Du Duan Shao's consciousness did not return on his apartment floor, but floated within a boundless space. Around him, thick, featureless white fog filled every angle of view. The fog was not cold, not warm, not damp, and not dry. It simply existed, static, blocking all forms of perception other than homogeneous grayness. Du Duan Shao realized he was standing—or at least, had the awareness of a form that was standing—on an undefined surface. There was no sound, no wind, no clear gravity.
Then, those voices invaded again.
They no longer echoed from a single source,but came from all directions at once, piercing the fog and directly entering the core of his consciousness. This time, there were more. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of overlapping voices, speaking in utterly foreign languages, whispering, shouting, singing, crying. Some sounded like clashing metal conversations, some like the trickling of water in deep caves, some like the hissing of sand in arid fields. The unbearable audio pressure filled his skull, as if his brain would crack.
An indescribable dizziness shook his existence in this foggy space. Instinctively, or perhaps driven by an urge to escape those voices, he began to run. His feet—or the impression of his feet—stepped into the fog without knowing the direction. Each step produced no sound of footsteps. He ran straight, turned, spun, but his view did not change: only endless white fog. No landmarks, no light, no change in density. His escape was futile, yet he could not stop. A primal survival instinct pushed him to keep moving, even without a destination.
After an immeasurable period of running—it could be seconds, it could be hours—he stopped, not from physical exhaustion, but from deep mental fatigue. As he bent over, hands on his 'knees', trying to regulate a breath he didn't actually need here, the fog before him began to move. Like a curtain being drawn aside, fragments of images appeared, flashing rapidly, and changing.
He saw himself,Du Duan Shao, around ten years old, sewing a wound on an old woman's hand in a slum village, while his eyes emitted a pale light only he knew as the active Corpse Eye.
The image changed,his younger self, around fifteen, standing on the school roof, looking down at the crowd of students below as a sea of decaying bodies with blinking red dots.
Changed again,his older self, maybe in his thirties, wearing a white lab coat, standing in front of a complex control panel in a steel room, his face cold and calculating.
Changed,himself severely injured, lying in snow, a bloody hand clutching a crystalline object.
Changed,himself in light medieval armor, riding a horse on a vast grassland.
Each image was of himself,but in contexts, ages, and sometimes slightly different physical features. Each image appeared and vanished in an instant, yet left a deep impression and an increasingly maddening headache. It felt as if all possible versions of himself, all life paths that ever existed or would exist, were being forced into his mind simultaneously.
The images grew faster, more numerous, until they formed a dizzying visual vortex. He saw himself as a soldier, a farmer, a scientist, a beggar, a killer, a healer, in unfamiliar cities, in strange forests, on sailing ships, in space stations. Some images were fleeting, some felt longer and more emotional. His headache reached its peak, a sensation more torturous than the bullet wound on his temple. He screamed, but no sound came from his 'mouth' in this foggy space. He fell to his knees, hands pressing his 'head' that felt like it would explode.
Du Duan Shao opened his eyes with a sob. His breath came in gasps like someone just rescued from drowning. His heart pounded fast and irregularly, beating so hard inside his chest cavity he could hear it in both ears. Cold sweat drenched his entire body. He sat up abruptly, his hands feeling around. Not the vinyl floor of his apartment. Not the hospital bed either. His hands touched a rough, cold, damp surface—soil covered with short grass and roots.
Darkness enveloped his surroundings, illuminated only by the bright light of a full moon in a cloudless sky. The air he breathed was fresh, cold, and full of the scent of earth, decaying leaves, and distant wood smoke. He was in a clearing at the edge of a forest. In the distance, he saw rows of tall, dark oak and elm trees forming a frightening silhouette against the starry night sky. The sounds of crickets and small nocturnal creatures echoed. This was not Xicheng District. This didn't even look like any suburban area he knew. The atmosphere of nature was too thick, too devoid of machine noise.
