The rain, it hadn't stopped, instead, it continued. It seemed that the world was crying, crying in joy for the man who had returned to his rightful place, or so it seemed.
It soaked the ground beneath Sen's knees, the dirt had turned into cold mud, and the blood on Sen's body was washed away. His clothes stuck to him, rough, too large, unfamiliar. His breathing was slow but steady. Not from pain, not exactly. From confusion, from something deeper.
This body, it didn't feel like his.
And it wasn't.
The sound that was seeping into his ears had stopped for some reason.
Yet his body ached; the movement felt familiar yet different, as if this was his body; however, something had snapped inside his mind about which he doesn't know.
"This body, it's... well trained." He thought, and glanced at the rusty sword. The blade was accumulated with loads of rust; however, looking at the blade, Sen could definitely say that, this sword, it can still be used to kill.
"And looking at his body," Sen exclaimed, "the previous owner of this body was definitely a well-trained swordsman and a war veteran, as this body—just like the blade—was accumulated with scars that marked various victories or defeats in battles."
The rain continued to pour down, and the MC was on the move.
Ahead lay a path, a trail that led deep into the forest. Sen knew that going deep wasn't good; however, he couldn't do anything except go deep inside, as there was no other path.
The trail stretched ahead, winding between tall, black trees. Sen didn't need to be told that turning back wasn't an option.
So he walked.
The rain whispered across the leaves. Every step made a squelched noise. Somewhere in the far east, war drums continued to beat. Not loud, not urgent. Just constant. Like this world itself wanted to rip itself out or it wanted to celebrate the return of the forgotten soul.
Sen walked until he saw a dim light between the trees. A village. Small, quiet. Smoke curled from chimneys and chickens pecked in the mud. The kind of place where names weren't important, just your face and what you'd done.
As Sen made his way into the village, heads turned towards him.
No smiles. No welcome.
Only eyes. Suspicious. Narrowed.
One man spat into the mud, "Back from the dead, are you?" someone muttered behind a door.
Sen's heart pounded and acknowledged the fact that his presence, or at least this body's, was known.
He walked faster.
He found shelter near the edge of the village. It was an old wooden hut, on the verge of collapse yet it somehow still stood—half swallowed by moss. A small sign hung over the door, barely legible. An herbalist's place, maybe. He knocked.
No answer. He knocked again.
Still no answer. He knocked again.
After constantly knocking for a while, Sen lost his patience and pushed the door open. Luckily, the door wasn't locked.
Inside, the air was thick with damp herbs and smoke. A figure was hunched over a low table, mixing something in a bowl. An old woman, cloaked in rags, her face shadowed by her tangled hair.
"You came back broken," she said without turning.
Sen froze.
"How do you—"
"Sit."
He obeyed. She approached slowly, her hands skeletal but steady. She placed her fingers on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Her touch burned but just for a moment. Then, a strange warmth settled beneath his skin.
Sen blinked. "What are you—?"
The old woman leaned. "Your soul... it's not quiet."
His pulse quickened.
"You walk in borrowed flesh, Emperor," she whispered so low it could've been the wind.
Sen's breath hitched. Her hand lingered over his heart.
Something sharp. It was a prick. He flinched.
She smiled, or maybe she grimaced. It was hard to tell. "You will need more than rust to survive this time."
Then she turned away and didn't speak again.
Sen left without another word; however, there was unease and tension, and a lot of unanswered questions. Something had happened. Something was wrong, but his mind couldn't catch it.
That night, he found a place beneath a hollow tree and rested himself on wet leaves with his rusty sword at his side.
Yet, sleep— it didn't come.
He stared at the canopy, where rain dripped in slow rhythm. Yes, the rain—it was still raining. He thought of the golden figure. The servant. The shattering sky.
"You remembered, didn't you?"
Sen gritted his teeth.
Why now? Why not before?
His finger twitched. A sudden pulse, deep beneath his skin. He sat upright, chest heaving loudly, for a brief second, his vision blurred.
A data? A diagram? No. Just a flash.
His hand reached to touch his chest.
Warm.
Something was inside him.
And his eyes drifted off, but before something howled far off in the forest..