Hopes and dreams.

Strange how two simple words can mean so much.

Pain and misery.

More words packed with significance. I’m not sure which pair applies more to my life.

Life. There was a time when I was drunk on hope and dared to dream of life. Of living. Of going out into the world to find my place within. To find women to love. Family to cherish. Friends to stand by. Pets to spoil. Dreams. Fantasies. Taunting nightmares to soothe my tired soul and make me forget the horror of the waking world, which only serves to make things so much worse when I wake each morning, jolted out of those pleasant dreams by the unyielding boot.

Those dreams are little more than a distant memory, remnants of remnants I can barely recollect. Now, I dream of death. Of nonexistence. Of oblivion. The abyss calls to me, the empty darkness of the void, a blissful haven of nihility where no one can hurt me, a place I can finally rest in peace. Peace of the grave, peace of the sword, the peace of surrender and non-existence. A tempting proposition, yet though death seeks to seduce me, I fear the void too much to embrace it. I am not yet ready to die, but why? What do I have to live for? Every day begins with the boot and my pain and misery resumes once again, picking up where we last left off and only growing from there.

How long has it been since I woke wholly rested? Night falls, the day ends, and as I lay my weary head down to sleep, the morning dawns and the boot returns.

How long has it been since I quenched my thirst or filled my belly? That I can still stand is nothing short of Divine punishment, forcing me to live when I should be dead and gone.

That wouldn’t be so bad. Dying of thirst or starvation. No, it would be horrible, but better than the alternative, I suppose. It’ll happen someday soon, I suppose. I’ll just stumble and fall, and no amount of punishment will bring me back to my feet. Then, I’d just die, of no fault of my own, a victory of sorts against my tormentors, and a reward for enduring more than what any child should ever endure.

Child?

I’m no child. I’m a grown ass man. A tired, beaten one, who no longer has it in him to hope. So I guess it doesn’t change anything, but still. It matters. The truth matters. I am a beaten, tired, thirsty, hungry, helpless man.

Whose life is filled with pain and misery to no end.

Also true.

Why cling to existence and suffering? What reason do I have to continue on? Better to surrender to circumstance and slip peacefully into oblivion.

Except I know oblivion is a lie. The peace of the grave is not true peace, because true peace can only come from within. If I accept death in this life, there will only be another life to live, one in which the shame of failure will follow me. That matters. I will know I gave up, will know I couldn’t fight the good fight, and that knowledge will change me for the worse. I will never give up. Never surrender. Where there is life, there is hope. Sweet, painful hope, but hope nonetheless. I hope for death, but I will not embrace it. If the Heavens want me dead, then they’ll have to kill me themselves.

I am no quitter. I have people to rely on, and I will struggle to the bitter end.

The boot arrives as it always does, and a new day begins, one full of promised pain and misery, my penance for daring to harbour hopes and dreams. Food and water? None for me, though the other slaves eat and drink a plenty. In my dreams, I was a Warrior, a Talent beyond compare, but here, I am the weakest, lowliest slave of all, one who does not deserve sustenance. To avoid madness and temptation, I stare at my bruised, bloody, body and take stock of my injuries, a litany which can last a lifetime, if I’m lucky.

My feet. Oh god, my feet. They’re still whole, but barely recognizable. Cracked, bloodied, and misshapen, it hurts just to look at them, to think about, and even more to stand, but stand I must even during mealtime lest I be beaten for laziness. My toenails are all gone, ripped away one by one for varying reasons, more reasons than I even have toes, the memories dredged up by a fresh wave of agony as I shift my feet in nervous agitation. My calves are in no better shape, with strips of skin flayed away in alternating layers, so the half-healed scabs burst and break every time I squat to gather stones. My shins are so covered in bruises it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins, but those pains are only a dull throb compared to the sharp pangs of torn flesh. There’s a glaring disconnect between my feet and my calves, namely my untouched ankles, spared from torment so I can still walk and work despite my other injuries. My knees are the same, but my ragged tunic hides the worst of my injuries, and my mind rebels when I try to catalogue them.

There are some memories not worth bringing up, some torments best left locked away. The agony remains to remind me, but best not to dwell and move on.

