The undead warrior bent down and prodded Wei's body with two fingers.
Casually.
Almost absentmindedly.
There was no response.
The body felt light. Too light. As if whatever had once anchored it to the world had already loosened its grip.
The warrior reached down and lifted Wei off the ground.
The motion was efficient, practiced—and completely without respect.
It was not the way one lifted a wounded man.
It was the way one fished debris out of sludge.
The instant Wei's feet left the earth, something inside his chest shifted.
Whether it was the sudden jolt, or the way his ribs were pulled at the wrong angle, no one could tell. But Wei's throat tightened sharply.
"—Kh."
The sound that escaped was short, broken, barely a sound at all.
Then blood burst from his mouth.
It splattered across the undead warrior's armor in a dark, ugly spray.
Wei's body convulsed as coughing seized him without warning. One harsh cough. Then another. Then another, each one tearing deeper than the last.
Blood frothed at his lips, spilling down his chin, dripping onto the ground below. It was as if something inside him—something that had already been cracked open—had finally given way.
The undead warrior wrinkled his nose.
On that scar-latticed face, worn smooth by years of killing, something new appeared.
Disgust.
"Is this thing… still worth taking?"
His voice was low and hoarse, like gravel grinding inside a dry throat.
He did not say man.
He said thing.
A bronze-armored warrior nearby glanced down.
He watched Wei's throat move—just barely. A faint rise and fall. A sound escaped Wei's chest, too soft to be called a groan.
The bronze warrior nodded.
"Not dead."
"Still breathing."
"The boss said as long as it's alive, we take it."
His tone was far too casual, as though he were judging whether a scrap of damaged material could still be reused.
Another bronze warrior shifted his grip, weighing Wei's body slightly. His eyes lingered for a moment—not with curiosity, but calculation.
How best to deal with this.
How to finish the job cleanly, without complications.
"Don't get clever," his companion muttered, already irritated.
"There's a silver watching."
The bronze warrior clicked his tongue and looked away.
Together, they hoisted Wei onto their shoulders and stepped onto the narrow bridge.
The wooden planks creaked softly beneath their boots.
Below them, darkness opened its mouth without a sound.
When they returned to the forest, the unit resumed its march.
Footsteps fell into rhythm.
Spacing tightened.
The formation closed.
It was as if nothing had happened.
As if the blood, the choking cough, the life picked up like refuse—had never existed at all.
The dark assassin was slung over the shoulder of a large bronze warrior.
It was clearly uncomfortable.
At times it retched, convulsing weakly. At others, its breathing grew uneven, broken by sharp intakes of air. Once or twice, it let out a hoarse cry of pain.
The bronze warrior carrying it was visibly annoyed.
After a sudden, sharp shout of fear escaped the assassin's throat, its consciousness seemed to stabilize. Slowly, awareness seeped back in.
It lifted its head and looked around.
That movement caught the attention of the silver-armored warrior.
He approached, reins loose in his hand.
"What's wrong with you?" the silver asked.
The dark assassin opened its mouth instinctively—then froze.
Its thoughts felt thick. Sluggish. Like wading through mud.
"Just now…" it began.
Then it stopped.
That moment.
It couldn't explain it. It wasn't like being struck. It didn't feel like a heavy blow. There was no clear point of impact.
It was more like… something inside it had been touched.
The idea sounded absurd, even to itself.
"Just now what?" the silver sneered."Not embarrassed enough already?"
"No," the assassin said quickly.
But it couldn't continue.
It lowered its gaze to its own hands.
Clenched them.
Released.
The strength was there. The structure intact. Nothing felt broken.
And yet—
That lagging sensation remained. A delay it couldn't shake.
The silver warrior smiled.
"Old injury acting up?"
"You low-tier fighters are always like this," he said."Fine until it matters. Then something'acts up.'"
He leaned closer.
"Or maybe," he drawled,"you're finally realizing you're not as durable as you thought."
The dark assassin fell silent.
It knew the explanation didn't fit.
But it had nothing to counter it with.
It couldn't even say for sure whether what happened could be called an attack at all.
The silver warrior nudged his mount forward, studying the assassin with a neutral gaze.
"Bad timing for an old wound," he said calmly."Rest properly. Half a year and you'll be fine."
The tone was gentle—almost instructional. As if correcting a nervous recruit.
The assassin said nothing more.
Its head lowered, but its eyes stayed locked forward.
On the body being carried ahead.
Unconscious.
Still.
Harmless.
And yet, deep inside, something twisted.
An unease it could not name.
As if something had brushed past it unseen.
Marked it.
It wanted to speak.
Wanted to say, That's not it.
Wanted to insist that something else had happened.
But in the end, it swallowed the words.
The unit moved on.
And that unexplainable sensation was forced down, buried in darkness.
"Interesting."
High in the shadows of the trees, two figures sat silently on a thick branch.
Leaves layered between them and the road below, obscuring their presence. They watched the procession retreat into the distance, as though observing the fading ripples of a play already finished.
Even as spectators, their breathing was carefully controlled—quiet enough to blend with the night wind and rustling leaves, as if they had always belonged to the forest.
The older man watched for a long time.
His gaze paused on the body being carried away.
Not with pity.
With confirmation.
Beside him, the smaller black-clad figure tilted her head slightly. Her face was hidden beneath a mask, but her voice was clear and restrained.
"Master," she asked softly,"why do you say that?"
The man did not answer immediately.
He seemed to be replaying the moment in his mind—turning it over, weighing whether the thought deserved to be spoken aloud.
"That moment just now…" he said at last.
His voice was slow. Measured.
"Something was off."
The woman did not interrupt.
"Looking at the outcome, it doesn't feel like simple luck," he continued.
"But it also doesn't look like a refined method."
He shook his head faintly.
"If someone had taught him," he said,"it wouldn't be that crude."
"But if he'd never touched such things before…" His eyes narrowed."He shouldn't have reached that edge at all."
The forest held its breath.
The woman spoke again, quietly.
"So you think it was… an accident?"
The master glanced at her.
"Or," he said,"under extreme pressure, he stepped on a line he was never meant to cross."
His tone cooled abruptly.
"A pity."
"He pushed himself too far."
He looked toward the darkness swallowing the road.
"Damage to the meridians doesn't always show on the surface," he said flatly.
"But internal injuries like that are the hardest to heal."
He paused.
"They may never heal."
"And in that state," he added, voice devoid of emotion,"even if he wakes up…"
"…he's already finished."