The sky didn't change.
Li Wei didn't know how long he'd been staring at it. Long enough for his eyes to dry out. Long enough for the tears that had leaked from the corners to leave cold trails down the sides of his face. The grey emptiness above remained constant, offering nothing.
His breathing had settled into a rhythm. Shallow. Careful. Each inhale stopped just short of pulling too hard on the wound. Each exhale released slowly, deliberately, to avoid any sudden movement that might shift the blade.
I'm still alive.
The thought kept circling back, refusing to leave him alone. It made no sense. He could feel the sword. Could feel the way it had punched through skin and muscle and whatever else lay beneath. Could feel the wrongness of it with every breath.
I should be dead.
But he wasn't.
His right hand lay palm-up in the dirt beside him. He stared at it for a while, watching the fingers twitch occasionally. Small movements. Involuntary. The hand looked pale. Bloodless. Like it belonged to a corpse.
Maybe I am dead. Maybe this is what death feels like.
But that didn't make sense either. Death wasn't supposed to hurt. Death was supposed to be nothing. Absence. Not this endless, grinding pain that refused to fade.
He tried moving his left arm. It responded this time, shifting slightly before a sharp pain in his shoulder made him stop. Something was wrong with it. Dislocated maybe. Or broken. He couldn't tell.
Doesn't matter. The sword is the problem. Everything else is secondary.
His gaze drifted away from his hand, tracking slowly across the ground beside him. The young woman's face stared back, unchanged. Her eyes hadn't closed. Her expression hadn't shifted. She was exactly as she'd been before.
How long has she been dead?
He didn't know. Couldn't know. But the blood beneath her head had stopped spreading. It had soaked into the earth and dried at the edges, turning from black to rust-brown.
Hours then. Maybe longer.
His gaze moved past her to the others. There were more bodies than he'd initially realised. A dozen at least, scattered across what looked like the remains of a village square. Small structures surrounded them on three sides, most with doors hanging open or walls partially collapsed. Smoke stains marked several of the buildings, though he saw no active fires.
This was an attack. A raid maybe. Bandits or soldiers or something worse.
The thought felt distant. Academic. Like he was observing someone else's tragedy from a safe remove.
They killed everyone. Every single person here.
His eyes tracked across the bodies again, cataloguing details he'd missed before. The older man's hands were calloused and scarred. A farmer or labourer. The child had been wearing a simple tunic, patched in several places. Poor then. Everyone here had been poor.
And now they're dead.
A sound reached him. Faint. Distant. He froze, listening.
Wind. Just wind moving through the ruined buildings, making something creak or shift. Nothing else.
No one's coming. No one's going to help.
The realization settled over him like a weight. He was alone. Completely alone. Even if he could somehow pull the sword out and survive the bleeding, there was no one to help him walk. No one to bring water or bandages or anything else.
I'm going to die here. Just slower than I thought.
His right hand moved again, dragging through the dirt until it found the hilt once more. His fingers wrapped around it loosely. The metal was warmer now, heated by his own blood.
Pull it out. Just pull it out and get it over with.
But his hand didn't move. His fingers stayed wrapped around the hilt, applying no pressure. Just holding it.
I can't. I'm too afraid.
The admission should have brought shame. Should have sparked some kind of self-recrimination. Instead, it just sat there in his mind, flat and factual.
I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid of the pain. I'm afraid of bleeding out alone in this place.
His fingers loosened. His hand fell away from the hilt for the second time.
Coward.
The thought had no heat behind it. No anger. Just cold observation.
He turned his head to the left, away from the bodies. More ruined buildings. More emptiness. The village extended further in that direction, but he couldn't see much from his position on the ground.
What was this place called? Did it even have a name?
Probably. Every place had a name. But whatever it had been called didn't matter anymore. The people who'd known its name were all dead.
Including me. I'm dead too. I just haven't stopped moving yet.
His gaze drifted back to the sky. The gray expanse seemed closer now, pressing down with more weight than before.
How long does it take to bleed out? Hours? Days?
He didn't know. Had never had reason to know. His life before this moment felt impossibly distant, like a dream he could barely remember.
Who was I? What was my name?
Li Wei. The answer came immediately, reflexively. But it felt wrong somehow. Ill-fitting. Like a coat that belonged to someone else.
My name is Li Wei. I'm eighteen years old. I was... what was I?
The memories refused to come. Everything before waking up with a sword through his chest was blank. Empty. Gone.
Did I live here? In this village?
He studied the buildings again, searching for anything familiar. Nothing. They were just structures. Wood, stone, and thatch. Generic. Interchangeable.
Maybe I did live here. Maybe that's why I'm lying in the square with everyone else.
But that didn't feel right either. Something about the thought rang false, though he couldn't explain why.
It doesn't matter. Dead is dead. Whether I was from here or somewhere else changes nothing.
His chest rose and fell. Shallow breaths. Careful breaths. The pain remained constant, neither growing nor fading. Just present.
I'm still alive.
The thought cycled back again, relentless and maddening.
Why? Why am I still alive when everyone else is dead?
No answer came. The sky remained grey and silent. The bodies remained still. The wind moved through the ruins, bringing no comfort.
Li Wei closed his eyes.
Maybe if I sleep, I'll die. Maybe that would be easier.
But sleep wouldn't come. The pain was too present. Too demanding. It anchored him to consciousness, refusing to let him drift away.
I can't even die properly.
He opened his eyes again. The sky hadn't changed. Nothing had changed.
He lay there, surrounded by the dead, and waited for something to happen.
Nothing did.