I have six fingers left split between two trembling hands, the stumps still raw and bleeding. These wounds hurt more than anything else, the pain piercing through to the core of my very soul and haunting me with their absence. Every other injury was inflicted upon me, but my four missing fingers? Those, I cut off myself, a decision I made between self-inflicted suffering or having suffering inflicted upon me, and my weakness shames me more than I care to admit. I should’ve refused, should’ve fought back, stabbed my knife into the guard’s tender thigh and fought until they had no choice but to kill me, but the fear of what might happen if I survive kept me from following through. I am no Warrior, only a slave who dreams of being one, and I can envision a thousand unsettling ways things could go if I ever got it in my head to fight back.

The visions. So realistic and lifelike, as if I’d experienced it all myself firsthand, but then I would not have the strength to stand here.

Still, I could fight back in other ways. Like convincing the slaves to join hands.

How? Through the power of eloquent speech? Why would they even listen to a worthless runt like me?

I could sneak away in the darkness of night.

Assuming I can find the strength to stay awake after a long day’s work, and a spot to escape from, and avoid detection from the patrolling guards, and travel fast and far enough to escape pursuit without leaving a trace behind, where would I even go once free? Who would want me, a beaten, defeated, mutilated slave with no skills or prospects to be had?

No, better to give up and surrender. There is no hope, not for someone like me. I am but a useless, worthless child, one hated by the Heavens and fated to languish in suffering. So much suffering, yet still a lifetime left to endure. Yesterday, I cut off my fourth finger, the maximum any slave can lose, so what will they ask me to cut off next?

“Asked and answered,” the Heavens reply, as a solid fist clips me in the side of the head.

“Ye deaf or sumthin’, slave?”

While the guard administers my beating, my mind shuts down on reflex until the pain becomes manageable once more. That said, the rest of my body is still wholly functional, crying, screaming, and cowering as fist, lash, and boot fall upon me with expert accuracy, striking to inflict maximum pain with minimum injury. A good thing too, because they never stop until their sadistic natures are satisfied, as I learned to my great regret. Enduring the pain only gets me beaten worse, so better to submit and show them what they want. A snivelling coward and beaten child wholly without courage or shame. Only after the abuse comes to a halt do I understand the reason for this beating, for the other slaves are all lined up and ready to march, while I stood staring at my feet and hands.

Choking back my whimpers as best I can, I curl up on the floor and wait. I dare not move until the order is given, for trying to escape only makes it worse. Head in the dirt and arms over my head, I lay there and wait for the beating to continue or the guards to kick me away, but long seconds pass without sound or movement. For a brief, blissful moment, I wonder if I’m dying and not long for the world, but even this last respite is denied me. “Got ourselves a lazy troublemaker, we do,” the guard says, grabbing me by the hair and lifting my head to get a better look at my face. I dare not look back and avert my eyes to show submission, my body so worn and weary I can’t even tremble in terror. “A deaf mute to boot. Can’t follow orders, can’t beg fer mercy, can’t do proper work. What we keepin’ you around fer?”

No idea. Might as well kill me. I won’t even fight it.

Denied sweet relief yet again, the guard releases his grip on my hair and I drop back into the dirt, too overwhelmed with pain and exhaustion to do anything else. No one has told me to do anything yet, which means my punishment has yet to end, but I’m beyond caring already, beyond fear and self-preservation. Death will come, but I will not yield, because they can kill me, but only I can admit defeat. So long as there is life, there is hope. Hope for a quick, painless death, slim though this hope may be.

My eyes snap open at the sound of a familiar metallic clink, and before me lays the same knife which took my fingers. The dull, tarnished blade has not been sharpened in its lifetime, and my blood still stains the loose, wooden handle, ugly to behold and just within reach. “Since ye can’t follow simple orders,” the guard drawls, chuckling as he speaks, “Then ye don’t need both yer ears, now do ye?”

