The air outside was colder than he remembered, but dry, the kind that rasped at the throat. Pale light spread across the sand, bleeding slowly into the sky until the blue darkened to grey.
His pulse was uneven. A faint tremor ran through his fingers when he tightened the cloak's clasp, a leftover echo of the dream's weight. He told himself it was the cold, but the lie sat sour behind his teeth.
He adjusted the cloak over his shoulders and stepped out. His body still felt heavy, as if the dream had followed him into waking. The ache in his arms and back reminded him that this form wasn't yet his. His steps were slow, careful.
The desert stretched out before him—flat, endless, and indifferent. It looked the same as yesterday, and the same as every day before it. Jagged ridges rose in the far distance, and between them, nothing but the same pale dust and scattered rock.
He continued to walk.
The rhythm helped. Step, breath, step—simple equations he could measure and control. When his heart stumbled in his chest, he matched it to his pace until it obeyed again.
He told himself he was looking for anything useful—metal scraps, leftover containers, pieces from old crash sites—but part of him knew that wasn't true. What he wanted was clarity. Some sign that the world had shifted since last night.
Sadly, it hadn't.
The sand crunched under his boots, and each step sank deeper than it should have. His breathing came steady but shallow. Even the sound carried too far in the silence—the faint crunch of grit, the occasional sigh of wind, the rhythm of his own steps.
He walked until the cave opening disappeared from view.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting really. Maybe evidence that Jin'ar had existed outside his mind. Maybe a mark, a tool, a shape in the sand that wasn't his own shadow. Instead, he found the same emptiness waiting for him.
Jinyue stopped and turned in a slow circle. The horizon shimmered faintly in the heat. The air warped, but nothing else moved.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. The dull throb behind his eyes hadn't faded since he woke. Fatigue pressed against him in waves—part physical, part mental. He lowered his hand and exhaled.
Every few steps his hands twitched, restless, as though they wanted to grasp something that wasn't there. Once, he caught himself flexing his fingers in a pattern he didn't recognize—fast, practiced, mechanical. He froze until the impulse passed, then shoved it aside.
It was pointless to wander here. Even so, he couldn't shake the restlessness.
The memory—or vision—of Jin'ar stayed with him. The boy's words replayed as if in a cameo and 3D.
If it had only been a dream, then his mind had chosen a cruel one. It was too coherent, too specific. Too much like something he shouldn't be able to invent.
He looked down at his hands. The skin was still pale, faintly luminescent under the morning light. The joints were narrow, the bones lighter. The tail behind him swayed once, brushing against the sand. He didn't try to stop it.
If Jin'ar's spirit still lingered, it changed and explained many things as he had said: the tail, the strange moments when his body reacted before he did, the disconnect that never quite faded.
He thought of Jin'ar's face again: the quiet composure, the weary acceptance far too old for a boy that age. That kind of resignation wasn't born from imagination.
Jinyue closed his eyes. For a brief moment, the air smelled faintly of wet stone and salt, like the glowing water in that place. Then it was gone.
He opened his eyes again. The desert remained the same—silent, still, and waiting.
He kept walking until the ridge curved downward into a shallow basin. There, he paused again. The basin's floor was cracked and patterned like dry scales. In the center lay a half-buried piece of metal—thin, rusted, maybe from an old vessel. He crouched and brushed off the sand.
A number plate, unreadable.
He stared at it for a moment before setting it back down.
The quiet stretched on. The emptiness pressed at his thoughts until his own voice startled him when he muttered, "Nothing useful."
The sound vanished quickly into the air.
He straightened up and looked toward the horizon again. The faint outline of the ship shimmered far in the distance. Still too far. His body was already tired, and he hadn't even begun the return trip.
He turned back.
The walk to the cave felt longer on the way back. His legs were heavier, the sun sharper. The sand seemed to drag at his steps. But the steady rhythm of walking helped settle his thoughts.
He thought again about the idea that he was Jin'ar. The logic of it made sense in fragments but fell apart if he looked too closely. Jin'ar had said they shared the same soul—split, fractured, half-lost. It should have unsettled him, but it didn't...by much anyway.
He'd seen enough in his old life to know that the line between the physical and the mental was thinner than most admitted. Still, calling himself by another name felt wrong.
He didn't want it.
"Jinyue," he said quietly, as if to test the sound. The name fit his mouth, calm and firm. The other name—Jin'ar—felt wrong, like it belonged to someone who hadn't survived the weight of the world.
The sound steadied him for a heartbeat. Then, without warning, his throat tightened, and a sting formed behind his eyes. He blinked hard, forcing it back. Crying over a name was absurd.
He would keep his own.
