***

  Zhào pursed his lips, marching further down the stone corridor.

  At least Hǔ was a good investment. He’ll be able to stall for time in the worst case.

  His hand gripped his spear tighter, careful to keep its tip above the head of the shieldsman in front of him. He stilled his breaths, hoping to figure out what he was up against.

  This isn't a sting operation by an Unorthodox Sect. The thief was too skilled. It wasn't someone from the Orthodox Alliance either, unless they want to cut themselves off from their own source of information. The only way we wouldn't know the name of an expert like this is if he was…

  The captain's eyes widened and his grip tightened. Beads of sweat formed on his head.

  So that's who the Beggar's Sect was afraid of.

  The realization set on Zhào like a rock slide onto a still lake. All his effort went into keeping himself from turning tail and running.

  The Demonic Cult wasn't actually wiped out.

  His right index finger began to tap his spear, matching the pace of the constant pitter-patters of the water droplets from the stalactites around him.

  So why did he run into this cave? He should have run away into the woods, where he’d be untrackable, so why didn’t he? Wait… Demonic Cultists don’t act without orders, so in the worst case…

  A chill ran up his spine. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the cold of the water he was soaked in, or the eerie realizations dawning upon him, one by one.

  We’ve walked right into their home base.

  The veteran Hǔ snapped him out of his stupor with an elbow jab and a small whisper. Zhào turned and saw the man just as nervous as him. He’d figured out the same thing.

  “Cap, you sure we can’t just leave and say we lost ‘em?”

  Zhào clicked his tongue.

  Like I could ever survive for losing something that the Beggar’s Sect was transporting with this much manpower.

  “Between you and me, our employer is a man of extremely high status. Why else do you think that you were paid 5 gold pieces? If we fail to get whatever he was delivering to his destination, it will not just be our heads on the line.”

  The veteran grit his teeth and turned his head forward reluctantly. Surveying his party of riffraff, Zhào could not help but lock his eyes on the youngest, smallest member of his cohort, the wiry Yǚchén.

  He looked entirely different from every other member, being as fair-skinned as a newborn babe, short enough to be entirely obscured by a horse when standing upright, and as thin as a river reed. His hands were smooth as silk, and his skin was bereft of any scars. Unlike the rest of his cohort, the young boy smiled in anticipation, shifting to a more immobile, combat-ready stance as they marched into the cavern. He was preparing to drop his torch and hold his spear with both hands. The leader sighed.

  Don’t blame me in the afterlife, kid. Blame your bad luck.

  Such thoughts ran through his head as he was about to instruct the young Yǚchén to stay within the distance of a spear's thrust from the group, when they suddenly heard a scream so guttural that their blood ceased to flow from their hearts, instead flowing in from a Baltic sea. A common thought ran through all of their minds:

  Did someone just die?

  The vanguard continued to face forward, their feet petrified and fused with the ground, while the rearguard took stock of their men, recounting over and over as they could barely see past the violent shivering of their heads. One spoke.

  “W-we’ve lost none, Leader.”

  The leader then wondered again.

  Then who screamed? Was it the thief? Or perhaps it was a human sacrifice?

  His eyes widened, and his veins began to bulge from his grip strength, his weapon rising up and down as he struggled to calm his rapidly expanding and contracting chest. He cursed under his breath, his worries solidified. He shook off his fear for a moment and looked deeper into the cave, hoping that he was overthinking things.

  Suddenly, a silhouette leapt out of the darkness within. It moved as a dragonfly would across a pond, ready to consume everything in its path. The shadow jumped between the stalactites over their heads, so quickly that water jumped up into the air by simple wind pressure from its movements. Darkness thus followed in the wake of the shadow, quenching all of their torches with the water which rose from the ground. The guard leader hesitated for a moment.

  His men, all experienced in the craft of soldiery, ducked their heads and remained still in the darkness. They laid down their soaked torches and concealed themselves with their weapons unsheathed, awaiting his command. That is, all except one: the young Yǚchén. He had fallen onto his backside in shock and frantically splashed around in the ankle-deep puddle he sat in, patting the ground like a babe learning to crawl. The leader would have scolded that young boy in another situation, but in that moment the commander could not have been happier, grinning gaily like a child whose father let him out of a punishment that his mother gave him for his actions.

  “Everyone, chase after that thief! Do not let our face be so easily lost!”

  Those who lay in wait for his command deftly ran and leapt after the assailant, quickly making their way up to the surface, leaving Yǚchén behind in complete darkness.

  ***

  Yǚchén looked around and saw nothing but darkness.

