The broken world

Dark dreams continued to torment him. It was one of those nights when he couldn’t be sure if he was asleep or awake, unable to distinguish memories from nightmares. This time, it was the South and the shadows of his past. Again — his mother. One of those scenes he longed to cut from his mind but never could. It had been more than twenty-five years ago. How old had he been — three? Four? He wasn’t sure. He had witnessed such scenes too often, and later, as he grew, they spawned endless nightmares. He remembered that it had been dark — early morning, perhaps, or late evening. He had crept into his mother’s hovel because he missed her. She was asleep, her hair — always surprisingly clean and beautiful — spilled across the filthy rags covering the straw, shining like moonbeams. He had wanted to lie beside her, to hold her. But then he heard footsteps and pressed himself against the wall, hoping to go unnoticed. Someone entered, stopping beside her pallet, towering over her like a monolith. In the dim light, he couldn’t make out the face. The massive figure might have been Baatar Khan — or someone else. Many in the tribe came to his mother. In public, none would admit to sullying themselves with the white-haired demoness, but everyone knew. (When Gerel was born, they didn’t kill him only because any man in the ulus could have been his father — including Baatar. Yet no one was certain. The strange, white-haired child resembled none of them, looking nothing like the people of the Middle Kingdoms. And so, whenever he passed, someone would strike him, spit at him, and call him demon spawn or bastard. For a time, he had no other name. Later, his mother began calling him Gerel — “light.” The name sounded like cruel mockery, but she hadn’t been mocking him. She simply knew few words in the language of the Southlanders and chose what she thought the most beautiful.) He could tell from the change in her breathing that she had woken, though she kept her eyes closed. The intruder must have realized it too, but he didn’t care whether she was awake or not. The man climbed onto her, pulling down his trousers and lifting the rags that served as her dress. He began to move, rocking back and forth. In the dim light, they looked like a two-headed, four-armed monstrosity, some grotesque, wheezing spider. His mother, jolted back and forth on the pallet, opened her eyes and saw Gerel huddled against the wall. Her unnatural blue eyes seemed to glow faintly in the dark, and he could see the tears in them. She was ashamed, terrified, and in pain. But she didn’t resist her assailant. She knew it would only make things worse. He wanted to run, but he was too scared — paralyzed by fear. She clenched her teeth, trying to stifle her cries so as not to frighten him further. The faceless man moved on her, slow and methodical. Her lips moved. And again. She looked at Gerel, silently mouthing the same words over and over. Though her voice didn’t carry, he understood: “Don’t look.” Maybe she had actually whispered something else, or perhaps only moans had escaped her lips. She hadn’t spoken the language of the South for a long time; the tribe had first assumed the demoness was mute. Gerel remembered that he and his mother had learned words together. For some reason, every time he dreamed this nightmare, he believed it would end if he could summon the courage to cry for help. Back then, in reality, no one would have helped them. No one cared, even if someone had known what was happening. But dreams have their own rules. In the dream, it felt crucial to conquer his fear and scream. And he tried to scream, but fear choked him, constricting his throat. The cry caught, died somewhere behind his palate. And when he forced himself to open his mouth, it was impossibly difficult, and all that emerged was a muffled whimper, a strangled squeak.   He woke with a start, as if struck, disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was or how old he was. It was dark — dawn hadn’t yet broken. One of the lamps he had been reading by before sleep still flickered faintly. Then he realized what had likely woken him — the sudden silence beyond the door. The presence of guards was usually accompanied by faint sounds he had grown accustomed to — their footsteps, occasional murmured conversations. Now, the corridor was ominously quiet. Then he heard the faint click of a lock turning. Gerel froze, forcing himself to breathe evenly and slowly. Through half-closed eyes, he saw a figure approach his bed. The face was covered save for the eyes. The flicker of the lamp caught the gleam of a dagger being drawn from under the intruder’s cloak. The man raised the weapon. Gerel seized his arm and wrenched it sharply. The would-be assassin cried out in pain and surprise, dropping the dagger onto the bed. Gerel snatched it up and drove it into the man’s eye. Leaping to his feet, he threw on a blue silk robe over his nightshirt, but not before grabbing the crossbow he kept by the head of his