By the time he reached the cave again, his throat was dry, and his legs ached from the climb. The temperature inside dropped immediately, cool air brushing against his skin. He exhaled, relief quiet and unspoken.
He sat a while to steady his breath before setting to work.
The fruits came first—small, pale spheres with a faint translucent sheen. He pressed one lightly. Firm enough to last a few days...if plant logic remained the same, that is. He placed several into the storage box Jin'ar had left, now repaired and ready to haul.
Then he moved on to the vegetables and a small mound of dry meat. Though he was a picky eater in the past after getting into money, it wasn't like that before. He was pretty sure he could gather enough strength to eat the strange plants that grew in the rough environment.
Then he refilled his flask from the pool.
The water shimmered faintly in the dim light. He hesitated before tasting it, then drank. The metallic tang was still there, but clean enough. He drank until the dryness in his throat eased.
When he finished, he began checking the rest of his gear. The cloak, still damp from sweat; the small knife, dull but serviceable; the beacon, still unresponsive. He adjusted each piece with slow, deliberate motions.
It struck him how quiet the cave was. The kind of silence that could almost convince him the world beyond had stopped existing.
He removed his outer layer and crouched by the pool. The reflection staring back wasn't quite his yet. The pale eyes, the silver hair, the faint patterns across the skin—they still looked foreign. He touched the surface of the water, sending ripples across the reflection.
The longer he stared, the stranger the reflection became. His pupils dilated and constricted at an irregular rhythm, and for a second, he thought he saw someone else's expression flicker across his face—a softer mouth, a younger frown. His stomach twisted.
He washed quickly. The water was cold enough to make his skin tighten, his body to shudder, and his teeth to chatter uncontrollably. It also stung his hands, but he didn't stop. When he was done, he dried himself with the cloak and redressed.
He sat at the makeshift bed for a while longer after bathing and changing into some other slightly dusty and torn clothes, watching the small ripples fade back into stillness. He wondered about both their lives; he couldn't feel pity, it would be useless and degrading to both of them. He just felt a strange sort of respect there—a recognition that they were both, in their own ways, survivors.
Jinyue stood and adjusted the straps of his pack until they sat evenly across his shoulders. The smaller box was fastened on top, secured with a strip of reinforced fabric. He gave it a firm tug. The small wheels he'd fitted underneath—found among Jin'ar's pile of discarded parts—rolled smoothly when he pulled the handle, sturdy enough to take the uneven ground.
He checked the flask clipped to his belt, tested the torch, and slid the knife back into its sheath before turning toward the cave's mouth.
"Jin'ar," he said softly, more a thought than a word. "I'll handle it from here."
The cave gave no reply, but the tail behind him swayed once, brushing against his leg. He took it as an acknowledgement.
Outside, the light had shifted. The sun sat higher now, its glare turning the sand almost white. The heat would rise soon.
He tightened his cloak around his shoulders and started walking.
The first hour passed in silence. His steps were slower this time, careful. He couldn't risk toppling the box over on a descending slope. He rationed his water, drank only when the dryness became too sharp. The fruits stayed packed, each bite accounted for later.
The land began to slope downward into a valley of dark rock. The shadows there were deeper, cooler. He rested once, leaning against a half-collapsed boulder. His muscles burned, but it was a manageable ache.
He looked ahead. The faint shape of the ship—still distant—glimmered like a mirage. It hadn't moved. Neither had he, not in any meaningful way.
He exhaled and pushed off the rock.
The path grew rougher as the day stretched on. At times, the wind picked up, carrying fine dust that stung his eyes. He covered his face with part of the cloak and pressed forward. The steady rhythm of his steps kept him grounded.
When the sun reached its highest point, he stopped to rest again. The temperature made the air shimmer. His water was half gone. He took a slow sip and closed the cap tightly.
He thought again about the dream. About Jin'ar's last words.
Jinyue frowned faintly. He didn't believe in sentimental advice. The world had always been a cage of one form or another. Freedom wasn't real; control was. Survival depended on understanding the rules, not breaking them.
But still, he understood what the boy had meant.
Living wasn't just about breathing. It was about not collapsing under the weight of what couldn't be changed. On that front, they were the same.
He rested until the shadows began to stretch again, then continued walking. The ache in his legs turned into a dull, constant throb. Each step required more focus to keep steady. The body was weaker than his human one—lighter, less durable—but adaptable. He could feel the difference in how it balanced itself, the tail occasionally flicking to stabilise him and make him feel better. The last part was just a hunch, though.
He didn't feel as offended as before. It wasn't disobedient—it was memory. The body remembered what it had been before him.
The landscape began to shift as he drew closer to the ridge line. The sand gave way to patches of rock and sparse growth. Thin, spindly plants clung to the cracks, pale and brittle. He recognised them from somewhere…probably Jin'ar's memories, if that was what they were. Edible in small amounts, water-storing.