Why can’t they leave me alone in peace? All I want to do is survive, but each passing day, they push me closer to the brink. An eternity passes as I consider my options, and once again, self-preservation overcomes shame as the myriad of disasters awaiting me should I resist flash through my mind. There’s just too many ways for the guards to make my life even worse without ending it. Though other slaves may be beaten and killed, I suspect there’s a running bet on how long I last, because they simply refuse to let me die.

No. Use this knife and seize this chance, because even if it costs me a slow and agonizing existence, repaying even a moment of minuscule suffering seems worth it to me.

There is no hesitation as I reach out and grab the blade, no regret as I plunge it through the guard’s knee, and a smile stretches across my face even as they hold me down and strip the flesh from my wizened frame. When there is no skin left, they coat me in salt, a treatment for my wounds they say, even as the agony flares up anew, and when they are done with their games, they make me thank them for their care, which I do while wishing they left my injuries to fester and kill me.

A dream. The knife still sits just within reach, and I take it up once again, rising with the intent to gut the guard, only to be put back down by a heavy boot. I’m too slow, too weak, and my act of defiance earns me a day hanging on meat hooks, with barbed, metallic spikes driven deep into my palms while the guards light coals beneath my suspended feet. For long hours, I fight to keep away from the burning coals, but to no avail, unable to hold my legs up for any amount of time without experiencing immense pain in my hands and shoulders. Soon, the coals burn away all sensation in my feet and I pass out from the ordeal, only to wake and find the charred stumps sitting on a plate in front of me, while the guards laugh and joke about my ‘sumptuous’ feast. I will not eat it though, for a man has limits, and I would rather live in agony than cross mine.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

A dream. The knife still sits just within reach, and I take it once again, only this time, I do nothing but hold it while trying to see if I’m still dreaming. The punishment for hesitation comes soon enough, but the veil is lifted and the illusion shattered. The suffering continues a few seconds more, but once it becomes clear I’ve slipped free of his hold, Zhen Shi goes through the same tired motions once again. Emerging from the thread feels all too familiar for only one or two visits, and I idly wonder how many times we’ve been through this routine before. Ten times? Dozens? Hundreds? Who knows. Not me, that’s for sure, but I’m getting real tired of this shit. How many times I gotta teach you the same lesson old man? I will not surrender.

My first instinct is not to mouth off, but fear and shame keep me from meeting his eyes as his towering form appears before me, looming overhead like a god before an ant. Sitting up high with his cold, impassive grimace of complete and utter disdain, he does not speak, and I do not taunt him, yet somehow I know his attention is fixated on some event or another happening out in the real world. Better than focusing on the worthless, helpless me, so I tremble and consider the implications of this Natal Palace around me. To my eyes, there is only me, Zhen Shi, and the void, but I’m not sure if he himself is the limit of his Natal Palace and I now stand outside in the void, or if his boundaries are so far away I cannot even begin to perceive them. The temptation to flee is almost too powerful to resist, but as much as I would like to return to the safety and sanctity of my own body, my mangled feet remain glued in place, unable to break free of this mental prison.

Which direction is my real self even in? I’ve never had to find myself, I just... return there when sent away. The void is vast and empty, how am I to find myself within?

...Is this even a mental prison? I never did figure out what happens when I visit other Natal Palaces. When I called him a Natal Soul, Gen Shi said my naming scheme was ‘surprisingly apt’, but I’m not entirely sure what that means. When I visit a Natal Palace, am I sending my entire soul through, or just a Natal Soul, a portion of the whole, kinda like a benign quasi-Spectre? Huh, I guess I wasn’t all that far off when I thought I was a Spectre and Baledagh the real me, though not in the way I expected. One of us was kinda a Spectre, though which one varied as I switched back and forth between personalities.

Now that I think about it, a lot of what I did has similarities to what Zhen Shi does. In fact, I think the Zhen Shi before me isn’t actually the real deal, but rather an amalgamated Natal Soul and Keystone. I already guessed that the flowing robes were some sort of Keystone, one whose purpose is to keep all those countless Spectres trapped within in line. I also think it’s a Natal Soul, but one without independent agency, in that it simply automates whatever tasks the real Zhen Shi sets forth, without the ability to make decisions on its own. That’s why he has yet to speak, because he’s waiting on the real Zhen Shi to finish up with whatever he’s doing so he has the attention to spare to take control of this Natal Soul. No idea why he’s doing things this way, since technically, this Natal Soul is him in that it’s merely a part of his mind dedicated to a specific task at the exclusion of all else, but I dunno. Maybe he’s worried about developing split personalities, a very real possibility as I experienced first-hand, or maybe he has other reasons, but whatever they are, I can’t help but wonder how he came to develop this Natal Soul technique in the first place.

