Sitting on the edge of the abyss for hours, or perhaps days—time had lost its meaning—would get him nowhere. The mesmerizing view of the two moons and the purple sky was now merely a reminder of his absolute isolation. Zhao Huang, the skull, finally decided to move. His goal: the base of the cliff. Down there, beyond the mist and the dark primeval forest, there might be answers. Or at least, something that could give him purpose.
Standing on the cliff's edge, "looking" down at the expanse of dark green that appeared like a velvet carpet from this height, was a dizzying experience, even for one who no longer had a heart to pound. The height made him dizzy. One mistake, and I'll be a pile of bone fragments at the forest floor, he thought calmly. But his life—or his existence—had always been about taking calculated risks.
He examined the cliff face. It wasn't perfectly vertical. There were rock outcroppings, crevices, and strange tree roots gripping like giant claws. They could serve as footholds. With the old, rusty sword he had found in the cave—a shabby object that still gave him a slight sense of security—he decided to begin the descent.
The first step was the hardest. Turning his body, he grabbed the cliff edge with his bony fingers, feeling the rough stone biting into them. His left bony foot groped around, searching for the first foothold. Click. The sound of his knee bone bending was loud. He found a small protrusion. Very carefully, he shifted his weight—light, but still having mass—onto that foot. His hands gripped tightly. One by one.
The process was incredibly slow, mentally exhausting. Every movement was planned, every foothold tested. The wind, which had only whistled before, now felt like a giant hand trying to throw him into the chasm. He crept downward, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. The sound of his own bones scraping, the grating of the rusty metal sword occasionally touching rock, and the whistle of the wind were the only symphony accompanying his journey.
Time passed without markers. The purple sun rose and set again. The two moons took turns dominating the sky. Zhao Huang was still on the cliff. His fragile body began to show signs of fatigue, not muscular fatigue, but mental fatigue. His concentration was tested. Several times, his foothold almost slipped. A rock he was stepping on suddenly came loose, falling soundlessly into the mist below. His bony fingers gripped harder, producing a worrisome creak.
This wooden body won't last long if I fall, he thought, realizing just how fragile his new form was. He stopped for a moment, pressing himself against a relatively flat rock face. His empty eye sockets stared at the cliff wall before him. He "saw" strange mosses glowing with a faint greenish light, providing minimal illumination in the darkness. This world is full of strangeness.
He continued downward. Sometimes, he found a slightly gentler path, allowing him to move a bit faster. But mostly, it was a struggle against gravity and the mortality of his own body. His mind, which once pondered strategies for territorial expansion and managed billion-dollar businesses, was now entirely focused on one simple goal: finding the next foothold. There was a kind of peace in this simplicity. Just survive. Just move.
His groping right bony foot suddenly found no more rock. Instead, he felt something soft, damp, and textured. Soil. He swung his body, and his left foot landed beside it. With a relieved creak, he released his final grip from the cliff and stood, swaying, on solid ground.
He had arrived. The base of the cliff. The air here felt different—heavier, humid, and full of the smell of decaying earth and the intoxicating scent of strange flowers. The sounds of life, previously just the hiss of wind, now changed into a bustling choir: insects buzzing, strange animals calling, and the rustling of leaves. He had succeeded. A small sense of accomplishment, a first victory in his new existence, flowed through his consciousness.
He didn't stop for long. This place was open and made him feel exposed. The forest ahead seemed more promising, at least for hiding his unnatural form. With the old sword still gripped in his right hand, he stepped forward, entering under the canopy of the primeval forest.
The scenery here was even stranger. Giant trees with silver leaves and indigo trunks. Giant mushrooms that glowed with blue and green light, illuminating the almost invisible path. The air vibrated with a strange energy. He walked cautiously, his "click-clack" steps drowned out by the noisy jungle sounds. He didn't know where to go, but his old instinct said: keep moving. Survival is about momentum.
After walking a considerable distance, his eyes—or his sensory perception—caught something unnatural among the roots of a giant tree. A mound that looked like metal and cloth. He approached warily.
It was a suit of armor. Not a magnificent suit of armor, but a simple, very worn set of plate mail. It was rusty, with many dented parts and several holes that seemed to be caused by sharp weapons or claws. Beside it lay a piece of thick cloth, perhaps a cloak or coat, already tattered and stained with dried mud, but still intact. It seemed to be the remains of an adventurer or soldier whose fate had ended here.
An idea formed in his mind. His exposed, white, conspicuous skull was an invitation for trouble and commotion. He needed a disguise, or at least, to reduce unwanted attention.
He grabbed the armor. It was heavy and cold. With some effort and many creaks from his own body and the grating of rusty metal, he managed to put it on. The armor was too loose for his slender bony frame, hanging around him like an oversized metal shell. But it worked. He slipped his old sword into the leather baldric still attached to the armor.
Then, he took the cloth. It was a hooded cloak. He wrapped it over the armor, fastened it with a simple buckle that still worked, and pulled the hood over his entire skull head. His empty eye sockets now viewed the world through the dark shadow of the hood.
Better, he thought, feeling a little more... protected. No longer naked. His form now resembled a tightly covered mysterious adventurer, not a walking skeleton. It was a primitive disguise, but it was something.
He had been holding the sword since the cave, but now, with his disguise, the sword felt more like a part of him. He drew it again from its scabbard and examined it with his sharp "gaze". The blade was straight, simple, and full of rust. The hilt was made of cracked wood wrapped in worn leather. It wasn't a good weapon, but it had a real weight in his bony hand. A reminder that he could still interact with the world, still hold, still—if necessary—strike or stab.
He decided to keep it. In this strange and potentially dangerous world, having a weapon, even an old one, was a necessity. He returned it to its scabbard at his hip. The metallic weight on his bony hips provided a sense of grounding, a physical connection to his harsh new reality.
He was about to leave the place when something else caught his attention. A small bundle, made of worn animal hide, was tucked between the armor and the tree root. With his bony fingers, he opened it. Inside, wrapped tightly, was a small book.
Its cover was made of thicker leather, with a simple cord tie. He opened it carefully, worried it might crumble. The contents were pages of yellowed, brittle parchment. And on them, written in lines of symbols, letters, and diagrams he did not recognize at all.
The language was foreign. Utterly foreign. Not Chinese characters, not Latin, not Hangul, not anything he had ever seen in his long life. The shapes were curvilinear, sometimes like claws, sometimes like knots, interspersed with drawings of suns, moons, and intricate geometric patterns. Some pages had diagrams that looked like maps, but depicted continents and oceans he did not recognize.
He flipped through the pages, hoping to find something familiar—a picture, a number, anything. But there was nothing. Just another ocean of ignorance. A deep frustration began to gnaw at him. This was a clue, a potential key to understanding this world, and he couldn't read it. He was an illiterate man in this kingdom of mystery.
This book could contain anything, he thought with frustration. The history of this world, clues to get home, magic, or just a soldier's shopping list. I don't know.
He stared at the book for a long time, as if by sheer force of will he could force its meaning open. But the foreign letters remained silent, a tightly sealed puzzle.
Finally, with a gesture almost of resignation, he retied the book and stored it safely inside his armor, near his "ribs". He couldn't read it now. But someday, perhaps. It was another mystery to be solved, another goal to achieve.
Equipped with worn armor, a rusty sword, an unreadable book, and a skeletal body hiding the soul of an underworld king, Zhao Huang stepped deeper into the primeval forest. His journey had only just begun. And blood, though it no longer flowed in his veins, continued to circulate in his determination to survive and understand.