  He stumbled about, trying to feel any dry torches nearby for him to light with his left hand while his right hand reached into his leather bag for his emergency talismans. However, they were soaked and tore as his hands desperately clawed at them. He began to panic, sweat dripping from him and his chest heaving as if his entire body were weeping, while his face stayed still. From deep within the darkness, he heard a scratching noise, as if a wolf were dragging its jagged nails across the stone floor while prowling around its prey in the dead of night, ready to strike at any moment. Yǚchén gasped, holding his breath and remaining still, realizing he was making too much noise while rummaging around. He tried to calm himself.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  There’s still sounds from deeper in the cave, so there’s still someone down there. Should I find a place to hide and wait for my group to come back?

  Fear dropped into his stomach as he began to realize–

  They left me, the weakest, behind when they knew there was another person here, so when they left,

  Yǚchén clenched his teeth.

  they intended for me to die here.

  He took a deep, shaky breath.

  I can’t stay still. I can’t go upwards because I don’t know the path, and taking the wrong one could lead to death by starvation if I take too many wrong turns.

  The stalactites before Yǚchén seemed to open up to him like the maw of a great beast.

  There is someone deeper in the cave, so it’s possible that there are supplies I can use to sustain myself, and a place to dry myself off. It’s the best shot I’ve got.

  He punched his right leg, determination setting into it like an invisible brand.

  Further in it is. I’ll wait for a bit for my eyes to adjust and move.

  He cupped his hands over his ears, listening for any more signs of life from within the cavern. However, he heard nothing more, only the constant dripping and flowing of water from around him.

  Maybe they’re dead or asleep? No matter what they are, I’ve still got to go forward. I haven’t come across any forks in the road, so I’m still going in the right direction.

  He gathered his spear and made sure his knife was still hidden in the folds of his uniform, then marched forward.

  He slowly made his way down the cavern, being careful not to kick any rocks he saw, though he often still did so by mistake. The pebbles would bounce further and further down the declining path, echoing as they went.

  He reached a small clearing, with the only way further being a tunnel so small that he would need to crawl into it to proceed. It was far too cramped of a space for him to safely bring his spear with him, unless he wanted to play with the idea of becoming trapped and dying while being unable to move because his spear was lodged into a rock fixture. However, at the same time, having any armament at all would be instrumental to his survival, considering the strength of hidden weapons against newer martial artists. The idea of leaving his spear behind overwhelmed him with melancholy. He cursed his circumstance and sat down on a large stone.

  He held his trusty spear gingerly, reminiscing. The wood was on the verge of breaking, rot from its many years of dereliction and wear from its few years of use encroaching on the duramen of the spear. Beneath the red, twisted cord he tied near its tip was a carving of a crest in the ancient language. He could barely see it, but he felt it with his hand, holding back tears. He whispered the name beneath his breath.

  “Lotus.”

  I’m sorry, I’ll restore you soon.

  He laid his dagger on the shaft of the javelin, breathing out and preparing to begin sawing it, hoping to at least bring some part of it with him as a spare weapon.

  “...No.”

  He relented, and instead hid the spear behind the stone he sat on, since he could still take on an injured person with just the small dagger he kept on his person. He gulped, hoping he made the right decision, and crawled into the tunnel to continue his journey.

  He could not freely move his arms or his legs, crawling upwards at a steep angle. Droplets of water from the smooth stone dribbled down his body, wetting it as he continued onward, his body warmth escaping him. In some parts, he could not fully extend his arms, but could only slowly move by rocking his whole body side to side, while in others, he had the liberty to at least extend them somewhat. However, there were no handholds in the steep tunnel, so much of the force had to come from his limbs, toned and strong from practicing martial arts. He felt as if he were a small animal trapped in a hollow bamboo stalk following a cold winter’s rain, wriggling and using everything he could to keep moving. The flat side of his knife pressed against his chest and stomach with each movement. He was a bit afraid that it might cut through the string portions of its mismatched sheath.

  He continued crawling upwards, and spotted ahead a great deal of water rushing by. He concluded that he was climbing up an upside-down y-shaped tunnel from the short end, with water rushing down to the other side. He paused for a moment, hoping he could tell by sound which path to take. From the bottom tunnel’s end echoed sounds of the water crashing into a small reservoir below, as well as the rustling of fabric of some sort. There it was. His ticket out. He climbed toward it, eventually heading downward at a 60 degree angle.

  The tunnel began to clear a bit so that although it was difficult for him to hold himself up, he had some range of motion. He saw at the end of the tunnel a clearing, illuminated by a deep blue glow, as if moonlight had entered the cave after passing through a sapphire. He heard shaky breaths from within, and tried to back out of the tunnel, but quickly realized his overzealous mistake.

  He had entered the narrow tunnel face-first in order to see incoming threats and whether he could emerge yet, expecting to remain upright. However, he was now trapped upside down in a slippery tunnel, while not being lodged in enough for the tight squeeze to keep his body from falling. His arms were exceptionally weak and he did not have the space to effectively use his legs to push himself upwards over the ridge to the upward-facing tunnel. He was trapped, and now had to sustain himself nearly upside down using only his arm and leg strength.

