Mutation

Gao Zhijian’s new movements were sharp, abrupt. Each punch and kick carried a snap that hadn’t been there before. Li Huowang watched him train in the yard, noting how the man who used to fumble for words now answered in single, clipped syllables. The change was unsettling in its efficiency.

Li Huowang’s own training had shifted deeper into the cave that morning. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone, the ache in his joints a familiar companion. He pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and began the slow, agonizing process of moving the Primordial Pneuma—wrapped in divine light—toward his Root Chakra.

The work was glacial. Each millimeter of progress cost him a bead of sweat, a tremor in his spine. Twice the pneuma slipped its luminous leash, and twice he found himself blinking awake on a hospital bed, the sterile ceiling pressing down on him. He dragged himself back each time, teeth gritted.

Then, without fanfare, it happened. The light inside him swelled. It burst outward in a silent ring, washing through the cave walls, through the dirt, through the worms coiled in the earth, and the mites on those worms. He saw everything—not with his eyes, but with a thousand nested perspectives folding into each other like a circle with no outside.

He was a god in a grain of dust.

The vision faded. He fell. His hand caught the ground, and he opened his eyes. The cave looked the same, but it didn’t. Every edge felt sharper, every shadow heavier. He picked up a stone and closed his fist around it.

“This is an apple,” he whispered.

He believed it. With every fiber of his cracked mind, he believed it. Veins stood out on his forehead. His hand shook. The stone stayed a stone. Then it didn’t.

He opened his eyes and saw a red apple in his palm.

He bit into it. Juice—sweet and tart—flooded his mouth. He chewed, and the sweetness curdled into the taste of blood and rust. He spat out a mouthful of gravel and pink saliva. The apple was a stone again, missing a chunk where his teeth had been.

He looked up at the empty air where Zhuge Yuan’s ghost stood. “See, Brother Zhuge? A few more days of this, and I’ll have you back.”

Zhuge Yuan’s voice was patient. “No rush, Brother Li. Rest now. You’ve been in seclusion for four days.”

“Four days?” Li Huowang’s legs buckled. The world tilted. A familiar tentacle caught his arm before he hit the ground. “Home,” he muttered, and then the darkness took him.

He woke to water dribbling into his mouth. He coughed, sputtered, and found Bai Lingmiao’s face above his. She looked pale, drawn. He didn’t ask. He was too hungry to ask.

He sat up and grabbed the bowl of rice. Each mouthful was a revelation. He ate like a starved animal. When the bowl was empty, he started on the dishes. Bai Lingmiao wordlessly stood and went downstairs for more.

A pair of red embroidered shoes stopped in front of him.

Li Huowang chewed and swallowed a mouthful of greens. “Something wrong?”

The Er Shen stood there, her long black nails twisting together. Her voice was small. “Brother Li… can you help us?”

“Of course.” He set down his chopsticks. “Tell me.”

She hesitated. Her fingers kept twisting. He read the silence like a text.

“She didn’t agree to this, did she? This is just you.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I know you’re two sides of the same person. But you can still have your own thoughts. So speak your mind.”

The Er Shen opened her mouth. Before she could answer, the room went dark.

Li Huowang stood and walked to the window. The sky outside was black.

“Night already?”

Zhuge Yuan’s voice was grave. “No, Brother Li. It is midday. This is a Heavenly Calamity. A solar eclipse.”