Panicked, Song Yi reached down to grasp his most powerful weapon — the obsidian axe. But the axe wasn’t there. His body was no longer incorporeal, but it seemed that, aside from his clothes, he had no other possessions within this space.

Multiple thoughts flashed through his mind. Had he been kidnapped while he was sleeping? Drugged and brought to this prison? There were plenty of people angry with him, but he didn’t believe any of them to be influential enough to do such a thing.

Besides, that couldn’t account for the disappearance of the monarch.

But there was one other place where he could not contact the monarch: In the world of Qi.

Which meant that, most likely, this place had something to do with the meditative state he’d been in only moments prior. But if he were simply meditating, then why was he incapable of connecting with his true body and waking up? There were far too many unknowns.

On instinct, he checked his surroundings.

He was in a wide hallway, with plenty of room to maneuver. The cell he’d come out of was the dead end of the hallway. There were no other cells visible.

At the far end of the hallway was a wooden gate. Written on this gate in red paint was the character for “person.”

Aside from this, he could see nothing else. The source of the voice from earlier wasn’t clear. There were no other life forms present.

Gathering some Qi into his hand, Song Yi struck the wall with an open palm.

Slap!

Nothing happened. Not a single stone showed any signs of movement.

Behind him was a cell. To the sides were immovable walls. In front lay a mysterious gate.

It seemed as though there was no option but forward. Staying vigilant, Song Yi walked down the corridor. When he walked, his footsteps made no sound. This had nothing to do with the nature of the hallway, but rather Song Yi’s history of thievery.

As he walked, he began to hate the feeling of being trapped. The hall was spacious, but he felt claustrophobic nonetheless. The corridor felt as though it were spinning, the walls closing in.

By controlling his breathing, he managed to push the sensation away. He continued further.

There was something he was forgetting. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite place what it was. It frustrated him that he couldn’t even recall why it was important.

Song Yi looked at the door in the distance. It didn’t feel as though it had come any closer. He simply continued to put one foot in front of the other.

Was there some kind of trick? There had to be. Some sort of Qi was creating an optical illusion that was blocking him from moving forward, maybe. But it was a straight corridor. It wasn’t like he was walking in circles — he was certainly moving forward.

He took one of the torches from its socket on the wall as a test, carrying it with him as he continued.

What must have been hours later, the torch he held flickered out. Those still attached to the walls, though, continued to burn brightly. He never again encountered the empty socket he had left behind.

He began to feel light-headed. His body was weary, exhausted. How long he had been walking, he couldn’t tell. Clearly, though, it had taken its toll on him. Deciding to take a rest, he sat down against the wall.

Still wary, he refused to sleep, and instead attempted to meditate. Perhaps there was another way out of this situation.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

The meditative state was quickly interrupted by a sharp pain.

His palms hurt. They were bleeding. Somehow, he had dug his nails into his palms without realizing it.

But why? He hadn’t done it intentionally.

A tear rolled down his face. Before he could brush it away, though, he froze. Looking at his hand, he saw it was skinny and wrinkled. One could be forgiven for thinking this was the hand of someone who had died decades prior.

“What’s going on?” he asked aloud.

His voice sounded strange to him. He didn’t recognize it. It contained none of the youthfulness that it usually did. Now, it was old and feeble.

“Who am I?”

----------

In a dimly lit corridor, a figure sat in a fetal position up against the wall. This person did not move. In fact, they hadn’t moved in so long that they may have forgotten how.

Their facial features were hidden in shadow, difficult to see save for two dull eyes that shone in the torchlight.

They did not know how long they had sat against the wall. They could not remember.

They knew, at least, that it had been so long they’d forgotten their name.

They couldn’t remember what had come before this hallway.

Perhaps they were born here. They would surely die here.

Sometimes, they spoke to themselves. They didn’t always understand their words, but they spoke them nonetheless. It simply felt right.

“Hey, Old Man, are you there?” they asked.

The crackling of the mounted torches was all that answered the call.

The figure laughed. It was a dry, raspy chuckle.

“Of course not. The only old man here is me, after all…”

The laughing turned into feeble coughing. His body felt weaker than ever. The end was nearing, and he knew it.

“All this time, and I still can’t find my purpose. Perhaps this is how it was meant to be.”

He began to hum a tune to himself. The melody started out happy. It was bright and bouncy, flitting from one place to the next, unable to settle down. But hidden beneath those notes was an underlying somber. A solitude that was evidenced only in the absence of certain notes.

The pace of the song quickened. It became urgent, imploring. And then quiet.

With the quiet came a hallowing verse that echoed through the hall, enough to chill any living creature to the bone.

Finally, silence.

“I don’t know how this song ends…” the figure muttered almost inaudibly. “But I know this can’t be it. Perhaps there’s still time to find one.”

He didn’t understand what motivated him. This tune was not one he had sung before. But the question that had been on his mind so long had finally been answered. He had found his purpose: To finish this song.

With bones that groaned with the pain of countless years of catharsis, the old man stood up.

Directly in front of him was a giant wooden gate, embellished with the character for “person.”

“Hello, old friend. Would you please open up?”

He raised his hand to touch the door. His skin was so thin that the bone beneath was visible.

In response to his touch, the white paint on the door shifted. The “person” character was pushed to the side, accompanied by the character for “mountain.”

Together, they made the character for “immortal.”

This character, too, faded away as the door swung open slowly.

The walls began to shake.

“The Gate of Man has been opened.” It had been a long time since the old man heard a voice other than his own in this corridor. It shook him to the core.

Still, he stepped through the gate.

When he did, he saw a grassy glade. Next to a lake was the body of a young man, unconscious.

The old man noticed this young man wore the same clothes as him. By now, he’d connected the dots.

The old, incorporeal Song Yi stood over his real body, ready to merge back into it once more.

Before he did, though, he saw another person standing nearby.

It was another old man, though this one wore much more fanciful clothing. His robe was exquisite, multi-layered and a perfect mix between fashion, comfort and practicality. He had a head of long, gray hair, atop which rested a simple golden crown.

His features were hardened, yet kind. In his eyes could be seen profound sorrow and weariness, but also determination. For a moment, Song Yi was stunned at the sight of him. Such a man might be seen no more than once in a lifetime.

Song Yi still had not regained his memories, but he could sense a deep connection to this fellow senior. He bowed.

The other man bowed back. “What happened?” he asked.

“My life lacked purpose, so I died.”

The other man smiled. “You’ve found your purpose, then?”

“Yes.”

“Then be reborn once more.”