  If he had to wait for long, his blood would enter his brain, possibly incapacitating him for life. Still, he had to wait for a chance to see the caliber of his opponent, or wait for them to sleep. He listened and heard groan after groan, as well as the shifting of clothing that was… satin? What was a noble doing here? Though most were harmless, there were a few from clans that prided themselves on their fighting strength, meaning Yǚchén could possibly be killed quicker than he could react, even if the martial artist were injured. He stayed there to see which one was the case, hoping to maybe see them meditating or doing a sword form to gauge their skill level and the amount of Qi they possessed.

  Cold cave water washed past his body, depriving him of his warmth.

  He held his position for as long as he could, but he did not catch a glimpse of the noble. He looked a bit closer, and began to see double. His consciousness began to escape him from the steep incline. He spat his saliva down with the next wave of water, trying to stop his arms from convulsing.

  I… how can… I can’t… No…

  Suddenly, his hand slipped, and with it so too did his consciousness.

  ***

  The liquid from the gash on his arm felt like it burst forth, crying out to any who would listen. He kept screaming, watching it as it smoked, as if it were engulfed further in this feeling. He begged in indiscernible gibberish for it to just go away. He knew no one was left to listen, yet the prospect of being alone terrified him far more than this newly discovered sensation of “pain,” and so he continued howling.

  His blood slithered across the floor and up his arm into his smoking gash. Beneath the rising plumes from his wound, the sinews in his arm reached out to those on the other side of his exposed bone, wriggling individually, flailing about in the air, hoping to touch another of its kind on the other side of the chasm in his skin. As they connected, they expanded outwards until his bone was covered, then his skin began to likewise stretch out, until finally he recovered.

  He gasped for air, lying down on the ground, his face a quarter stooped in a cold puddle. Instead of the burning pain, he now felt a strange numbness, as if nothing ever happened, yet he remembered everything so vividly it felt like it was still there. However, he looked at the wound and found nothing.

  He slowly picked himself up with his arms, and saw his mirror image in the water in the ground below him. He leaned his back against the stone pedestal that he had rolled off of, staring at the rippling reflection as it stabilized. He did not know what he was looking at, yet he still knew it was himself.

  He reached up to his pallid countenance, gliding his fingers down his cheek. It felt as cold as the stone pedestal he leaned his back against. His skin was the pale blue of an early morning’s sky, and his glossy, yellow eyes looked as if they were two full moons, suspended in this azure canvas. His pupils blended into his opaque, foggy irises, with barely any semblance of their once-hazel hue. The white of his eyes had dried out near his pupils with the setting of tache-noire, leaving benighted slashes across his eyes in their wake and making it look as if each of his pupils had metamorphosed into the silhouettes of beetles, pinned to boards.

  His body was slim but well-built, covered in scars from before he was raised from the dead. His hair was as dark as midnight, disheveled and wet from his tumble into the puddle.

  He looked around the water, and saw a white, curved slab the size of his face, with openings where his eyes would be if he put it on. It almost looked as if it were a molded replica of a stalwart marble citadel, and from the openings for his eyes, archers could fire their bolts.

  He reached out to it, instinct controlling his body and kneeling on the ground as if he were a beggar, searching for any morsel that the earth would deign to give him. He touched the surface of the simple object, and shivered. He knew what this was meant to be. It was a-

  “Mask.”

  He dragged it a bit on the ground as he picked it up, producing a sound as if two stones had glided across one another. He put it on his face, and bandages unfurled from within the mask, fastening it to him, and wrapping around his whole body beneath his clothes, concealing his skin. The wrapping of the mask was so quick that it sent ripples through the water like a tropical storm over the sea, obscuring his reflection. The water in the puddle calmed.

  Every part of his skin other than his yellow eyes and his thick hair were covered, but it perfectly covered his ears such that they were perfectly visible, not pressed against his skull as other bandaging would have done. He looked like a ghost, haunting the caverns he had awoken in.

  He stood up, but just as he did, he heard a splash, and hid behind the rock once more. He looked beyond it. In the water lay a strange creature, which had the same form as him, yet it was fundamentally different from him.

  Ah, that was it. Though unconscious, it was still alive.

  Names and Meanings

  

  
• 
  
    Jiānghú (江湖) — The term Jiānghú translates to "rivers and lakes," but it refers to a world outside government control. It symbolizes a society of martial artists, wanderers, and adventurers, where people live by their own rules, separate from conventional authority.
  
    


  
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    Huànxiàng (幻象) — primarily means "phantom," reflecting his ghostly appearance. Though this word is very uncommon, with a slight change in tone to Huànxiǎng (幻想), his name also means "fantasy" or "hope," symbolizing his role as a source of hope for Yǚchén, who named him.
  
    


  

  Author's Note