Yan Dawei awoke to the sound of rustling leaves and the distant call of a mountain bird. He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh morning light streaming through the gaps in the crude, wooden roof above him. His body felt stiff, his limbs heavy, but his heart pounded with a fierce, steady rhythm, a deep, unrelenting pulse that echoed in his bones.
He pushed himself up, the rough, straw-filled mattress crackling beneath him, and looked around the small, cramped room. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and old smoke, the morning chill clinging to his skin like a cold, wet blanket.
For a moment, he felt disoriented, the unfamiliar surroundings tugging at the edges of his mind, like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.
"Where… am I?"
He glanced down at his hands, small and calloused, his fingers curling instinctively into fists. His body felt strange, different, as if he had been forced into a form that didn't quite fit, like a warrior trying to wield a blade too light for his hand.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles, the faint, coiled power resting just beneath his skin. His senses felt sharper, his mind clearer, his breath coming in slow, steady draws, as if his lungs had grown accustomed to deeper, more controlled breathing.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet pressing against the cold, dirt-packed floor. The chill bit into his skin, but he ignored it, his mind already turning, calculating, analyzing.
He walked to the small, cracked mirror hanging from the wall and leaned in, his reflection staring back at him – a boy no older than six, his dark hair hanging in messy strands over sharp, watchful eyes.
But there was something else, something deeper, a flicker of intensity, of hidden strength, that felt out of place in such a young face.
"This… this is me?"
He reached up, his fingers brushing against his own cheek, feeling the rough, weathered texture of his skin, the faint scars crisscrossing his knuckles.
He took a step back, his mind racing, memories flickering at the edges of his consciousness – flashes of steel, the sharp crack of bone, the warm, coppery taste of blood on his tongue. But the images were fragmented, like shards of shattered glass, their edges sharp and jagged, cutting into his thoughts.
"Why… do I feel this way?"
He clenched his fists, feeling the dense, coiled power in his limbs, the slow, steady pulse of strength that thrummed through his bones like the beat of a war drum.
"What… am I?"
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, his heart still pounding with that fierce, unrelenting rhythm. He didn't know where he was, or why his body felt so strange, but one thing was certain – he was alive, and his heart still beat with the fierce, unbreakable will of a warrior.
"I will find out what this is," he whispered, his voice low, dangerous, his eyes narrowing as he turned away from the mirror. "I will not waste this second chance."
As he walked to the small, wooden door at the front of the hut, he felt it again – that faint pulse of power, that slow, steady beat that thrummed through his veins, growing stronger with each step.
He pushed the door open, the cold morning air washing over him, and stepped outside, his bare feet sinking into the damp, dew-soaked grass.
The mountain loomed above him, its jagged peaks cutting into the gray morning sky like the fangs of some ancient, slumbering beast. The air was sharp, crisp, the wind biting at his skin, but he ignored it, his mind already turning, calculating, planning.
He took a deep breath, his lungs expanding, his heart still pounding with that fierce, unrelenting rhythm.
"I will become strong," he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at the towering peaks above him. "I will rise."
Yan Dawei had returned.