60. Divergence

It did not begin in the city.

It began out in the jungles.

The dead began to rise, and feast on the living. The ghouls that rose from the grave were lonely and desperate to make more dead for the company, and few of the living had the strength to stop them.

Desperation ran through the people as they fled to the city, or their local sects, or the clans of the mightiest warriors they could find. They pleaded for protection. Many were granted admittance. Others turned their refugees away.

Those who turned them away soon found themselves overrun as the very people they had refused to protect returned, and this time they did not knock on the doors but leapt over the walls with cold limbs and hungry maws.

Those who accepted their refugees were little better off, but they at least had the sense to burn their dead and patrol their borders.

Only two cities seemed to be safe.

Mer’cah, where the remnants of the formation that Po Guah had set up during the attack from Ko Ren purified whatever energies were causing the undead to rise in the first place.

And Resh Fali, where the residents had always been burning their dead since they first arrived in the south, meaning that there were no corpses to rise.

Slowly, undeath began to squeeze the life out of the world of Atla.

The living would not give up without a fight, but it was a desperate and hopeless fight, in bad weather, poor terrain, and against overwhelming odds.

Because every time a warrior fell.

They got back up and fought for the enemy.

~~~~~~

Twelve times I slew my students.

On the thirteenth week, the thirteenth day to the outside world but the thirteenth week for those living on my mountain, there came a moment.

I committed to killing my students in order to save them. I waited a moment for the memories of the future to return.

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And they did not.

I paused, waiting another moment.

The others waited for me to attack, their guards up, their links already formed, but they would not commit to the first attack. They knew now what this cost me, and they too were hesitant.

But the memories from the future did not return.

I sank to one knee.

“You have passed,” I said.

They did not let up their guard. I half expected them to attack. They did not understand.

If the memories did not come from the future, then that meant that I had failed to activate the array to send our souls back into the past. The only way that this would have happened was if they had managed to slay me.

“It’s over. You have graduated. You’ve passed my final test,” I repeated. “We will not fight today, nor ever again. You should return to Mer’cah as soon as possible, the hour grows late and the darkness rises. The people need to see the light of the moons so that they can find the stars of their souls.”

“Why don’t we remember?” Hien Ro asked after a moment.

“Because that is how it works,” I explained. I did not have the words to tell them the truth. That even now, there was a timeline in which they had slain me. That it was slowly unraveling as it became unreal, having never happened. That a part of their soul which had killed their teacher was ceasing to be because it never was.

“What about you?” Hien Ro asked. “Do you remember the fight?”

“Yes,” I lied. “You all acquitted yourself well. I slew three of you before one of you made the final strike and won the match. I will not say names. Now go. I wish to be alone.”

They exchanged looks.

Then they carried me down the mountain despite my protests that there was no need.

It took me six days to convince them that I was fine and that they must leave. I gave each of them their mountains to carry with them their private sanctuaries, and I cajoled them to leave and return.

But finally, finally, I was left alone, with only Jumper for company.

I too packed my mountain into a storage ring, and went to the goliath tree. There I found the Tunrida singing with the young hatchlings that I had raised, which were each now the size of an albatross.

“Your soul is heavy with loss,” he said to me.

“It is,” I said. “Will you let me listen to your song?”

“I will sing for you until my throat grows sore and you cry no more,” the tunrida sang.

And it kept its promise.

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