Chapter 6

Shui set the book down, his mind no longer engaged in mere study but in revelation. The flaw was not in the medicine alone, nor in the men who practiced it, but in the very lens through which illness was perceived. Disease was not a battle to be fought but a language to be understood, the body did not fail; it spoke. Yet modern medicine had long mistaken the cries of imbalance for the enemy itself, silencing symptoms as though breaking the fire alarm would put out the fire.

The fever did not kill, it burned away the unnecessary. The cough did not weaken, it expelled the unclean. The body, given time and proper conditions, was a master of restoration, not a fragile vessel in need of constant intervention. What was cancer but the body's last resort to cleanse what had been suppressed for too long? What were bacteria but nature's appointed caretakers, breaking down what could not remain? Yet, in its fear of discomfort, modern thought had declared war upon its own healers, misunderstanding the function of pain and purging.

It was not ignorance that misled them, but arrogance, the belief that nature's design was imperfect, that intervention could out think the wisdom of thousands of years. They sought to correct what was not broken, to heal what was not sick, and in doing so, they ensured perpetual illness.

Shui saw now that true medicine was not in conquest but in harmony, not in the destruction of the body's responses but in their guidance. The ancients had known this, though their words had been dismissed as primitive. Balance, nourishment, and restoration, these were not poetic notions but fundamental truths, evident in all life.

There is no cure, except to return to what had always been known.

Shui exhaled slowly, his mind cutting through illusion like a blade through silk. The question was not whether modern medicine had erred, but why. How could so many minds, brilliant and dedicated, fail to see what was now so clear to him? The answer was disturbingly simple. It was never meant to be seen.

The imbalance was not natural. It was not the fault of chance, nor the misfortune of weak genetics. It was engineered; sickness carefully cultivated under the guise of progress.

Fluoride in the water, they called it protection for teeth, yet it dulled the mind, calcified thought itself; a slow numbing. Chlorine, microplastics, heavy metals, each a whisper of poison, ingested daily, inhaled without question, absorbed through skin and breath alike. They were told it was harmless, yet the body, in its quiet wisdom, protested with disease, with weakness, with minds that could no longer see beyond the veil of normalcy.

And the viruses, what a brilliant illusion. A sickness without substance, a phantom enemy that could justify any measure, any control. A virus was no more than a name given to the body's final cry for balance, its desperate purge of what had been building unseen. But when too much was stored, when the burden of poison reached its peak, the cure itself could become the executioner. The body's attempt to heal too quickly could be fatal, just as anaphylaxis killed faster than venom.

So they did not fight disease, they fought healing. They feared what could cleanse them, ensuring the sickness remained, manageable but never absent, profitable but never cured. A cycle, perfected and disguised, repeated with each new generation; a world where sickness was the expectation, and true health an anomaly.

Shui understood now. Health was rebellion. To break free from the poison, to refuse the numbing agents of mind and body, was the greatest act of defiance. And for those few who could escape the trap, for those untouched by the slow decay, true restoration was not a death sentence, but a gift.

Shui knew that his captors would eventually search for him in this remote village; although he had destroyed the GPS system in the helicopter, it only saved him a few days of time. He stayed in the clinic helping out the doctor and in the evening dug a pit at the back of the clinic in preparation for what life would throw at him next.

2 days later

As the distant rumble of engines grew louder, the villagers looked up from their daily routines, their faces tense with unease. A cloud of dust rose in the distance, growing larger as the convoy of black military vehicles rolled into view, kicking up dirt and gravel. The soldiers, masked and armed, swiftly disembarked, moving with precision through the village. The air shifted, thick with the anticipation of something unknown, and the villagers exchanged wary glances, instinctively retreating into their homes.

The commander adjusted his aviators, his scarred face betraying no emotion as he processed the report. The village was small, insignificant, but it had seen what he was after. He turned to his second-in-command, voice cold and sharp.

"He left yesterday. Toward the forest." He exhaled through his nose, considering. "No trail left behind?"

A soldier saluted. "No footprints, no heat signatures. The wind covered any tracks."

The commander tapped his earpiece and switched channels. A moment of static, then a deep, measured voice answered on the other end, his superior. The voice that always sent a chill down his spine.