bed — a habit that now proved invaluable. The bow was loaded, thank the gods, for two more figures with weapons were already slipping through the door. He shot the first immediately. The second closed the distance, forcing him into hand-to-hand combat. Though the struggle was fierce, Gerel managed to disarm the attacker. Pulling the cloth from the man’s head, he found a face he didn’t recognize — this was no servant of his. “Who sent you?” Gerel demanded. The mercenary stared at him in silence, hatred burning in his obsidian-black eyes. “Who?” Gerel pressed, driving the tip of a bolt into the man’s throat. “I’ll make you talk eventually, and it won’t be pleasant. Save yourself the pain.” The assassin twitched his chin oddly, then groaned in agony. Blood gushed from his mouth with a sickening gurgle. He had bitten off his own tongue rather than reveal his employer. Disgusted, Gerel shoved the writhing body aside. It was no longer of any use to him. Moving as silently as he could, he slipped toward the door. What had happened to his guards? The answer came as soon as he peered into the corridor. They hadn’t left their posts; their bodies lay on the floor or slumped against the walls. It seemed they had been drugged, then had their throats cut. What was worse — the corridor was full of dark figures, their faces shrouded in cloth, just like the three assassins Gerel had already killed near his bed. He quickly realized there were far too many for him to handle alone. Six, seven... more kept emerging from around the bend. Well, he thought grimly, at least I won't go down without a fight. In one hand, he gripped the crossbow. In the other, he held a sword wrested from one of the fallen guards. He hadn't paused to see which guard it was; the body lay facedown, and a bloodstain bloomed across the armor on his back. But before the killers could reach him, a shadow peeled away from the wall. Almost indistinguishable from the assassins at first, the figure stepped between them and Gerel. The soldier's uniform of Cheongju, the blindfold across his eyes... The dead man. What is he doing here? “Go,” the dead man said calmly. “I’ll deal with them.” “Like hell you will,” Gerel replied. The assassins surged forward. The dead man moved with an unsettling grace, dodging the first attacker as though dancing, deftly shoving him into the second, sliding under the blade of a third, and striking upward with precise lethality. As Gerel had learned, dead Yukinari had no qualms or hesitation — no human pangs of morality. He was coldly efficient. And very, very fast. However, there was no time to be distracted by watching the dead man. Fighting off Gerel's share of assassins was slower, bloodier work, and the fight was harder for him than for Shadow. In fact, it took all his effort just to defend himself as he retreated further down the corridor. He was being forced toward a dead end. What will I do when I hit the wall? Fortunately, by the time Gerel's back touched the cold stone, most of the assassins Shadow had faced were already sprawled on the ground — dead or dying. The dead man joined Gerel to deal with the rest. Gerel came away from the fight with only a shallow wound — he narrowly dodged a sword stroke, the blade grazing his side. Blood soaked through the silk, but the cut was superficial. The dead man wasn’t so lucky. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care. He fought with frightening effectivity but little regard for protecting himself, as if oblivious to pain. Several deep gashes marred his flesh. The worst was a terrible blow to his shoulder — one that had severed the clavicle. His dangling arm and shoulder looked poorly attached, as though someone had clumsily stuck them back onto his body. Bone shards jutted from torn muscle. But no blood. Not a drop — although according to all the laws of anatomy it should have flowed from the huge split of the wound like a river. The exposed flesh looked dry, frozen. Gerel couldn’t look away. It was grotesque, mesmerizing, unlike anything he’d seen before. He felt an absurd urge to touch the raw wound, to press his fingers against that bare bone. Swallowing hard, Gerel said, “That needs... stitching.” The word felt ridiculous for the injury in front of him. Bone knitting? Lung patching? flitted through his mind. If it was a living person, this would be fatal. The dead man shook his head. “It’s not necessary. It will heal quickly.” Gerel opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He shrugged. “You’d know best. Why are you here?” “I was sent by my lord, King Tokhung,” the dead man said, his voice calm. “He learned you were having trouble managing the province.” “Tell King Tokhung I’ll handle it,” Gerel said sharply. “I cannot.” The dead man’s voice didn’t change. “My lord’s orders take precedence. Tokhung commanded me to resolve these problems, and I will do so.” He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the blood staining Gerel’s side. “You’re injured, Governor.” The dead man reached