Chapter 17 – Wounds Without End
The Scorched Valley greeted Rin Xie with silence—a silence too thick, too absolute to be natural. The air clung to his lungs like a breath that refused to exhale, stilled not by peace but by the weight of unending conflict. The soil, blackened and cracked, bore the marks of battles long forgotten. Charred remains of shattered weapons and bones interwove with ash-laden grasses, their blades sharp as regret. There were no birds, no insects, no wind—only the scent of burnt flesh that had never faded.
This was where the heavens first descended.
Millennia ago, the divine struck down into the mortal world here, leaving a valley ruptured by holy flame and fractured time. It was said the gods themselves carved this land open as punishment for the mortals who dared cultivate death. The battle had ended in silence, but its warriors had not.
They still fought.
Rin took a step forward. The heat surged around his ankles like whispers from a fire that never died. The sky above was burned a dull copper, its light filtered through layers of spiritual residue. A haze shimmered across the valley like an illusion, but he knew better. These were not ghosts.
They were wounds.
Dozens of them—spirits of the dead warriors—suddenly appeared in flickering flashes, locked in the same ceaseless movements. Soldiers in ancient armor clashed with ethereal blades that never dulled. They bled but never died, screamed but never fell silent. Some had no eyes, others bore swords through their guts, and still others fought with severed limbs flailing uselessly as they pressed forward against unseen foes.
And they all turned toward Rin.
A hush followed his presence, but only for a breath. Then they surged forward—not with hatred, but with desperation. To them, Rin was another enemy. Another invader upon their sacred field of war. The living did not belong in the Scorched Valley, and the dead had long forgotten mercy.
Rin did not lift his blade.
He had already decided.