Before departing, he turned his attention to the broken sword that had been his prison and womb. The larger chunk of the blade still lay half-buried in soil and roots at the center of the glade, faintly gleaming with divine metal. The runes that once ran along its surface were mostly eroded, but a few marks were still visible, a language his eyes recognized but his mind could not currently read. As he reached toward it, the shard in his chest thrummed in resonance. This metal was once part of him, and he of it. The idea of leaving it here pained him, as if abandoning a limb. He tried to lift the blade remnant, but it was embedded firmly and his newborn body lacked strength. Gritting his teeth, he dug around it with his hands, nails clawing through dirt and tangling in roots. After a few minutes of effort, he managed to free a curved fragment of the sword about the length of a forearm. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked. The god-forged metal was dense with residual power. It hummed at his touch, the way a loyal hound might respond to its master. With both arms he held it, cradling it against his chest. Some instinct made him bow his head over it, a gesture of farewell or respect, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he was saluting the part of him that would remain behind: the old life now shed like broken iron.
Thank you... The words floated through his mind sincerely, though no sound passed his lips. The metal had kept him intact all those years. It deserved his gratitude.
Carefully, he laid the fragment aside near the roots of the tree. He knew he could not carry this weight indefinitely in his current frail state, not without hindrance. Instead, he placed a hand on the tree's trunk and closed his eyes. Reaching deep inside himself, he found an ember of power, faint but present, a drop from the ocean of might he once held. Guided by instinct, he willed a tiny thread of that power to flow out through his palm and into the tree, forming a simple ward. Faint blue sigils glimmered briefly across the bark, then vanished. The tree and the glade would watch over the sword piece, concealing it from wandering eyes and protecting it from decay. Until he returned and a quiet certainty in him believed he would someday return, it would remain safe. The exertion left him breathing hard; sweat beaded on his brow. The glow of Qi in his body dimmed again. It was clear that even a small working of spiritual power strained him.
How weak I have become... he thought, a bitter edge to the realization. Once, he felt he could have split mountains with a thought, now even preserving a single relic taxed him. The whisper of betrayal coiled in his mind again, unbidden: an echo of mocking voices, of laughter and scorn as he was cast down. He pushed it aside. Dwelling on that pain now would only fill him with despair or rage, and either could unbalance his tenuous control.
Stepping beyond the ring of stones, he left the glade. Immediately, he felt the world press closer. The forest that had been distant scenery now surrounded him on all sides. Towering pines loomed, their needles forming a dense canopy that dappled the sunlight. The air here was richer with the scent of wildflowers and damp leaves. Ferns brushed against his legs as he passed. There was a primal beauty to this place, but also an ominous hush. He sensed that few humans, if any, tread here. The quiet was too deep, the wildlife too skittish. He could almost taste the aura of abandonment as if an unspoken curse or memory kept people away. Perhaps it was the lingering aura of the broken sword or the old shrine's faded gods. Regardless, the solitude suited him for now.
As he walked, he fought the urge to hunch or crawl. Every fiber of him wanted to remain small, unseen. It wasn't fear of any specific danger, it was the reflex of a creature long hidden in darkness, suddenly thrust into open space. But he forced himself upright, one careful step at a time. Sunlight broke through occasionally, making him squint and blink; his eyes were sensitive after centuries of darkness. Dust danced in those sunbeams, tiny motes swirling in the air. He found the sight oddly comforting. In each mote, he sensed a trace of Qi, of life. The energy of the world was all around him, and within him. We are not separate... the thought came, echoing a fragment of some long-ago teaching. A name he did not know – might have smiled at the notion. The man felt a small moment of clarity: the boundary between self and surrounding was thin. For so long he had nearly become one with wind and moss; now in a body he felt separate again, yet he remembered that other state. Perhaps the truth of his existence lay in between. Neither fully a lonely self nor merely part of the whole, but a harmony of both. The idea was comforting, but also frightening. Identity was all he had now; to lose it again would be to die a second time. And he had no intention of dying.
As the morning wore on, he traversed thickets and gentle slopes, guided by an innate sense of direction toward the west, where he had felt the cluster of life that might be a human village. Hunger eventually gnawed at him, the first pangs of a mortal body. His throat was dry as well. He paused by a clear stream that trickled between mossy rocks. The water's song was delightful to his ears, a delicate music in the stillness. He knelt and drank by the handful, cold water spilling over his chin. It was unbelievably refreshing; he hadn't realized how parched he felt. The hunger, however, was not so easily dismissed. He did not know what he could eat safely. Nearby, he spotted bushes with small red berries. They looked familiar. He plucked one and sniffed it, recalling faintly that some berries in the wild could be poisonous. These berries had no spots and tasted sweet on his tongue. He ate a handful and waited. When no ill effects came, he continued on, stomach no longer empty.