His gaze fell to his own body. His black jacket and jeans were gone. Instead, he wore a loose cream-colored linen shirt, layered with a thick dark brown leather vest. Over it was a coarse dark green woolen coat with worn edges. His pants were Prince Style Trousers-style leather pants, blackish-brown, reaching his knees, and on his feet were tall, somewhat stiff but comfortable leather boots. Most striking was the wide leather belt around his waist. On the left side hung a simple yet sturdy wooden and leather sword scabbard. His right hand reflexively grabbed the sword's hilt. He drew it out a few inches. A smooth, sharp steel blade reflected the moonlight. The sword was an arming sword type with a blade about 75 cm long but of slightly different shape, with a hilt designed for one hand and a simple crossguard. This object felt foreign, yet its weight and balance felt familiar in his hand, as if he had used it for a long time.
Carefully, Du Duan Shao stood up. His eyes swept his surroundings. He stood on a low hillside. Below, about three hundred meters to the east, was a wide dirt road cutting through the grassland. In the distance along that road, he saw orange points of light—several campfires—and silhouettes of some carts and tents. A thin source of smoke rose from there, drifting slowly into the night sky.
The only real choice was to approach that source of light and people. Du Duan Shao began walking down the slope, his steps careful not to slip on the damp grassy ground. The night wind blew, rustling leaves at the forest edge and making the distant flames flicker.
After ten minutes of walking, the details of the camp became clear. There were three merchant carts covered with gold-threaded silk and canvas, pulled by large horses tethered nearby. Two simple tents were set up near the main campfire. Several people—about six or seven—sat or stood around the fire, some cooking, some sharpening weapons. Their clothing varied: tunics, loose pants, traveling coats, and most were armed with short swords or axes. This was clearly a Merchant Group with guards.
Du Duan Shao approached to about fifteen meters from the circle of firelight. He deliberately stepped on a dry twig to make a sound. All activity in the camp stopped instantly.
A muscular man with a thick red beard wearing layered leather armor immediately jumped to his feet. His hand was already on the hilt of the long sword at his waist. In one fluid motion, he drew his sword and pointed its tip towards Du Duan Shao. "Thto! Thto nom?!" he shouted in a rough, wary voice.
Five others around the fire also immediately assumed defensive positions. Two grabbed short wooden bows and nocked arrows. The others drew their respective weapons. All eyes were on him, full of suspicion and threat. They looked at his clothing and sword, assessing.
The red-bearded man spoke again, this time with a longer sentence and an interrogative tone. "Nruy nohuchz tudy? Thto oiy tados yoy, ner? Toazhit navur taku!" The language sounded strange, perhaps an ancient language or some peculiar dialect. Not a language Du Duan Shao had ever heard or studied.
However, something strange happened. As the sound waves from the man's words reached his ears, an understanding immediately appeared in his mind. Not a word-for-word translation, but an understanding of the overall meaning of the sentence: "You are a stranger! What are you doing here, sir? State your purpose!"
Without a thought process,he understood. And even stranger, he felt he knew how to respond.
Du Duan Shao slowly raised both hands, moving away from his sword hilt, showing he had no intention of attacking. His mouth opened, and words came out on their own, in the same language used by the man, but with a slightly different, smoother accent. "I am lost. I lost my way. I mean no harm, only seeking shelter for the night." His voice was calm, convincing, and natural, as if he had been fluent in this language all his life.
The red-bearded man's expression did not immediately soften. His pale blue eyes swept over Du Duan Shao from head to toe, stopping at the sword on his waist. "Lost? In this forest? With a weapon like that?" His voice was still full of doubt. The other members of the group also hadn't lowered their guard.
"My journey ended in misfortune. I am lost and alone. Allow me to spend the night near your campfire. I can stand watch, or trade for guard duty." like an experienced traveler, knowing the value of exchange on the road.
Before the red-bearded man could answer, Du Duan Shao felt an urge, an identity pressing to be used. He stood a little straighter, shoulders back, a trained posture. "My name is Clun Versalk. I am a knight." The word 'knight' was spoken with a certain emphasis, a title carrying the weight of dignity, duty, and high combat ability. In this world, the title of knight was not given lightly. It required years of training, dedication, and often recognized achievements. A knight, even one traveling, was treated with a certain level of respect.
