The evening sky stretched in all directions, an endless canvas of soft violet and orange hues, as the sun bowed out of sight. Li Zhen's steps were slow, deliberate, as though each one carried the weight of his thoughts, each breath burdened with the gravity of his memories—or rather, the ones he had lost. He walked through a narrow, abandoned village, where the air smelled of damp earth and decaying wood, a place left to fade into obscurity. This quiet ruin seemed like it had been forgotten by time itself, as if it existed outside the pulse of the world.
The sword hung at his side, its quiet hum a constant reminder of the journey he had embarked upon. Yet, despite all the revelations it had given him, despite the visions of countless versions of himself and the questions they raised, there was a deep, aching emptiness within him. Something was missing. A part of himself he could not reach, no matter how hard he tried.
Li Zhen was no stranger to loss. He had walked the path of death and rebirth, faced countless versions of himself, some noble and others monstrous. He had fought, struggled, and learned. But even after all this, there was a hollow space within him—a place where something once resided, a piece of his humanity, perhaps, that had been severed and forgotten in the chaos of his resurrection. No matter how many memories he uncovered, no matter how many truths the sword revealed, this one piece remained out of reach.
As he moved deeper into the village, the silence began to press in on him. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of rotting wood and old stone. It was as if the village itself was waiting, holding its breath, watching him. But then, from the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention.
A small figure—frail, almost ghostly in appearance—was seated on the ground near the remnants of a well. Her face was pale, and her body seemed impossibly small, as though the world had grown too large for her. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing shallow, as if each breath she took was a struggle. Yet, even in her condition, there was a sense of calm about her, an unearthly stillness that made Li Zhen pause.
He approached cautiously, his steps quiet against the soft earth beneath him. As he drew closer, the girl's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in her gaze. She studied him, her small lips parting slightly as though unsure of whether to speak or not.
"You… You're him," she said, her voice weak but clear. "Zhen. You're the one who saved me."
Li Zhen stopped in his tracks, confusion flooding his mind. "Saved you?" he repeated, his voice distant, uncertain. "I don't remember…"
The girl smiled, a fragile, sorrowful smile. "You wouldn't. But I remember." Her voice was soft, carrying a weight beyond her years. "In another life… you saved me. You were kind to me."
He stood there for a long moment, staring down at her. The world around him felt still, as though time itself had come to a halt. He didn't know this child. He didn't remember saving her. And yet, there was something about her presence, something in her eyes, that stirred a long-buried memory deep within him.
"I… I don't remember," he said again, but his voice wavered, as though the words themselves were not entirely his own. He had faced many things, battled countless enemies, and uncovered the truth of his death and rebirth, but this—the memory of saving a child, of kindness given—was something he could not grasp. It was a fleeting shadow, slipping through his fingers like water.
The girl's smile remained, a flicker of light in the midst of her frailty. "It's okay. I remember enough for both of us." Her voice faltered for a moment, and she winced as if in pain, clutching her chest. "You were… different then. You were full of light. You saved me from a fire. And you told me to live… to keep living."
Li Zhen felt a tightening in his chest. The girl's words, so simple, yet so powerful, struck something deep within him. The kindness she spoke of—a kindness he didn't remember giving—felt like the missing piece of a puzzle he had been trying to solve for so long. Could it be possible that there was more to him than the sword, than the endless cycle of battle and rebirth? Could there have been a time when he was someone else—someone capable of kindness, of light?
"I don't know how to remember," Li Zhen whispered, almost to himself. "I don't know who I was before…"
The girl's eyes softened, and she reached out with trembling hands, her fingers brushing against his sleeve. "You don't have to remember," she said gently. "You've already shown me what matters. Even now, you're here. You've come back. That's what matters."
Li Zhen stood there in silence, the weight of her words pressing upon him like a heavy mantle. He had always believed that who he was, who he had become, was defined by the choices he made, by the battles he fought, by the sword that had never left his side. But here, standing before this frail child, he realized that there was more to him than that. There was something beyond the blade, beyond the violence and the endless struggles.
The sword at his side hummed softly, as if in agreement, but Li Zhen barely noticed it. His focus was on the child, on the warmth that seemed to emanate from her, even in her dying moments.
"You don't have to die," he said softly, his voice full of a tenderness he hadn't realized he was capable of. "There must be something we can do."
The girl shook her head, a faint, peaceful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I've lived enough. My time… is done. But you, Zhen, you still have time. You still have a path to walk. And I know… I know you'll find your way."
Li Zhen's heart clenched. He wanted to say more, to do something, anything, to change the course of this moment. But as he gazed down at the child, he realized there was nothing he could do. Her time was her own, and all he could offer her now was the memory of a kindness that had long been forgotten by him.
He knelt beside her, his fingers brushing the edge of her hand in a silent gesture of respect. And as the last breath left her body, as the life she had clung to faded into the quiet night, Li Zhen felt something stir within him. It was not a memory, but something more—a recognition of what had been, and what still could be.
The kindness he had forgotten was not lost. It had simply been buried under the weight of the battles, the deaths, the rebirths. But in this moment, in the presence of a child whose life he had touched long ago, he remembered that part of himself.
Perhaps the path he walked was not solely defined by his sword. Perhaps, somewhere deep within, there was more to him than the warrior he had become. A kindness that could still echo through the actions of a man who had forgotten.
And as the child's form faded into the quiet darkness of the village, Li Zhen stood, the weight of her words still heavy on his heart. He had lost many things—his memories, his purpose, his sense of self—but the kindness he had forgotten was still there, waiting to be rediscovered.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the key to the path ahead.