Shen Liang stumbled out of the academy gates, the world blurring at the edges like ink smeared across wet paper. Yunxi Academy's towering stone walls, etched with glowing formation arrays, loomed behind him as if mocking his retreat. The village of Yunxi sprawled ahead, its familiar rooftops and winding paths now twisting into unrecognizable shapes in his fracturing mind. He had walked these streets a thousand times, yet now each step felt like navigating a labyrinth built from forgotten dreams.
His legs buckled beneath him, not from exhaustion, but from a deeper betrayal. The command to move forward originated in his thoughts, but by the time it reached his muscles, it warped into something clumsy and alien. He caught himself against a rough wooden post outside the Herb Market, where vendors hawked elixirs and spirit roots under colorful awnings. The smells assaulted him: bitter tang of dried ginseng, sharp bite of qi-infused petals. But he could not name them. Words slipped away like sand through clenched fists.
"What is this?" he whispered, his voice a ragged scrape. A passerby, an old woman with a basket of glowing spirit fruits, glanced at him with pity. "Boy, you look ill. Need a healer from the Qi Pavilion?"
Healer. The word echoed hollowly. What did it mean? Restoration? Something to fix this? Shen Liang pushed away from the post, forcing his feet to obey. He needed to reach somewhere isolated. Somewhere high. The thought flickered dimly: reset. Death as a key. But even that concept frayed at the seams. Why death? How did he know it would work?
Memories assaulted him in fragments, sharp and disjointed. The tomb under the Western Slope, hidden beyond the Bamboo Grove on the estate's edge. Those strange glossy sheets, images, anchors, whatever they were. His mother's face, alive this morning, scolding him in the courtyard of their modest Liang Estate. The void's voice, promising erasure if nothing precious was cherished. And now, this agony: not pain of the body, but an unraveling of the self.
He treasured understanding, he had realized too late. And now it was being stripped away, layer by excruciating layer. Earlier, in the lecture hall, names had evaporated. Now basic functions rebelled. His right arm swung awkwardly as he walked, as if it belonged to someone else. He tripped over a loose cobblestone on Lotus Lane, the main thoroughfare cutting through Yunxi Village, and sprawled face-first into the dirt. Laughter erupted from a group of C-rank disciples lounging outside the Spirit Wine Tavern, their voices blending into a meaningless cacophony.
"Look at the E-rank freak! Can't even walk straight!"
Freak. The insult registered, but the sting did not follow. Why should it? What was rank? Qi, mana, talent. Concepts that once defined his world now floated detached, like leaves on a pond he could not reach. Shen Liang pushed himself up, palms scraping against the ground. Blood welled from a cut, red and sticky. He stared at it, fascinated and horrified. Blood. Life. Loss.
He had to keep moving. The village's eastern edge called to him, a vague pull toward Shadowfall Cliff, the sheer drop overlooking the Misty Ravine where failed cultivators sometimes vanished, their bodies claimed by the fog-shrouded depths below. It was a place of whispers, where elders warned children not to play too close. "The winds there steal souls," they said. Perfect. If death triggered the reset, this would do. If not, becoming a cripple in this state was already a fate worse than oblivion.
His vision swam as he navigated the winding paths. Past the Forge District, where hammers rang against enchanted anvils, crafting swords that hummed with latent power. The sounds pounded in his skull, each strike chipping away at his coherence. He veered left onto Willow Path, a quieter trail lined with swaying trees that led out of the village proper. Here the houses thinned, giving way to wilder terrain. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a battle. Think. Plan. But thoughts fragmented mid-formation. Reset, because, last time, mother dead, void, rewind.
Agony built like a storm. Not physical pain, no, that would be merciful. This was existential torment: the slow dissolution of agency. His left leg dragged now, unresponsive to his will. He leaned against a willow trunk, bark rough under his fingers. Sensations remained, but interpretation failed. What was touch? Pressure? Why did it matter?
A memory surfaced, unbidden and cruel: his father, long dead, teaching him basic sword forms in the estate's training yard. "Strength isn't qi alone, Liang'er. It's will." But father, who? The face blurred. Gone. Erased. Shen Liang slid down the tree, knees buckling completely. He sat there, head in hands, rocking slightly. The world spun. Colors bled together, green leaves into blue sky into brown earth. Nausea rose, but he could not vomit; his body forgot how.
"No," he growled, forcing the word out. It emerged slurred, barely recognizable. He clawed at the ground, pulling himself forward on hands and knees. Pathetic. An E-rank reduced to this. But he had beaten B-ranks before, hadn't he? With strategy. With fists. Remorse? None. He had enjoyed the violence, the control. Now even that identity slipped. Who was Shen Liang? A boy? A cultivator? A victim of some cosmic edit?
The path to Shadowfall Cliff steepened, ascending through rocky outcrops dotted with spirit grasses that glowed faintly in the afternoon light. Yunxi Village lay below like a distant painting, its pagoda roofs and bustling markets indifferent to his suffering. He crawled now, inches at a time, nails breaking against stone. Every movement sent jolts through his mind, flashes of lost knowledge. How to refine qi? Forgotten. The assignment from the master? A hazy echo. The images in the tomb? Barely a whisper.
Tears streamed down his face, unbidden. Not from sadness, but frustration. This was worse than death. To exist as a shell, aware enough to know what was missing but powerless to reclaim it. A cripple not of body, but of soul. If the loop failed, this would be his eternity: trapped in a vessel that no longer obeyed, mind a shattered mirror reflecting only fragments.
He reached the cliff's edge after what felt like hours. Shadowfall Cliff: a jagged precipice named for the way evening shadows plunged into the ravine below, as if devouring the light. Wind howled up from the depths, carrying the chill of unseen rivers and forgotten caves. Shen Liang hauled himself to the lip, peering down. Mist swirled, obscuring the bottom. Rocks. Water. Oblivion. Perfect.
But doubt crept in, even as his thoughts dissolved further. Would jumping reset? Last time, how had it happened? He strained to recall: the void after finding his mother, the fall into black. Perhaps death was the trigger. Or realization. Or the curse completing its cycle. Risk it. Had to. The alternative, vegetating in Yunxi, pitied by villagers, unable to cultivate, fight, or even think, was hell.
His arms trembled as he pushed himself up, balancing precariously on the edge. The wind tugged at his robes, whispering temptations to step back. No. Forward. Into the unknown. Shen Liang closed his eyes, summoning the last shreds of will. "If this fails, so be it." The words were mush in his mouth, but the intent burned clear.
He leaned forward.
And let go.
The fall was eternal and instantaneous. Air rushed past, tearing at his clothes, his hair. His mind, in those final seconds, cleared fractionally, enough to grasp one truth: this was choice. Not surrender. A gamble against erasure.
Impact never came. Or perhaps it did, swallowed by the void that rushed up to meet him. Blackness enveloped everything, not cold, not warm, just absolute.
Then, nothing.
Shen Liang woke to sunlight.
Warm morning light spilled through the paper windows of his room in the Liang Estate, painting familiar patterns across the wooden floor. The faint scent of boiled rice drifted in from the kitchen. Outside, birds chirped, ordinary, irritatingly alive.
He lay still.
Too still.
This was familiar.
The reset.
It had worked.
His heart pounded, not with fear, but with grim triumph. He sat up, hands steady, mind sharp once more. Memories intact: the agony, the crawl, the jump from Shadowfall Cliff.
But something lingered, a faint pressure against his awareness, like a fingertip testing still water.
The curse knew.
And next time, it would adapt.
Shen Liang rose, eyes hardening. Yunxi Village awaited, unchanged.