The effect of his declaration was immediately visible. Doubt on the guards' faces mixed with a flicker of respect and greater caution. The red-bearded man did not lower his sword completely, but its tip now pointed to the ground. "Knight Versalk? Never heard of you. From which territory?"
Before Du Duan Shao—Clun Versalk—could formulate an answer, an older man with graying hair and a face full of scars stepped forward. He wore chainmail over a leather tunic. "Easy, Gorz. My name is Narken. I lead these mercenaries." He looked at Clun Versalk. "We are escorting this Merchant Group to Kuloyn. If you are truly a Traveler Or Knight, then you should at least know the laws of the road. There is a place for you by the fire, but your weapon stays with you. And you get a share of watch duty." Narken then briefly introduced the others: Gorz (the red-bearded one), Yoal (the young archer), twins Durn and Dorn (the cart guards), and Mold (the cook and cart driver). They all called themselves mercenaries.
The covering cloth of one of the carts moved. A woman descended gracefully. Her clothing, though practical for travel, was made of fine light blue wool with simple silver embroidery at the neck and wrists. Her white hair was neatly tied under a linen headscarf. On her beautiful face with smooth skin were blue-green eyes radiating elegance. She stepped forward into the circle of firelight.
"This is not merely a matter of road law, Harken," the woman said in a clear, authoritative voice. She looked directly at Clun Versalk. "My name is Eriene Soulus. Daughter of Duke Soulus of the Kingdom of Hykus. I am leading this Merchant Group Spirit Word as Acting Leader." Merchant Group Spirit Word was a mid-sized trading company known for transporting special goods, books, and rare potions between regions. Its name was quite known in certain circles. "Welcome to our camp, Sir Versalk. However, know that any form of betrayal will be dealt with firmly." Her words were a clear approval and warning.
Clun Versalk gave a slight nod, a gesture of respect appropriate from a knight to a noble. "Your generosity is much appreciated, Lady Soulus." He did not approach the main fire further. As a newly accepted stranger under conditions, he knew his limits. He chose a spot about seven meters from the main camp, under a large oak tree. He gathered some dry twigs and stones, then deftly used a flint and steel from his pocket—which turned out to be inside his vest—to light his own small campfire.
Hunger began to gnaw at him. He hadn't seen food being distributed, and didn't want to ask. With a quiet movement, he rose and stepped into the edge of the forest, about fifty meters from the camp. His Corpse Eye was not active, but his survival instinct and sharp night vision—which might not entirely belong to Du Duan Shao—helped him. He moved slowly, listening.
After a few minutes, he saw a small movement behind some bushes. A wild rabbit, fat and healthy, was chewing on roots. Clun Versalk froze. His hand moved on its own. He took a short dagger from his boot, aimed, and threw it in one quick, calm motion. Thuuk. The dagger lodged precisely in the rabbit's neck. The animal convulsed and died instantly. He collected his prey.
Returning to his small campfire, he cleaned and skinned the rabbit with a neatness that indicated long experience, which bewildered even himself. He placed the meat on a wooden skewer and began roasting it over the fire. The aroma of roasting meat began to fill the air around him. After ensuring it was cooked, he extinguished his campfire, then agilely climbed the large oak tree nearby, finding a sturdy branch about four meters from the ground. There, with his back against the trunk, he began eating his roasted rabbit. His eyes were not fixed on the camp below, but on the full moon hanging round and bright in the black sky. His mind, which had been flooded with voices and images, was now calm yet full of questions. Why Did He Choose the Name Clun Versalk? Why did this body and mind know how to survive in this foreign world? And most importantly, where was Du Duan Shao, and what was the connection of all this to the capsule, the pen, and his Corpse Eye? He chewed slowly, gazing at the moon, while his sword lay across his lap, its hilt within reach of his hand.