I mean, it’s not like he also went crazy and started talking to himself too, right?

Wait. Hang on. Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. I just assumed this was a Natal Soul, because I had one too, but I may have let my personal experiences colour my perception. No one else I’ve spoken to knew anything about Natal Souls, not even Mahakala, who I later assumed had a Natal Soul of his own, because when I met him inside his Natal Palace, he looked different from how he looked in real life. When I visited other Natal Palaces, like Dagen’s, Bei’s, Yo Ling’s, Ping Ping’s, and Pong Pong’s, again, I assumed I came face to face with a Natal Soul, one puppeted by the real person’s thoughts, but that doesn’t make sense. Yes, I had a Natal Soul sitting in my Natal Palace at all times, but only because I needed someone to look at while conversing with my other personality. Why would anyone else go to all the trouble of doing the same?

What I’m getting at is... what if this Zhen Shi in front of me isn’t a Natal Soul, but his actual, bonafide Soul?

...And what if I’m not a Natal Soul, but the real deal instead? I mean... that can’t be safe, letting my eternal soul wander away from my body. Great going idiot. Brilliant work like always, marching your soul out into the empty void, where... I dunno. Anything can happen. A soul does not seem like something you really want to gamble with, and I’ve been rolling the dice without even knowing it. Can my body even survive without my soul? What purpose does a soul serve? If I die here, what do I leave behind? An empty soulless Falling Rain who... what? Stays in a coma? Or wakes up and starts torturing small animals because he has no conscience? What is the soul? What is it that makes us human?

Shifting to ease the pain of my mangled, beaten feet, I notice my injuries still persist and almost want to die of embarrassment at my complete and utter stupidity. Forget the torment inflicted upon me, I’ve been willingly cutting off pieces of my soul. Just lopping finger-sized chunks of soul right off and leaving them behind. That can’t be good, especially considering the great lengths Zhen Shi went to get me to do this, jumping me when I was spent and exhausted so he could trick me into leaving and weaving an elaborate illusion to keep me docile. Then every time I discovered the truth, and there have been many, many times, he thrust me back into oblivion until I forgot, before putting me through the wringer once more.

I need information. I need to know what his goal is. Well, he seems hell-bent on convincing me to surrender. Why? Does he want me to go through Demonification during battle and strike a blow to Imperial morale? Or is he trying to puppet me like he puppet’s Gen? Maybe he’s got more reasons, but those are the only two I can think of right now. A good thing I’m stubborn and refuse to give up, but I’m not entirely sure how much longer I can keep up the good fight. Even now, with the truth revealed, I am terrified just standing in his presence, unable to lift my head and raise my eyes to study this most fearsome of foes. There are no snarky comments in mind, no disrespectful quips on the tip of my tongue, not even a pithy remark about how Shang Tsung did all this first.

No. Stop it. That’s the problem. I’m behaving submissively, like the beaten slave back in the mines rather than the person I’ve grown into since then. My soul does not belong to Zhen Shi, nor am I a slave to kneel at his feet. That’s what he wants from me, fear and subservience, and I’m not gonna lie, he probably has it. Not willingly, of course, but I’m so scared of what he can do, I can’t even bring myself to try and escape. Well fuck that. I am Falling Rain, husband to Sumila and Du Min Yan, betrothed of Mei Lin, Junior Brother of Li Song, and title pending to Zheng Luo. I am a Warrior of the People, Legate of the Empire, and Finance Minister Extraordinaire, a man who spoils his sweet pets and will never give up, because I don’t know how to quit.

It’s time to fight back.

Zhen Shi shifts and opens his mouth to speak, and my courage fades fast.

It’s time to flee.

