Chapter 7: The First Real Death - Part 2 (Revised Timeline)
Day 14. Morning classes.
The instructor's voice sounds like it's coming through water. Formation theory. Basic defensive patterns. I copy the diagrams onto practice stone, but my hand keeps drifting to my chest.
No wound. Just the memory burning under my ribs where Fang Yuan's blade went through.
"Mo Bei?" Instructor Mo Chen stands over my workspace. "This is the third time you've drawn the same incorrect pattern. Are you unwell?"
"Fine." My voice comes out rough. "Just tired."
He frowns but moves on. I force myself to focus, redraw the formation correctly. The stone accepts the pattern, glows faintly. Adequate work.
Three rows ahead, Fang Yuan completes his formation in half the time. Perfect execution. He sits motionless afterward, waiting for slower students to finish.
He doesn't remember killing me. In this timeline, it hasn't happened yet. Won't happen, if I'm careful.
But I remember. Every detail. The casual efficiency. The blade. His voice: Let's see what else you can do.
My hand drifts to my chest again.
"Physiological symptoms detected: Elevated heart rate (142 BPM), cortisol spike, muscle tension consistent with PTSD response. Psychological assessment: Trauma integration proceeding within normal parameters for first death experience. Functionality: 78%. Recommendation: Maintain routine to avoid drawing attention."
I can function. That's all that matters.
Combat practice is worse.
Every sudden movement triggers the flinch response. Student lunges during sparring—I see Fang Yuan's blade. Instructor raises his hand—I see the strike that killed me.
I lose three consecutive matches because I'm dodging attacks that haven't happened yet.
"Disappointing performance, Mo Bei," Instructor Mo Chen says. "You're better than this."
"Apologies, Instructor. Poor sleep."
He waves me off. I retreat to the sidelines, breathing hard.
Shen Cui appears beside me with a water skin. "Drink."
I take it automatically, then pause. Water. Poison. The plant dying in my dormitory.
"It's clean," she says quietly. "I filled it myself ten minutes ago. You watched me do it, though you probably don't remember."
I drink. The water is cold, untainted.
"You're hurt," she continues, voice low enough that others won't hear. "Not physically. But you keep rubbing your chest like something's broken underneath."
"Old pain," I say. The lie is getting easier.
"Old pain doesn't make you flinch at practice strikes." Her eyes are sharp, clinical. "You move like someone who died recently. But you're standing here. So either you have a very good healer, or something stranger is happening."
My pulse spikes. "I don't know what you mean."
"Mm." She takes back the water skin. "When you want to talk about it, I'm usually in the medical tent after evening classes. Healing isn't just about bodies."
She walks away before I can respond.
"Subject Shen Cui: Perception capabilities exceeding initial assessment. Has identified psychological trauma symptoms with 89.2% accuracy. Threat level: Minimal. Concern level: Genuine. Recommendation: Consider limited disclosure for emotional support purposes."
No. I can't tell anyone.
But part of me wants to. Wants to explain that I died, that I came back, that I'm carrying the weight of timelines no one else remembers.
I push the thought away.
SHEN CUI
Mo Bei was drowning, and he wouldn't ask for help.
Shen Cui had seen it before—students who pushed past their limits, broke something internal, then tried to pretend nothing happened. Usually they ended up in her medical tent with cultivation deviations or worse.
Mo Bei's symptoms were different. No physical damage she could detect. But the phantom pain in his chest was real to him, and the hypervigilance suggested recent trauma.
Maybe someone attacked him outside the academy. Maybe he saw something he shouldn't have.
She couldn't force him to talk. But she could make sure he knew the option existed.
Healing was patience. Sometimes the patient had to decide to get better first.
Day 15. I track Fang Yuan's schedule.
Morning assembly: arrives early, leaves late. Formation class: third row, center position. Combat practice: fights five matches, wins all. Lunch: eats alone in the northeastern courtyard. Afternoon cultivation: private chamber, two hours. Evening: library until curfew.
Great Sage maps his movements with precision. I build my schedule around the gaps—places he won't be, times he won't notice.
We cross paths twice anyway.
First time: changing classes. He's walking toward the eastern hall, I'm coming from the western practice yard. Ten meters between us. Our eyes meet.
He nods. Brief acknowledgment. Nothing more.
I nod back, heart hammering, and keep walking.
Second time: library. I'm researching Gu refinement techniques when he sits three tables away. Doesn't look at me. Just opens a text on advanced formations and begins reading.
I last fifteen minutes before my nerves break. Pack my materials, leave.
"Observation: Subject Fang Yuan demonstrated zero recognition of previous timeline events. Attention directed at host: Minimal, passive. Threat level in current timeline: Low unless host initiates contact. Recommendation: Maintain avoidance protocol."
He doesn't remember. But he's still dangerous. Still the person who killed me without hesitation.
I avoid him for the next two days.
Day 16. The day before the assassination attempt.
I don't return to the dormitory at my usual time. Instead, I spend the afternoon in the library, the evening in the common meditation hall, and sleep there overnight on a practice mat.
My dormitory mates will think it's strange, but I don't care.
When I finally return to the dormitory on Day 17—after morning classes, with witnesses present—my water flask sits untouched on my desk. Clean. Unpoisoned.
"Environmental scan: No toxins detected. Assassination attempt timeline: Diverged. Predicted poison delivery: Did not occur. Conclusion: Behavioral modification successfully prevented attack. Assassin identity: Still unknown. Probability of additional attempts: 91.7%."
Someone tried to kill me in the previous timeline. They'll try again.
But not today.
FANG YUAN
Something about Mo Bei had changed.
Subtle. The way he moved through the academy now—constantly aware, never in the same place twice, sleeping in public areas instead of his dormitory.
Paranoid behavior. Or intelligent caution.
Fang Yuan had seen both. Paranoia usually got people killed. Caution kept them alive just long enough to become useful.
Mo Bei was becoming interesting. Not enough to actively investigate yet, but enough to watch casually.
Time will reveal what he's hiding.
Day 18. Morning.
I wake in the meditation hall, neck stiff from sleeping on stone. Four days since I reset. Four days of carrying death inside me like a splinter.
The phantom wound in my chest has faded to a dull ache. I can go hours without thinking about it now. Progress, I suppose.
Shen Cui finds me at breakfast. Sets a small jar beside my rice bowl.
"What's this?"
"Healing salve," she says. "For whatever's hurting you. Physical or otherwise."
I stare at the jar. "I didn't ask for this."
"I know." She's already walking away. "Consider it preventive medicine."
The jar is warm against my palm. I open it—the salve smells like mint and something sharper. Medical grade, expensive.
There's a note folded under the lid: For whatever's hurting you. You don't have to explain. Just use it.
"Analysis: Gift indicates genuine concern without expectation of reciprocation. Subject Shen Cui's behavior pattern: Consistent with empathetic personality archetype. Threat assessment: Negligible. Potential ally value: Moderate to high."
I pocket the jar.
That night, I dream of Fang Yuan's blade on infinite repeat. Wake gasping, phantom pain screaming through my chest.
Apply the salve. It doesn't heal what's broken, but the warmth helps.
I survived. Four days past my death date, and I'm still breathing.
The cost: 67% Void Stability, climbing slowly. Psychological trauma that makes every shadow a threat. Knowledge that I can die and reset, but the pain never fades.
Day 19 arrives. Eighteen days survived. Twelve to go.
The monthly competition starts tomorrow. Fang Yuan will dominate, as always. I'll be strategically mediocre.
And somewhere in the shadows, an assassin is recalculating their approach.
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