"Sir, we've confirmed Subject 314 was here, but he's already moved. Likely into the mountains."

The voice on the other end was unnervingly calm. "A chase through the mountains would be fruitless. He adapts too quickly. Pull back. Patrol the main roads. He will need identification eventually. Our agents across China will handle it. Keep it quiet, we don't want this operation stirring the local authorities."

The commander saluted out of habit, even though his superior couldn't see. "Understood."

He turned back to his men. The operation was classified, the kind of mission that, if it became public knowledge, would stir more than just local trouble. There were channels in place for these things, government contacts, people who could help keep things clean, but there was no need to make it more complicated than it needed to be. They were just looking for fugitives, nothing more.

The convoy reassembled, engines roaring to life. The soldiers loaded up one by one, faces hidden behind their masks. Not realizing that Among Us, someone wasn't the same.

Shui sat silent in the back of the transport, uniform in place, mask concealing his face.

He had anticipated everything, their tactics, their movements, their protocols. He had prepared the pit the night before, taken out a soldier, and replaced him. His heartbeat remained steady as if he was taking a stroll ina park, no one had noticed.

The convoy sped toward the main roads leaving behind an inconspicuous grave with a carved wooden headstone.

The day before...

The doctor watched Shui from the doorway, eyeing him curiously. The young man had been quiet for days, working with focus that bordered on obsession. Now, Shui was carving into a small, weathered piece of wood, the edge of a knife gliding expertly along the grain. The air around them was still, the faint smell of herbs in the air mixing with the musky scent of wood.

"Shui," the doctor finally spoke, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, "Why the hole? And the wood... What are you preparing for?"

Shui paused, the knife hovering above the wooden board. His eyes flickered briefly to the doctor, and then back to his task. There was something in the air, something unsaid that the doctor had sensed. Shui's voice was calm but laced with an unspoken weight.

"Though I want justice, I cannot bring myself to show no honor."

The doctor raised an eyebrow, but Shui's tone made it clear there was no room for further questioning. Shui's hands moved again, steady, purposeful. With each strike of the blade, the words on the board began to take shape.

The doctor hesitated, wondering if it was best to leave the matter alone, but the strange words lingered in his mind. He knew Shui well enough by now to understand the young man's complexity. He had studied medicine, yes, but he had also been fascinated by the philosophical underpinnings of actions, the motivations of those around him. Shui wasn't like other men.

Shui continued his work, carving words into the wood with careful precision. The doctor took a step closer, but remained silent, watching the Chinese characters take form. The poem was becoming clearer now, though he couldn't yet see all the words.

After a long silence, Shui's voice broke through, almost too soft to hear. "The strength of a man lies not in his ability to destroy, but in his resolve to show mercy even when it would be easier to be cruel." He paused again, his hand halting as he read the words, his eyes narrowing in thought. "When faced with consequence, one must stand firm, but with honor. To inflict consequence is not to act recklessly, but to do so with respect, with purpose, and with understanding of the weight carried by such an action."

The doctor could barely comprehend what was being said, but he felt the weight in Shui's words. He had seen the depth of Shui's mind; what appeared as simple carvings were fragments of something far more intricate, something that transcended basic thoughts.

Finally, Shui spoke again, his tone serious but calm. "If there is a man whose life has been taken by consequence, he must be remembered. Not for what he did or didn't do, but because all men deserve the dignity of respect in death."

He finished the last stroke of the carving, his hands steady, and stepped back to observe the board. The poem read:

"In death, we face what we've made of life,

With honor, we live; with honor, we die.

No man wishes to suffer the fate of the unburied,

For in the earth, his body rests, untarnished."

Shui took a breath, his eyes drifting to the empty space where the grave would soon be. "I do not know if he was innocent or guilty," Shui murmured, his gaze distant. "But to bury him properly, with respect... that is a small thing I can do, even if the world chooses to forget him. We honor those who fall, whether by their own hand or by the forces of others."

The doctor stood silently, watching the man who had only days ago been a stranger, and now stood as someone with wisdom that defied understanding. Shui didn't need to explain further. The doctor understood, perhaps for the first time, that Shui was beyond him, beyond anyone, beyond sane.

From then on the doctor was very nice and friendly to Shui and didn't dare to speak harshly at him.