Dashing into the void, I will myself away from this nightmare and return to my body once more. There is no sensation of movement, only the emptiness of the void, but in between blinks, the world comes to life around me as I find myself surrounded by my pets and loved ones. Beset by giggles brought about by bear snuffles, rabbit kisses, kitten headbutts, and bird nuzzles, I heave a sigh of relief and take in the fresh, Central air. Okay, maybe not so fresh, heavy with the scent of blood and death, but better than not-breathing nothingness in the void.

Mila, Yan, Lin-Lin, and Song all smile at me from my side, saying nothing as they collectively help me to my feet, their warm, soft bodies pressing against me as they wrap me in a big group hug.

Only to have all of them torn away as the world erupts into flames.

The pain of being burned alive is not the worst pain I’ve ever felt, though it ranks pretty highly. The heat comes first, your flesh seared by the flames and charring your skin black. Then, your fat boils and pops, causing your new crispy hide to crack and the pain to radiate down to the bone. Eventually though, your nerves die and the pain is only a memory, aside from the inner parts of your body which are still undercooked. It’s highly unpleasant, but the award for worst pain ever is not something I’ve ever experienced before, in real life or the millions upon millions of fake lives I’ve lived through.

The worst pain I’ve ever felt, is what I feel now, seeing Mila shove me away while she, Yan, Lin, and Song go up in a pillar of flames.

The inferno sucks the air from my lungs and steals away my screams, the heat evaporating my tears before ever touching my cheeks. A distant part of my mind notes that some of my pets almost escaped, as their smoking, smouldering bodies collapse and crumble apart. Cool, blessed water washes over me and douses the unnatural flames in an instant, but even as a stream of Healing Energy surges into my body, I feel it cut short as an armoured Demon burst out of Concealment and smashes its fist through Tokta’s chest. More Demons emerge, all cut from the same cloth, armoured entities of muscle and hatred who overpower my guards through sheer weight of numbers. Ping Ping makes a valiant effort to save me, but the attack caught her off-guard and left her frightened and injured. Her shell peeling and skin blistering from the intense heat, she makes a frantic effort and blows several Demons away with blasts of Water, but then another pillar of flames erupts from the earth and her death scream shatters what remains of my broken heart.

Leaving naught but rage behind.

A futile, impotent rage which serves no purpose as I charge the closest Demon, only to be swatted away like the useless cripple I’ve become.

Growth? What growth? I’m as worthless as I’ve always been, a weak, stupid child who doesn’t know how high the heavens truly are.

Striding out of the flames without his signature sneer, Gen-Shi marches over with an almost lazy stride, chin raised and hands clasped behind his back like a nobleman born. Grandeur and dignity ooze from every pore of his body, his cold indifference cementing the reality before me. This is no mere pretender, but Zhen Shi himself, wholly in control of Gen’s body and here to deal with me once and for all. Behind him stands an unimpressive, dusky man with an enormous glaive and golden helmet plume, as well as an armoured Demon with hate-filled amber eyes. Each holds a severed head in hand belonging to Akanai and Mom respectively, and my mind sets to screaming in abject denial even as I cry in silent despair. Studying me as I would study an unpleasant insect, Zhen-Shi makes no gesture and gives no orders, but the silent and deadly armoured Demons lift me to my feet. Faced with my hated foe, I finally find it in myself to fight and flail, scream and spit, rage and sob, but to no end, for he has taken everything from me, and I have nothing left.

“Little Worm dresses in Imperial Armour and calls himself Legate,” Zhen Shi begins, his tone dripping with bored disdain, “And believes himself powerful. Foolish child. There is no power of any worth besides personal power. This Sovereign thought to ally with you, then later use you, but you are too stubborn and not worth the effort. Might makes right, that is the law of the Heavens, and you, little worm, have been found wanting.”

His piece said, Zhen Shi turns away and unleashes another blast of flame, one which kills a handful of soldiers and sends dozens fleeing away. Powerless rage gives way to paralyzed shock, and I can do naught but watch as the Imperial Army is ground to dust beneath Defiled boots. Everywhere I look, Imperial soldiers are cut down by Chosen and Demons alike, the screams of the dying sounding clear as a bell while desperate men and women beg for mercy which they know will not come. The battle turns into a rout, the rout into a slaughter, and when the dust settles, only victorious Defiled and defeated Imperials are left alive, much to the latter group’s regret.

