Fall Of The Inviolable

Deep in the mountains of the north, in the Xingkun valley where the sounds of the three springs' gurgling and birdsong can usually be heard uninterruptedly all year around, the breeze brings with it the faint smell of rust on this day.

This is where the troops of general Gu had been encircled and ambushed not even an entire day before. It'd been a bloody battle; a desperate one without any place for hope of survival.

Now, the valley is quiet. Not even the morning chorus can be heard, only the gurgling of water, a constant, apathetic noise that frames the tragedy of the night with its silver gleam.

The water is painted vermillion in patches, turning a see-through rose colour down-stream.

In the red water, there are delicate, snow-white petals floating. On the mounds above the valley, tall magnolia trees stand, shedding flowers in the light breeze like tears of mourning.

The petals dance in the air as they fall, fall into the spring water, into the pools of blood in the mud, and onto the corpses of those who will soon be lost in the mist of time.

The soldiers covered in dust and congealed blood, not all of them are dead yet.

From the seemingly lifeless piles of black grime and armour, the intermittent sound of breathing, occasional painful gasps can be heard, almost completely suppressed by the noise of water.

The wind is quiet, and movement comes from the piles. Although the face is covered in filth, it is still easy to see that the soldier is young, merely seventeen or eighteen years of age.

It's apparent that he has just woken up. Maybe previously fainted from the pain of the wounds or the blood loss, it seems that he does not realise where he is, he only tries to cough, but the air is stuck in his throat and nothing comes out.

The fingers shake as he moves them slowly but surely, trying to prop himself up from the muddy pile of bodies. They furrow through the matter, sinking into the ground as a nail breaks, but the small pain is of the young man's least of worries.

He gasps for air, finally managing to get a cough out. His gaze is empty, staring at the scarlet sky but seemingly not seeing any of it, then a sudden, faint and faraway noise sounds, and his head jerks habitually in the direction of the sound.

There is someone in the valley, sometimes walking and sometimes stopping to bend down for a few minutes, but the person is too far away, and the face can't be seen. They are probably looking for someone, although the young man doesn't know who they can find in this place behind the beyond.

The coldness of the ground is cutting, and soon his hands start to tremble; he doesn't know if it is from the fatigue or the cold. After a long time, he finally manages to prop himself up halfway.

For a moment, only the sound of the water, breathing can be heard. The footsteps of that approaching person.

The young man has a vague thought; that person is either a god of death or a lunatic. He doesn't know which option he prefers, but it isn't like he has a choice. The person has already walked over to him, or at least as close as they can without stepping on too many of the corpses.

Now that the other is close, he struggles to turn and can finally see the person's appearance. It really seems to be a ghost.

The other man is tall, apparently wrapped in many layers of thin fabric. The cloth seems black at first, but when the light shines through it, its true teal colour is revealed. Half of the person's face is hidden behind a wide stripe of fabric, from above the nose up to half of his forehead.

Oh, it seems to be a blind ghost.

The young man watches as the ghost bends down towards himself slowly, using a palm to touch the mud that is half dried on the cloth, searching for the warmth of life underneath it. It isn't that he doesn't want to push it away, but that he doesn't have the energy to..

When he touches a hand that seems to move, he clasps it tightly with both of his. A simple question falls from his mouth, 'Do you want to live?'

The palms are warm, and there is an inexplicable stuffiness in the soldier's chest; maybe it's blood, or maybe it is something else.

Minutes pass slowly, and the ghost still maintains the position of grabbing his hand. It seems as if time has stopped, but the soldier knows it's only an illusion; the ghost will soon notice that he cannot answer, grow disappointed, and leave him just as he left the others on the field.

At this time, the valley has long lost its atmosphere of peacefulness and beauty; naturally, it is not a place for hope either.

Time passes slowly, bitterly, and the soldier can only feel the torment of his wounds, the coldness of the breeze, and the warmth of the hands wrapped around his.

That is right, the ghost's blood is warm, maybe it really isn't a ghost. A fool instead.

But time is getting on, and the fool is still holding onto him.

The soldier isn't sure what the other wants, and he doesn't have any energy to waste thinking it through. His consciousness is slipping away, and he involuntarily squeezes the hand.

Oh, it seems to be a confirmation.