Instincts born from years spent living in danger made Tatsuya’s sudden awareness, as he woke up nude and lying twisted like a cut marionette on an incline, an unpleasant experience—that, and he found himself enveloped on all sides by things that, with each bodily twitch, squished, cushioned, and prickled. Yet, he didn't open his eyes, but instead, being careful not to change the rhythm of his breathing, listened and tried to take stock of the unfamiliar surroundings through his other senses.

Not unlike the rest of his body, his nose felt assaulted, almost to an absurd degree; the air around him was thick with the scent of death, the pungent aroma of decay of rot, and above that was a, frankly, eye-watering level of buzzing carpeting the area, interspersed by ticklish sensations crawling within and over him.

More than a little worried, he forced his rusty and heavy eyes open, and though, at first, his vision was blurry, once his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the moon—and the small torches held aloft—panic and disbelief set in; he found himself lying amidst a pile of dead bodies, their cold, lifeless bodies pressing against him from all sides. Some were missing limbs, while others had gaping wounds that spilled their entrails onto each other, and feasting upon them were maggots, their tiny bodies wriggling and squirming.

The sight was enough to make him gag, the taste of bitter bile rising in his throat, and he tried to turn away from the stench, from everything really, but his limbs refused to cooperate. It seemed the minor innate healing factor elementals possessed couldn't do much for him, and because he had not fully recovered, he was trapped in a hellish landscape of death and decay, vomit trailing from his upturned face.

The realisation that he had been presumed dead heightened the despair he felt bubbling beneath the surface, and only his anger at his helplessness kept it at bay. He wanted nothing more than to free himself from the pile of corpses—the stench was suffocating, and the insects were relentless, their tiny bodies covering every inch of his skin—and, ensuring to breathe only through his mouth, began the painful process of rolling onto his stomach. The crunch of bones and the squelch of flesh under his hands, he could do without, but he endured the disgust (along with the pain he felt) and pulled off the manoeuvre.

Unfortunately, he was left feeling winded; only his head and arms moved now and with a great deal of effort. Fortunately, the new position afforded him a greater view of his surroundings, and he realised he was in a small clearing in a dense forest, with the only signs of civilization being a narrow path that led out of said clearing and (to his shock) the shapes of hooded figures milling a fair distance away. He wasn't able to make out any specific features, apart from the lack of a general uniform beyond the cloak they all wore, but they were most likely the village’s undertakers—though why they were five, he didn't know—and, assuming him to be another corpse among the many, they paid him no attention to his dismay.

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He sought to dissuade them of that notion, but his voice was barely audible, even to his ears, and he found himself slumping where he lay. At that moment, giving up seemed so easy. After all, he was trapped, immobilised in his own body, with the pain and helplessness threatening to overwhelm him—but he had not come this far just to quit. His ploy had failed; the Wind Blades had not acted in the way he had imagined, had hoped, but that didn't mean all was lost. As long as he was alive, another opportunity would rear its head, and so, regardless of the metaphoric weight on him—telling him to accept this slow and disgusting demise—he would endure the pain, find a way to survive, and fulfil his spirit-damned promise.

With a desperate groan and the hopes he would notice something that could help him, Tatsuya forced himself to spread his senses further. Immediately, regret flashed across his mind as he allowed his nose to do its job again, but the feeling was muted by his usual single-minded focus. Beyond the smell of death were those of musty air, damp earth, and the tang of metal. He pushed past the rough and sticky texture of the bodies around him and the sensations of movements in and on him until, though hampered by said bodies, he felt the ripples in the nearby currents skirting the ground, the odd tremor of shifting earth.

Even if he thought they were Kuro’s attack dogs in cover, sifting through the corpses for him, that just invalidated the opinion, and he was glad for it.

Renewed strength and determination surged through him, and he slowly got his arms beneath him, finding he could push his torso a few inches off the makeshift ground—and though that was all, it was enough for him to look in the direction of the nearby, suspected earth elemental. His arms shook stupidly, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the thickly intensifying pain assaulting his body, praying to the spirits he held himself long enough to gain the hooded figure’s attention.

Sadly, it wasn't to be, and unable to keep his arms still, he collapsed. He tried to catch himself, but lacking the required strength and with no hands to soften the impact, his open mouth welcomed the mess beneath him. Again, he retched, and at that moment, he cared not for anything other than ridding himself of the foul texture on his tongue.

His body was a disastrous whirlwind of movements as he frantically scratched at his tongue and throat, and even as his vision deteriorated and the small, lucid part of his mind knew his reaction was over-the-top and self-destructive, his mind’s greater whole cared not for his injuries or that his actions were exacerbating them—an ironic coping mechanism. The ordeal was too much for him to handle, so his mind fixated obsessively on the one thing he could handle, the shit in his mouth.

Thankfully, there was a silver lining in his mental breakdown; he was finally noticed by one of the hooded figures—and even amidst his flailing, though it was starting to taper off in favour of unbearable agony, he could make out a pale hand emerging from beneath the folds of the cloak. Fire bloomed to life on the upturned palm, just enough to light up the area, and a gasp loudly sounded.

“You are alive?”

The pale woman Tatsuya had saved earlier spoke in a low, hurried voice, shock evident, and without waiting for a response—not that he could give one in his state—nor a second thought, it seemed, she came to his rescue, hauling him out of the heap to lay him gently on the ground. His last sight before sweet darkness claimed him was the strange beauty of her face, the sharp angles of her features, and the amber eyes that seemed to glow in the night.