Chapter 5 – The Dead Remember

"You do not bury your past. It buries you."

The fire burned low, crackling against the wind that crept in through the shattered gorge walls. The night felt heavier than usual—as if even the stars were holding their breath.

Aren sat at the edge of the cliff, left hand outstretched, palm turned to the moonlight.

It still wasn't his hand.

Not truly.

The skin bore a jagged scar that wasn't his memory. The bone felt lighter, the fingers longer. He could feel faint tremors twitching in the tendons. Sometimes, when he wasn't looking, the fingers would move.

Yin sat nearby, hugging her knees. She hadn't spoken since they left the gorge.

Neither had Aren.

What was there to say?

He had taken part of a dead man inside himself.

The vision still echoed through him like a wound that wouldn't close. The Ninth Death. A death by divine pyre, burned for blasphemy by a god that once walked the Eastern Skies. And before that—seven other deaths, each more agonizing, more inhuman.

And that voice…

"There are thirteen deaths."

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Was that the end? A finish line? A salvation?

Or just another lie in the long corridor of torment?

Yin finally spoke.

"What are you becoming?"

Her voice wasn't frightened. Just curious. Like she was asking about weather.

Aren didn't answer immediately.

He was still trying to figure that out himself.

After a moment, he said, "A library of corpses."

Yin looked at him. "That's a horrible thing to be."

"Yes."He turned to her. "But also useful."

She frowned.

He held up the foreign hand and clenched it.

"I think… I kept something. From him. That lunatic."A memory flickered—of burning ropes, shattered chains, a technique screamed mid-death."He was mad. But strong. Even if his mind broke, his knowledge survived."

Aren stood.

He didn't stagger.

Didn't limp.

That hand—that death—had changed him.

And it wouldn't be the last.

They left the cliff before sunrise.

No path. No map. Just west, always west. Where the brand pulled. Where the spiral staircase in his death-dreams led. Down.

And with each step, Aren felt it more clearly now:

He wasn't alone anymore.

It began with whispers.

Barely audible. Like the rustle of cloth. Or a name said too softly to catch.

He turned often. Nothing behind him.

But the hand twitched each time. As if trying to point.

Then came the crows.

They circled above, silent, unblinking. Eyes glassy and wrong. They followed them for a full day before vanishing over a ridge of broken mountains. No sound. Just gone.

Yin noticed.

"They're watching us," she said.

"Not us," Aren murmured. "Me."

They reached the ruins of Hai'ren Hollow by nightfall.

It was supposed to be a sanctuary—a hidden sect nestled into the cliffside, protected by spiritual winds. Once, the Hollow had taught Mind Refinement and the Way of the Empty Self. Neutral. Peaceful. Above politics.

Now it was a mausoleum.

The outer gates were broken. The cliff walls were blackened. The disciples—those few who remained—had been crucified inside their meditation chambers, their bodies nailed in lotus positions.

The wind that whistled through the halls still carried the faint chant of mantras:

"I am not. I was not. I never shall be."

Aren felt the scar on his chest hum.

Something was here.

Something old.

They found the Hall of Records untouched.

Or perhaps… avoided.

A massive dome carved from moonstone, supported by pillars etched with ancient memories. No corpses. No damage.

Just dust.

And one lantern still burning.

Inside, scrolls hung from spiderweb-thin threads in the ceiling, descending slowly when called. Every life that had ever passed through the Hollow was recorded there.

Aren walked beneath the threads in silence.

Yin didn't enter.

She stood at the threshold like it was a temple and she was unworthy.

Aren reached out.

The brand on his chest pulled.

And a single scroll descended—slowly, deliberately.

He opened it.

And read his own name.

-- "Aren Yu

Born of mud. Bled in silence.

Marked by failure. Keeper of Eight.

Yet he walks.

The Vow does not forget its debt." --

The scroll burned as he finished.

No ash. No flame. Just gone.

Something stirred behind him.

A voice. Feminine. Cold as moonlight.

"You shouldn't be here."

Aren turned.

The woman was tall. Robed in white, face hidden behind a porcelain mask. Her eyes glowed faintly from the slits—too bright to be mortal.

She bore no weapon. She didn't need one.

He knew her kind.

"Collector?" he asked.

She inclined her head. "Witness."

"The difference?"

"Witnesses record. Collectors harvest. I do not harm. I only judge."

Yin stepped in from the doorway, cautious. The Witness didn't even glance at her.

"I read my record," Aren said.

"I know."

"I want answers."

The Witness tilted her head. "The Dead do not get answers, Scarlet Walker. They only get penance."

Aren's eyes narrowed. "I never asked for this."

"No one does."

Then the ground shook.

A deep rumble. Like the throat of the mountain had growled.

The Witness turned suddenly.

"Too late," she said.

And vanished.

From the depths of the Hollow, a voice rose.

Male. But layered. Like five people speaking at once.

"NINE."

Aren's chest burned.

He staggered back. The brand glowed crimson.

Stone shattered as something crawled out of the mountain.

It wasn't a man.

It wasn't even human anymore.

A hunched creature of bone and chain, fused with armor that had once belonged to a general of the Divine Legion. Its face was covered in blindfolds, its mouth stitched shut with jade thread. But its voice still came—from its scars.

"NINE OF THIRTEEN. RETURN."

Aren stepped forward, ignoring the blood now pouring from his chest.

"What are you?" he asked.

The creature stopped, cocking its head.

"I AM THE ELEVENTH."

Yin screamed.

The creature lunged.

The fight was not elegant.

It was raw.

The Eleventh moved like a puppet with broken strings—spasms of unnatural speed, joints cracking the wrong way. But each strike carried centuries of cultivated weight. This was no rogue. This was a warrior who had died again and again, and come back twisted each time.

Aren tried to dodge.

Too slow.

His ribs shattered.

He tried to speak a mantra he once learned before his first death.

The Eleventh struck again—shattering his spine.

Then it stopped.

And knelt.

It didn't kill Aren.

It waited.

Aren lay broken, staring up at the night sky through the dome.

His heart stopped.

Again.

🩸Death Nine

This time, there was no staircase.

Only a door.

Wide. Carved of flesh and bone. It breathed.

Aren stood, unbroken, clothed in the red robes of something ancient.

The Eleventh stood beside him.

"You were not meant to wake this early," the creature said in a voice less broken here.

Aren turned. "Why are you waiting for me?"

"Because I remember," it said. "Because I died Eleven times waiting."

Aren looked down at the robe.

"Is this what I become?"

"No," the Eleventh replied. "You choose what you carry. Each death… is a gift."

Aren's voice was quiet.

"Then who's behind the door?"

The Eleventh hesitated.

Then spoke:

"The First."

🩸End of Chapter 5 – "The Dead Remember"

Next: Chapter 6 – "The First Vow"