Chapter Fifteen: Dreamscape

The dim light of dusk quickly faded into complete darkness. In the pitch-black night, the body that Chen Ming inhabited lay feigning sleep on the side, while his soul had already departed, arriving at another scene altogether.

Viewing the wilderness through the eyes of his soul, he saw streams of gloom and resentment enshrouding the land. Amid the shattered and defeated fate-lines, one faintly red thread stood out starkly.

Upon seeing this pale red fate-line, Chen Ming smiled. With a shift of his ethereal form, he appeared before the person it belonged to.

In a dim hut, a man sat silently on a bed layered with animal pelts, wordless and withdrawn. It was Kelim.

Chen Ming looked at Kelim on the bed and spoke not a word, but sent forth a surge of divine power, enveloping the depths of Kelim’s consciousness.

...

“Kelim, Kelim.”

“Hm?” Faint voices drifted to his ears, breaking the silence. He opened his eyes in surprise and saw a familiar figure.

“Kelim, the ancestral rite is about to begin. We must go at once.” A rough, familiar voice sounded beside him.

He snapped his eyes wide open, staring in disbelief at the middle-aged man before him. “Father.”

The man, startled by this sudden address, stood stunned, his face alight with irrepressible joy. “What did you just call me?”

At that moment, Kelim sensed something was wrong. His foster father had died long ago in battle; it was impossible for him to still be alive.

He leapt from the bed, a deep sense of unease overtaking him. He looked down at his hands. The thick calluses that had once covered them were gone. Staring back at him were small, tender hands.

He surveyed his surroundings once more, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“This is...” His heart gave a jolt as he took in the familiar setting. “My childhood.”

The burly, taciturn man before him watched Kelim’s frantic gaze in confusion. “Kelim, what’s the matter?”

Hearing the familiar tone, Kelim looked up abruptly, a sudden ache in his nose.

He stared at the foster father—so familiar, yet now a stranger—his mind awash in memories.

This was a story from long ago. Kelim was born in a distant, humble tribe. His father died early, leaving his mother to raise him alone. Though their days were hard, they were warm and full. Then, one day, their enemies invaded—the tribe was wiped out. His mother, to create a distraction so he could escape, was captured.

Without the protection of his kin, he wandered the wilds alone. Barely eight or nine years old, he struggled to survive in a land haunted by ghosts and prowling wolves, subsisting on bitter roots and leaves. Disaster struck again and again, but he somehow survived.

Yet he knew in his heart that if he kept on like this, death would find him soon enough. But fate had other plans. One dawn, he met his foster father.

A strong but lonely man, childless, had found him in the wilderness and, overjoyed, took him in as his own. More years of hardship followed. Though his foster father never spoke of it, Kelim understood all too well how difficult it was in such a perilous world to raise a burdensome orphan.

Then, when Kelim was fifteen, his foster father, grown old and frail, was killed in battle—his body never recovered.

“Kelim, what’s wrong?” His foster father, puzzled by his silence, spoke again.

“I’m fine,” Kelim replied earnestly, staring dazedly at the man.

Seeing this, his foster father nodded. “Then let’s go. The rite has begun. The high priest and the others are already invoking the ancestors.”

Without waiting for Kelim to respond, he took his hand and led him out.

Little did he know, those words sent another ripple through Kelim’s heart.

“The rite...” A chill crept over him, a vague sense of dread rising from the depths of his soul, as if warning him that the nightmare from years past was about to repeat itself.

Beneath the altar, thousands crowded together—men and children only. Women were not permitted to participate in the rite.

Amid the throng, Kelim, thanks to his foster father’s broad shoulders, found himself near the front.

Yet his heart churned. He would have given anything not to be there; he even felt the urge to flee. But his indomitable will forced him to stay, jaw clenched, eyes locked on a woman ahead.

She was plain-featured, her face drawn tight with terror as the priest approached, helplessness and anguish etched in every line.

Kelim ground his teeth, his gaze fixed on both the woman and the priest drawing near, his expression fierce.

It was his mother. The sight blurred his vision with tears. He clenched his fists so hard his uncalloused nails broke the skin of his palms, yet he felt no pain.

So close to the altar, he saw it all: the priest, while abusing his mother, dragged her up the steps like a dead animal, then drew out a black bone knife, preparing to strike.

Kelim stared, hatred burning in his eyes, as if willing the priest to be torn to pieces.

The familiar scene dredged up memories he had buried deep. In those days, he had watched helplessly as the high priest murdered his mother, her body shriveling to a husk as the so-called ancestor spirits drained her dry, while he, powerless, couldn’t even rush forward to let her see him one last time. For decades afterward, he bore this nightmare alone, daring only to weep in the night and numb himself like a coward.

But this time, he drew a deep breath. Chaos within him suddenly stilled. Before the stunned crowd, he hurled himself onto the altar, heedless of all else.

Though only a ten-year-old boy, he moved with startling speed. In a flash, he was on the altar, lashing out with a kick to the priest’s face.

The crowd gasped. Before anyone could react, a guard by the altar raised his spear to kill him where he stood.

“Kelim!” A frail, gentle cry rang out behind him. His mother, recognizing her long-lost child, called his name. He did not turn, only listened to the voice he thought he’d never hear again, warmth suffusing his heart.

“At last, no more regrets...” he thought, baring his teeth in a wild grin at the oncoming guard, launching himself like a crazed beast at the thrusting spear.

Crash!

At the last instant, as the spearhead neared, he twisted aside, dodging the blow by a hair’s breadth. Then, with all his strength, he punched his attacker.

“No!” His fist struck the guard, but to his shock, it did not drive him back. Suddenly he remembered—he was no longer the strong, grown Kelim, but just a boy of seven or eight.

But it was too late. The guard seized him, holding him fast. As Kelim struggled, the guard raised a dagger, sneering as he prepared to strike.

“It’s over,” Kelim thought, but his wild gaze never faltered as he fought to break free.

Yet his strength was far too little. He could only watch as the blade drew closer, its shadow filling his eyes.

But the pain he expected never came. Instead, his foster father struck down the guard with a mighty blow, then scooped Kelim up and flung him away.

“Kelim, run!” his foster father bellowed, voice raw, then charged up the altar toward the priest.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed. Faces of ghosts twisted and writhed, enveloping his foster father and his mother.

“No!” Kelim screamed, watching as, beneath the black miasma, his foster father and mother were swiftly reduced to bone. He could bear it no longer, and tears streamed down his face as he howled to the sky.