out to touch him. His fingers were icy. “Don’t touch me!” Gerel recoiled, pulling his hand back sharply. He wiped his palm on his clothing, shivering with revulsion. “Never touch me again,” he said, his tone dangerously even. “Understood?” “Yes.” Shadow’s voice was flat, unreadable. “Rest, Governor. You’ve lost your clarity of thought. There is a conspiracy brewing right under your nose, and you failed to see it. But I will handle it.” He turned, shambling toward the corridor's shadows. Gerel watched him go, the severed arm hanging like a useless weight, the unsteady gait betraying his injuries. A sudden lump had risen in Gerel's throat — either pity or shame. “Where are you going?” Gerel called after him. His voice came too quickly, almost as if apologizing. “There are more conspirators,” the dead man replied, “far more than you realize.” “Then I’ll come with you.” “No. You’ll die.” “And you...?” Gerel braced himself for the inevitable response: I’m already dead. But the dead man said something else. “I’ll be fine. I was made for this.”   By midday, the dead man’s shoulder looked as if it had never been touched. The only evidence of the earlier carnage was the tear in his uniform. If it weren't there, Gerel would have decided that he had imagined that severed collarbone. Gerel, however, had not fared as well. The shallow gash on his side, hastily bandaged with a scrap of fabric, worsened as the day wore on. Fever set in, bringing with it waves of weakness. By the time he staggered through the halls, vision blurring, he realized he was dangerously close to collapse. People definitely shouldn't be allowed to see that. He retreated to his room, swaying on his feet. There was barely enough strength left to reach his bed. He collapsed onto it, unable to even summon a servant to post fresh guards outside his chambers. But he didn’t need to. The dead man was already there — his silent, monstrous sentinel. Gerel’s body burned with fever, then shivered violently as chills overtook him. Sweat poured from his skin, soaking his sheets. He tried to sleep, but it was a restless, feverish haze — more torment than reprieve. He didn't have strength to do anything — pick up a book or even sit up in bed. Most of the time he simply lay with his eyes open, trying not to fall into unconsciousness. It would be absurd to die from a trivial wound on the side, having safely survived as much as he had. In order not to lose consciousness, he recalled the color combinations in clothes accepted at the court in Shinju — for some reason this was what came to mind first. White with light lilac — "wisteria" ... Pink, purple, red — "plum blossoms" ... When he became the viceroy of Tokhung in Ryukoku, he turned into a civilian and could no longer wear a military uniform as before, so he had to more or less memorize the local regulations for outfits. He liked dull, dark, autumnal colors, cold combinations of green and blue — "pine", "the aroma of young shoots" — although they bordered dangerously on that shade of azure, which was considered the color of the Great Dragon and was allowed only to the emperor. However, Gerel tried to dress as simply as possible — so as not to hear laughter behind his back caused by some particularly ridiculous color combination, allowed only to officials of a certain rank on a certain day of a certain month. All this was monstrously stupid, but these ridiculous color combinations became the very thread by which he maintained contact with reality. The world wavered between moments of sharp pain and the dull, suffocating fog of half-dreams. He did not know how much time had passed. Snatches of conversation filtered through his delirium. “Infection…” “It stinks — burn it closed…” “Typical barbarian! Solve everything with hot iron...” “Better than your useless herbal brews and needles…” “Cut it. And you, don't hang around at the door — bring instruments, water, clean cloth...” “…And poppy extract, to dull the pain…” The voices dissolved into meaningless noise. Faces swam before him, flickering in and out of the haze, unfamiliar and indistinct. Finally, he picked out the only familiar one among them and concentrated on it. One face, sharp and clear amidst the blur. Gerel latched onto it — the only familiar anchor in a world slipping away — the most dear, the most important face. He focused on it with feverish intensity, no longer noticing its lifeless icy pallor, not caring about the inhuman cold in its stillness. Nothing else in the world was as beautiful as that face. Surely, it wasn’t real. The dead man wouldn’t have removed his blindfold in front of others, especially those who might have known him in life. Later, when Gerel's eyes fluttered shut, he imagined a light touch brushing his forehead — its cold was pleasant and brought relief — fingers smoothing his sweat-matted hair. But of course, that wasn’t real either. Finally, he slept. And this time, there were no riddles from Hu Xiansheng, no mangled memories of his mother, no men from Baatar’s clan.