With determination etched into his spirit, Yip Chor focused his intent on the heavy stone door that sealed the crypt. It was the only barrier between his reanimated form and the world that believed him dead. Once again, he turned to resonance, aligning his vibrational frequency with that of the stone door. He envisioned the door as an extension of himself, his mind and soul enveloping the cold, solid barrier.
Slowly, he began to emit a low-frequency vibration that matched the resonance of the stone. His skeletal hand extended, bone touching rock. An ethereal connection was established between them, a link that allowed him to manipulate the door as if it were another limb.
With an unseen force, the stone door began to creak and groan, the ethereal vibrations seeping into the door's core, loosening its age-old grip on the entrance. Gradually, it started to shift under his command, scraping heavily against the ground. The sound echoed within the crypt, breaking the perpetual silence that reigned for months.
The door eventually yielded, opening to reveal a world bathed in the first light of dawn. The moons faint rays streamed into the crypt, illuminating Yip Chor's skeletal form with a pale glow. It cast a ghostly pallor upon the swirling mist that rose from the ground, lending an otherworldly aura to the night. The hoot of an owl mingled with the tremors resonating through his charred skeletal frame as he moved with deliberate steps, a macabre dance in the darkness. His posture, slightly hunched, evoked a haunting figure skulking through the shadows. Though the path ahead was shrouded, his third eye pierced the veil, painting a monochromatic tapestry of his surroundings—a realm of blurry outlines and intangible forms. He could perceive the scurrying of an ant beneath the bark, yet colours eluded his grasp, existing only as elusive whispers in the void.
Leaving the crypt behind, Yip Chor found himself in an old cemetery overrun with nature. Creepers and ivy climbed over stone markers, and the trees rustled with the wind's caress. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint floral perfume of spring blooms. Yip Chor knew where he was, so he began venturing forth to explore the ancestral home that had cradled his family's memories and legacy.
Approaching the courtyard, trepidation mingled with curiosity in Yip Chor's heart. Through the ethereal lens of his third eye, he searched the barn for any signs of life but found only a desolate emptiness. Satisfied, he crossed the neglected threshold into the overgrown courtyard, where nature's tendrils intertwined with the forgotten tiles. The once-vibrant space now lay in disarray, a testament to the passage of time and the absence of caretakers.
Venturing deeper into the ancestral abode, Yip Chor traversed echoing hallways, their silence punctuated by the creaks and groans of ancient wood. Portraits of his ancestors adorned the walls, their gazes penetrating his very soul as if their spirits lingered within the frames. With a mixture of reverence and trepidation, he pressed onward, his fingers delicately grazing artifacts that whispered forgotten tales of his family's history.
Finally, he arrived at his old room, discovering the bed neatly made, frozen in time just as it was when he departed for his ill-fated marriage months ago. The realization washed over him that he was now incapable of fulfilling the desires of a woman or siring his progeny. Briefly, a pang of melancholy gripped him, but his unwavering belief in the boundless possibilities of the universe he sought to create infused him with hope.
Seated on the edge of his bed, the vibrations of his skeletal form muffled by the sheets, Yip Chor locked eyes with his charred bone reflection in the mirror. His sockets devoid of eyes, a toothy grin etched on his face, he absorbed the truth that lay before him. It settled in his mind as an indisputable fact—he existed in this unique state, and it was undeniably real.
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Stripping off his loose, decaying burial clothes, Yip Chor fetched a wet cloth to cleanse his bones, a habit rooted in his lifelong cleanliness. The idea of decaying flesh clinging to his skeletal frame unsettled him deeply. After the ritualistic cleansing, his bones retained their charred appearance, albeit with a smoother matte texture. He retrieved a set of simple robes from his dresser, draping them around his form. With meticulous care, he wrapped bandages around his head, arms, hands, and legs—anywhere that might expose his unsettling condition to the outside world. Finally, he adorned a large conical worker's hat, grasped a walking stick to aid his movement while feigning the appearance of an elderly man, and shouldered a satchel containing spare clothes and a pouch of coins he had stashed under some floorboards.
Fully prepared and carrying the weight of the unknown, Yip Chor departed from the house, bidding a final farewell to the courtyard that had witnessed his growth—the sole place he had ever truly known. Uncertain of his destination, he decided to embark on a journey toward the West, guided by his hunger for concepts.
Within the depths of the soul realm, an anticipatory smile graced Yip Chor's face as his adventure was about to begin.
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As the first rays of morning light painted the sky, casting a warm glow over the mountains, Yip Chor embarked on his solitary journey along the gravelly road. He walked with a purpose, his destination uncertain but his spirit aflame. With the rising sun came the increasing flow of traffic on the road, bustling with carriages and wagons carrying travellers to various destinations. Though most passersby paid him no mind, a couple of compassionate farmers stopped and offered him a ride, mistaking his enigmatic presence for the gruff demeanour of an elderly man burdened by infirmity. Yet, each time, he waved them away with silent gratitude, fueled by an inner fire and an unyielding desire to embrace life.
Grumpy he may have seemed to others, but within his charred bones, Yip Chor's passion for existence burned brightly. He hungered for the practice of movement, an insatiable thirst to explore the capabilities of his skeletal frame. Every step he had taken when he first emerged from the crypt felt like a precarious farewell to life, but now he felt the spark of vitality igniting within him. He knew he could venture beyond mere walking; he could engage in a shallow jog if the need arose. And so, mile after mile, day after day, he embarked on a journey of self-discovery, enriching his repertoire of movements with each passing moment.
Walking on his tip toes became an intriguing challenge, testing the limits of his balance and grace. His arms gracefully swayed and waved through the air, a dance of freedom and expression. He dared to walk backward and forward in seamless transitions, defying the constraints of conventional direction. And finally, he delved into the realm of sprinting, a burst of speed that brought him closer to the essence of life itself.
In the beginning, his sprinting attempts were met with tumbles and falls, his charred bones unaccustomed to the demands of rapid motion. Yet, with unwavering determination, he persisted. Time became his ally as he honed his sprinting skills, mastering the concept and transcending the limitations of his physical form. An interesting observation was that when he operated purely on the concept of 'sprinting' he could choose to restrict the concept of 'fatigue' if he so desired. There was no concept to combat the corruption of the body, however and so over time, his tendons began to rot causing a phalange to fall off here and there, which he would take and place in his satchel.
He had walked for about a week when his movements finally became a symphony of freedom and vitality. His strides became more confident, his balance unshakeable. People who passed him on the road started to take notice of his confident and elegant grace, nodding their heads in greeting and so he crouched over his cane again and slowed his gait into that of an old man.