He collected a few and placed them in his pack.
By the time the sun began to set, the ship was clearer. Its metallic frame glinted faintly in the fading light, half-buried under sand. Distance made it seem closer than it was, but the sight steadied him.
His pace slowed as fatigue set in. The air cooled rapidly, the heat bleeding from the ground until the wind turned sharp. He stopped once more and looked behind him. The desert stretched out, endless as before. The cave was long gone from sight.
He adjusted his cloak and started walking again.
The last stretch felt longer than all the others combined. His legs ached, his shoulders burned, but the horizon never changed. Each step blurred into the next until time felt irrelevant.
He didn't think of Jin'ar anymore. Not the boy, not the dream.
Only the next step, the next breath. The world had reduced itself to movement and endurance.
His breathing rasped unevenly. Somewhere between steps, he realised he couldn't remember how long he'd been walking. The horizon kept sliding away, and a thin unease crept up his spine. He pressed his palm over his heart as if to steady the beat.
"I'm so tired," he murmured, the words barely audible. He considered leaving the box, but the thought passed. He knew better. Giving up wasn't an option.
He steadied the handle and kept walking.
The ridge levelled as he neared the ship. The light dimmed to the colour of ash, and the wind grew colder. Each breath came shorter, pulled through grit that scoured his throat. His steps dragged.
He paused near the slope to steady himself. His chest burned, his lungs thin and unreliable. When the dizziness eased, he moved again, forcing his body to obey.
The ship appeared through the haze—half-buried, silent, its surface filmed with dust. The ramp glinted faintly, pale against the sand.
He reached it and rested a hand against the hull. The cold steadied him. He exhaled once, then began the climb. The box behind him rattled, wheels grinding across the uneven slope.
Inside, the air quality was marginally better than before this time, even cooler. The door sealed with a soft hiss. He leaned against it, catching his breath.
"Cody," he said, his voice rough. "I'm back."
A soft chime answered, followed by the smooth hum of activation. "Confirmed," Cody said, the tone almost sharp with static. "Your body temperature has risen beyond acceptable levels. You are unfit for further movement."
Jinyue lowered the pack, fingers trembling slightly. "I found water," he said. "Some food. Some fruit. The cave where I stayed had them; it was stable enough."
"Stable is not safe," Cody replied, servos whirring. "Your oxygen intake is erratic. Sit down."
He ignored that and continued, "The water's clean enough to drink."
"Recorded," Cody said quickly. Then, almost too fast, "Samples requested for analysis. Please provide—no, correction—please rest first."
Cody reminded him of the phrase 'worried mother hen.' Infact, he was the poster child of it with all this nagging and advice. Jinyue stripped off the cloak and rubbed at his forehead. "I'll do it tomorrow."
Cody's optics brightened. "Tomorrow is an inefficient timeframe. I must insist on immediate medical attention."
He waved the concern off and stepped toward the sleeping quarters. "Later."
The motion jarred him. His legs faltered halfway across the corridor. The floor seemed to shift beneath him. He blinked once, then twice. His vision blurred, doubling for a second—the room spinning, the lights splitting into two. His chest felt too small for his breath. He wasn't sure whose heartbeat he was hearing.
"Master Jinyue?" Cody's voice rose in pitch, modulation wavering. "Warning. Gait instability detected. Please—"
He didn't finish. His knees hit the floor first. Pain ran up his spine, dull and distant. The strap slipped from his hand. The box rolled forward, bumped once against the wall, and continued until a metallic thud echoed through the hull.
The sound made Cody's systems stutter. "Impact detected! Confirm status!"
Jinyue couldn't answer. His breath came short and broken. He tried to speak, but the words dissolved. "Stupid weak body."
"Master Jinyue, respond," Cody ordered, voice clipping through feedback. "Vitals declining—initiating override protocol—"
Another thud sounded somewhere closer this time, or maybe it was his head. He couldn't tell.
Cody's lights flickered as the unit lurched forward, panels sliding open in agitation. "Stay conscious," it said, each syllable sharper than the last. "Do not power down—correction—do not lose consciousness."
His head was ringing and aching, and the damn robot just kept talking non-stop. Jinyue's vision darkened around the edges. He couldn't see clearly now.
"Cody," he managed, almost a whisper, "shut up."
"Negative." The reply came immediately, flat and shaking all at once. "Silence is counterproductive."
He might have laughed if he'd had the breath. Instead, the thought slipped away.
His slackened the floor completely. The ship's hum faded into the distance. The last thing he heard was Cody's voice—clipped, frantic, and looping—running emergency diagnostics as the world went dark.