Not content to let me wallow in misery, the Demons march me about the defeated army and show me the horrors the Defiled have wrought, familiar faces twisted in pain and horror as they too pray for death. Try as I might to block it all out, there is no ignoring the screams directed towards me, the pleas from unfortunate soldiers begging for salvation or condemning me for my foolish ways. This is my fault, their blood stained on my hands, for I gave the order to march and sealed their ignoble fates.

A few soldiers make a good fight of it, and I see Zian lead the charge, only for his meagre efforts to be swatted down as easily as mine were. Soon, I see where he found the courage to fight, as Jing Fei’s screams fill the air and are met with cheers and laughter from the Defiled. Other men and women share her suffering, the Defiled none too picky when it comes to sexual preference, and again, I see familiar faces in the crowd despite doing my best not to look too carefully. Worse off are those who continue to fight, like Fung, Seoyoon, Vichear, Tenjin, Tursinai, and so many others, all formed up in a square and surrounded on all sides, but still fighting to sell their lives dearly. Leading them is none other than my sister herself, covered in blood and cuts as she struggles to the last, but then she sees me held captive and reason gives way to rage.

“No,” I scream, but it’s already too late, her last, desperate charge dismantled by the Enemy’s greater numbers. Were it not for me, they could’ve held out for longer, or at the very least died a better death, but in their haste to rescue me, my sister and friends have now been captured alive and doomed to suffer a fate far worse than death. The Demons stay and watch, but I cannot bear to open my eyes, my sister’s every scream driving daggers deep into my soul. Hearing Alsantset suffer is a thousand times worse than enduring the pain myself, because she was the one who saved me from what should have been my end, the one who found me and brought me to safety, the one who shared her home and hearth despite all the risks it entailed.

And I have brought nothing but suffering into her life, a calamity of sorrow and regret.

This is the Path I have chosen. This is the fate I have wrought. Better if I’d died in those mines, before my sister ever found me, a mistake I can never correct.

The tour continues, but I am already broken and defeated, so much so that it barely registers when I hear Dad’s name in reference to his overwhelming defeat at the hands of someone named Huanhuzi and his fleet of ships. I thought the Enemy might attack by sea, and I put countermeasures into place, but I suppose it wasn’t enough in the end. The South fell too, to some General named Yuchun, and again, I lament my insufficient preparations, but despite some small part of me wanting to figure out what went wrong, I don’t have it in me to care anymore.

Rather than kill me, the Demons bring me back to Zhen Shi, or rather the Gen being puppeted by him. The monster who took everything from me doesn’t even spare me a glance, and instead, the golden-plumed general hands me a scroll and says, “This Prince will spare your dog life, Legate of the Empire. Return to your Citadel, and present our terms. They be most generous, and this Prince urges you to accept.”

Glancing down at the sealed document, I see the scroll is labelled, ‘Terms of Surrender.’ The Imperial Army won’t accept them, else I’d just sign it right here, but I cannot return to my people like this. How can I face Taduk, Husolt, and Charok? How can I tell them everyone they love and hold dear has died? No, better if I died here with them, so I can spare myself the pain of their anger and disappointment, to be cursed at and disowned by the only family I have left. No, I can’t face that pain, I can’t do this anymore. I’ve fought long enough, but this... this is too much.

I still live, but I have no hope.

I can’t do this anymore.

Oblivion calls.

And I answer, fleeing for the safety and sanctity of a lie, seeking nihility and non-existence because it is the only escape I have left.

Better if I had never loved, so I would have nothing to lose.

Better if I had never hoped, so nothing would ever disappoint me.

Better if I had never existed, so suffering would never touch me.

I give up.

I surrender.

The world turns to darkness as I retreat to the void, where senseless oblivion awaits.

And here I will remain, forevermore.

Chapter Meme 1

Chapter Meme 2

Chapter Meme 3