The cave enveloped Ruan in a silence so deep it felt as though he were trapped inside a world separated from everything else. The scent of damp earth aged over centuries filled the air, mixed with the faint smell of ancient roots that seeped moisture from the stone walls. Above him, thick strands of roots stretched like the fingers of a giant across the cave ceiling, while the faint glow from the ancient symbol carved into the stone flickered softly like the heartbeat of some ancient creature that had slept for who knew how long.
Ruan leaned against one of those roots. His body felt like nothing more than a collection of pain forced together. Every breath caused the wound in his ribs to throb, as if a shard of stone was wedged inside his chest. His hand trembled lightly, not from the valley's cold, but because his body could no longer bear the weight of the injuries he had suffered since falling from the cliff. His left leg was numb, his left arm could not be lifted without waves of burning pain, and the dried blood on his skin had formed a brittle layer on top of cracked flesh.
He tried to move his body a little, just to shift into a more comfortable position, but the motion sent sharp pain rushing through him so violently that he squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing the groan that wanted to escape. The world seemed to press in from every direction, making him feel smaller and more fragile in this valley darkness that knew no mercy.
When he finally opened his eyes again, his vision blurred for a few seconds before refocusing on the ancient symbol on the wall. The carved lines seemed fused with the stone, radiating a faint light that moved slowly like a very slow, steady breath. The glow was soothing yet unsettling; beautiful yet filled with mystery. And in that strange calm, Ruan felt as if the light were observing him, judging whether he deserved to remain in the cave or not.
He lifted his right hand—slowly, trembling, and with great effort—to touch the part of his chest that hurt the most. Every small touch sent heat-like pain spreading to his shoulder. "My body… feels shattered," he murmured with a voice almost gone, so weak that only the air knew he had spoken.
He lowered his head, letting his tangled hair fall over part of his face. The dried blood made some strands stick to his forehead. His lips were cracked, his neck stiff, and his eyes reddened by the valley mist that continuously irritated them. A small drop of water fell from the root above him onto his shoulder, making his skin flinch from the cold.
That was when the memories came—not as a gentle stream, but as a barrage of recollections slamming into his mind.
He remembered the mocking laughter of the sect disciples who saw him as a joke.
He remembered the disbelieving stares of those who wouldn't even listen to his defense.
He remembered Elder Varun lifting the torn piece of his robe as false evidence, his thin smile reflecting sly triumph.
He remembered Sect Master Thalmar's firm voice delivering judgment as if Ruan were a stain that needed to be erased from the sect.
All of it surfaced again and again, piling over each other until his chest felt tight—not only from injury but from the bitter truth that the world he loved, the world he served and trained in, had cast him away without the slightest mercy.
In a hoarse voice that cracked at the end, he muttered, "Why… why did I have to be thrown away… like garbage not worth a single thought…"
He inhaled, but the breath broke midway due to the pain in his chest. He held his left side—the worst part—feeling the swollen heat that stabbed beneath his ribs. He knew bones were broken. He knew his body had surpassed the limits of human endurance.
Yet he was still alive.
"Am I… truly meant to die here…" he asked himself, his voice faint and full of confusion.
There was no answer from the valley. Only the soft whisper of wind slipping into the cave through tiny cracks, carrying the scent of metal and wet soil. And though the breeze was gentle, it felt like the valley itself was watching, waiting, judging whether Ruan deserved to survive.
He closed his eyes, letting the world around him fade into blur. In the darkness that covered his sight, he saw himself small again, standing in his home's courtyard, looking up at a soft morning sky. He heard his mother's voice—one that had grown fainter in memory with age—saying that life always gave a path, however small, to those who refused to give up.
The words didn't come as complete sentences, but as a warm feeling that filled his chest when everything felt dark.
That memory made his breath hitch.
He didn't want to let it go, faint as it was, because it was the only thing not stained with hatred and falsehood.
"I… I just want… to live…" he confessed, his voice broken, as though the words had been trapped inside him for a long time and only escaped after passing through countless wounds.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't fiery.
Just honest.
And honesty hurt the most.
He felt himself hanging between two worlds.
The world that had cast him out, and the valley—dark, unknown, and possibly deadly.
But in that uncertainty, the only thing he understood was the faint, stubborn desire to keep breathing.
To prove that his life was worth fighting for.
That he was more than a scapegoat thrown off a cliff.
His consciousness began to fade. His body grew heavier, as though he were turning into the stones of the valley. The glowing symbol blurred, becoming a wavering strip of white in his sight.
He knew he was losing control.
The world felt like a rising black ocean slowly swallowing his face.
But just as he was about to sink fully into that darkness, a gentle sensation rose within him.
Not a light before his eyes.
Not a voice in his ears.
Not vibration or movement.
It was more like a whisper emerging from the depths of his soul, as if someone were knocking on a door long sealed shut.
A voice—soft and deep—echoed inside his mind, not from outside.
It spoke as though awakening something buried beneath the ashes of suffering.
"Rise."
Ruan blinked. His breath caught. He wasn't sure if the voice was real or just the imagination of a dying body. But it was too clear to be a dream. Too close to be the wind. Too warm to be a hallucination.
He tried to find the source of the voice with what consciousness he had left, but his body was too weak. Only his eyes twitched open slightly.
The voice came again.
Calmer.
Deeper.
More certain.
"Live."
It didn't sound like a human voice.
Nor a spirit's.
It was more like a gentle echo from something that had existed long before this valley was formed.
Ruan's chest trembled.
His trembling right hand slowly curled toward the ground, as if trying to grasp something—
a hope so small, yet real.
With the last remnants of awareness he possessed, Ruan quietly repeated,
"I… just want to live…"
And right after that, when his consciousness finally slipped away—
when the world turned into perfect darkness without form or sound—
the final voice came to him with such gentle weight that it sent a chill down his spine.
"You are not finished."
Those words became the thin line separating death and life, collapse and rise, loss and discovery.
And though his body could not move, they pierced straight into the small, stubborn part of him that still clung on, igniting a spark that refused to die.
In the creeping darkness that swallowed every sense…
Ruan held on to that one thing.
He wanted to live.
And for the first time since the world rejected him, that desire felt strong enough to keep him hanging at the edge between falling and rising.