet cloth touched the sensitive open wound, the wolf snorted hard, its body twitched, and its yellow eyes snapped open suddenly. It was awake.
The animal was instantly alert. It saw Zhao Huang kneeling near its leg, and it tried to pull the injured limb away, growling weakly. But the pain was too great. Its eyes stared at Zhao Huang, full of confusion and fear, but also... a flicker of recognition? As if it realized this touch wasn't hurting, but cleaning.
Zhao Huang did not retreat. He continued cleaning the wound with the same calm, consistent motions. He took the thick pad of dry cloth and pressed it firmly against the wound to stop the remaining bleeding. The wolf whimpered in pain, but no longer tried to bite or pull away. It just lay there, watching the hooded figure, its heavy breath slowly becoming normal. After the bleeding stopped, Zhao Huang bandaged the wound with the other cloth strips, tying it snugly but not too tight. He had no medicine, but this at least prevented further infection and provided support.
Finished, Zhao Huang stood up and turned to leave. He expected nothing. But as he walked, he heard a scraping sound behind him. He looked back. The wolf had stood up on three legs, trying to follow him. The injured leg was held up, not touching the ground. Its eyes watched Zhao Huang, no longer with fear or aggression, but with an expression hard to read—perhaps curiosity, or dependence.
Go away, Zhao Huang thought, swinging his arm in another direction, trying to shoo it. You're free. Go and heal yourself.
The wolf only tilted its head, then tried to hobble closer again, still keeping a distance of several meters. Zhao Huang walked faster. The wolf, with great difficulty, followed, sometimes falling from exhaustion or pain, but always getting up again and continuing to follow. It seemed to have regarded Zhao Huang as something—or someone—linked to its survival.
After several unsuccessful attempts to drive it away, Zhao Huang finally gave up. He stopped and looked at the animal. The wolf also stopped, sitting down (with difficulty), and looked back at him, its bushy tail—usually held high with pride—now drooped weakly on the ground, but occasionally wagged slowly, uncertainly.
Fine, Zhao Huang thought with a mix of frustration and a strange, slight warmth. You want to follow? Follow. But don't expect me to feed you.
He turned around and started walking again, this time at a slower pace, mindful of his new follower's condition. The wolf followed, maintaining a distance of about five meters, a loyal, wounded shadow. Zhao Huang, the skull, the abandoned underworld king, now had a traveling companion. It was an unexpected development. Was this a pet? A friend? Or just two wounded creatures—one physically, one spiritually—who had by chance found the same path in this mysterious world? Only time would tell. But for now, the silence of his journey was now accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing and the limping steps of a gray wolf. And for an isolated consciousness, it was a change that... wasn't entirely unwelcome.