The Weight of Survival
The Weight of Survival
___
The ground sways beneath his feet.
Jiang Yun does not know if it is the earth trembling or if his body has finally reached its limit. Every step is heavier than the last. The rusted sword at his waist drags against his hip like an anchor, its weight growing unbearable. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, his lungs burning from the effort of merely moving forward.
His stomach twists again, a hollow ache that refuses to fade. Hunger. He ignores it. He has no choice.
The Forsaken Blood Valley does not care if he is starving.
It does not care if he is cold, if he is injured, if his body is failing.
It only demands that he suffer.
The wind howls through the valley, carrying the stench of death and rot. It bites at his skin, chilling him to the bone. His clothes are stiff with dried blood—his own, or someone else's, he can no longer tell. Everything smells of iron and decay.
Jiang Yun forces himself to move. One step. Then another. He cannot stop.
The moment he stops, he dies.
A few steps later, his foot catches on a loose rock. His vision tilts, and suddenly, he is falling.
The impact is sharp. His ribs scream in protest, his breath knocked from his lungs. The pain is dull at first, his body too numb to fully register it, but then it spreads—an agonizing ache radiating through his bones.
He remains still for a moment, his cheek pressed against the cold earth.
Get up.
He does not move.
His limbs feel detached, as if they no longer belong to him. His eyelids are heavy. The temptation to simply close them, to let himself sink into the darkness pressing at the edges of his vision, is unbearable.
Just for a moment. Just a little rest.
He exhales slowly, and his breath comes out as mist. The cold is sinking into him now, deeper than before. He barely notices it.
Is this how those other bodies ended up here? The ones he had passed along the way—hunched over against trees, curled up in shallow ditches, mouths slightly open, as if whispering final words?
Had they thought the same thing?
Just a little rest.
Jiang Yun clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
No.
He grits his teeth and forces his arms to move. His muscles protest, screaming against his will, but he pushes through. The pain is good. It reminds him he is still alive.
Slowly, his fingers curl into the dirt. His arms tremble as he presses against the ground, dragging himself upright. The moment he lifts his head, his vision wavers.
The hunger is worse now. A deep, relentless gnawing that refuses to fade.
He does not remember the last time he ate.
His throat is dry, his lips cracked. Even swallowing is painful.
I need food.
His gaze sweeps the area. There is nothing.
No berries, no roots, no signs of anything edible.
How long can a mortal survive without food?
Cultivators could last weeks, even months without eating, their bodies nourished by spiritual energy. But Jiang Yun is not a cultivator. Not yet.
He is still mortal.
And mortals die.
His stomach clenches again, the pain sharper this time. He grips his side, his breaths coming slow and uneven.
He has to find something. Anything.
Another step forward. His body sways, but he does not fall.
Another step.
His vision blurs.
Another step—
The scent of blood.
He stops.
It is faint, carried by the wind, but unmistakable.
His senses sharpen. Fresh blood.
His fingers curl into his palm.
Blood means death.Blood means something has been killed.Blood means—food.
His hunger claws at his mind, drowning out all other thoughts.
Slowly, he moves toward the scent.
His feet are silent, even in his weakened state. His breathing slows, his heart pounding in his ears.
A shadow moves in the distance.
Jiang Yun stops, pressing himself against the rough bark of a tree.
His vision wavers, but he forces himself to focus.
The figure is crouched beside a large, unmoving form.
A corpse.
Jiang Yun exhales slowly. His grip tightens around his rusted sword.
A survivor? A scavenger? Or something worse?
For a brief second, his mind betrays him.
The figure shifts, rising slowly, and in the haze of exhaustion and hunger—he sees Lin Xue standing there.
His heart stops.
No.
He blinks. The illusion shatters.
The figure is not Lin Xue.
It is a man, his back turned, inspecting the body before him.
Jiang Yun exhales.
His mind is already playing tricks on him.
This is how people die.
His grip tightens.
If this man is weak, if he is distracted, if his guard is down—
Then Jiang Yun will not starve today.
___
Did you know?
In Forsaken Blood Valley, survival is a constant battle. Jiang Yun moves forward, his body numb from hunger and exhaustion, the rusted sword at his waist feeling heavier with each step. The wind carries the scent of blood, leading him to a figure crouched over a corpse. In this valley, hesitation means death.