The broken world

Gerel didn’t know what to do next. There were no more Strangers left in the South — none but Redhead — and with them, any hope of finding someone who could bring the undead back to life had vanished. Returning to his homeland had only forced him to confront the grim truth once more: miracles didn’t exist, and those that did were twisted, corrupted by human cruelty, vile in nature. The world was broken, just as Yukinari had said. There was nothing to believe in. He was alone, forever — alone. Could he even trust himself? He had nothing left but these strange dreams. Could he justify his actions simply because he so desperately wanted to believe in something? Gerel knew that by any rational measure, he was planning to march to his death, dragging a dozen innocent soldiers along with him. Perhaps he truly was losing his mind. And yet his mother had believed in seeking hope, even in places where hope seemed impossible. Yukinari had believed in it too. And if they had believed… He separated the portion of his troops he’d chosen for the journey into the Wastelands from the very beginning. Only a small group remained now. Together, they ventured further south. None of them noticed exactly when the steppes of the nomads gave way to something else — something otherworldly and terrifying. Perhaps it was when the animals disappeared. Not that there had been many to begin with, but occasionally they’d ridden past a herd of saiga or a band of wild horses, seen an eagle circling high above, or startled small creatures darting out of the grass. Then, suddenly, there were none. Only the ceaseless chirping of grasshoppers surrounded them. And eventually, even the grasshoppers fell silent. Waist-high grass and an oppressive silence. And timelessness. At some point, night ceased to follow day. They waited long and patiently for evening to fall, but the night never came. The sun hung unmoving in the sky, fixed in its position. Shadows neither lengthened nor shortened. Unable to bear the unnerving sight, a handful of men declared they would return. Neither the nomads, nor Tokhung’s wrath, nor even the prospect of immediate execution upon their return frightened them as much as the unknowable expanse ahead. Gerel shot the most defiant deserter with his crossbow. To the rest, he explained that no one had ever returned from the Wastelands — and it was far from as simple as they imagined. “We are in a place without time or distance,” he said. “I tell you this: anyone who tries to go back will wander these endless plains until they die of hunger and thirst. I suggest we continue forward. If the gods will it, they will guide us to a new land.” Even Gerel knew his logic was tenuous at best, but the sight of the bolt protruding from the dead deserter’s chest lent his words a grim authority. Beside him, Yukinari stood silent as ever, his hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his sword. The soldiers feared the undead even more than the unyielding sun. Reluctantly, they agreed to press on.   On the second day, they came upon something remarkable: a castle. At first, they noticed the landscape shifting — the grass was dotted with large, sun-cracked boulders. The stones grew more numerous, eventually forming low, jagged cliffs. Then, on the horizon, a bronze-colored dome appeared, resembling the setting sun. As they approached, the rest of the massive structure came into view. The walls were made of ancient bricks, dull brown in shadow, pale and sandy in sunlight. The bricks were crumbling in places, weathered to dust. Some walls were almost completely overgrown with ivy and clematis. Time’s merciless passage was evident everywhere — even the enormous dome, which had seemed unshakable from afar, had partially collapsed inward. It wasn’t what Gerel would call beautiful, but there was a certain austere grandeur in its aged, vine-covered walls. Even before they reached the castle, Gerel and his men knew there would be no people there. If anyone had once lived in this place, they had abandoned it long ago. There was something wrong about this castle. Its design was utterly unlike the sprawling palace complexes of the Middle Kindgoms, with their dozens of low, interconnected buildings. Here, there was only one structure — but it towered above the rocky landscape like a mountain. And yet the strangeness wasn’t just in its size or unfamiliar architecture. Gerel had embarked on this journey prepared to encounter new lands and cultures, resolved not to be too surprised by such things. No, the oddity lay elsewhere. As they explored, they tried to discern who might have lived here, what they did, what the various rooms were used for — but nothing made sense. It was as if the entire castle had been built for no purpose other than to exist: endless corridors, staircases, arches, balconies, and galleries… Some halls were so vast that when the soldiers called out to each other, the echo — oooh — returned in an unrecognizable, alien voice. They spent the night in the castle (if such a word could apply to a land where night no longer fell). The next morning, Gerel ordered the group to continue onward. There were still unexplored parts of the castle, but he was certain there were no people there, and their supplies were finite. He felt an urgency to press on. Though something told him their journey was far from over, his men, buoyed by the discovery of the castle, believed they were nearing their destination.   When they had left the castle far behind, the rocky terrain once again gave way to plains covered in yellowed grass. Hours later, a strange silhouette appeared on the horizon. The closer they rode, the clearer it became: bones. The colossal skeleton of an unknown creature, as large as a hill. The remains of a giant bird. Or a lizard. Or… “A dragon,” whispered the young soldier Munjin, his lips barely moving. Gerel heard him — and froze. Because it was a dragon. A dead dragon that had lain there for untold centuries, or perhaps millennia. It wasn’t the last dragon they encountered. Soon, they came across another skeleton. Then another. At first, the sight filled them all with terror. But eventually, they grew accustomed to it. One could grow used to anything… Days later, they reached a lake. The water was fresh and clean enough to replenish their supplies. Rising from the lake’s surface was a chain of columns, linked by an arch that abruptly broke off at its highest point, like half a rainbow. Beneath the water, they could make out other columns and fragments of walls. It seemed the lake had once been a valley, now entirely submerged, drowning the buildings that had stood there. The visible structure must have been man-made, but it was so damaged that discerning its original purpose was nearly impossible. Perhaps it had once been a temple. The next ruins they encountered were those of a massive viaduct spanning a deep ravine. The bridge was so eroded by wind and weather that crossing it would have been impossible — but they didn’t need to. The ravine gradually wound its way upward, rejoining the plain, and they followed it instead. The bridge’s purpose was unclear. Why construct such a colossal structure when the natural obstacle could so easily be circumvented? Perhaps the land had changed over the centuries. But everything about it seemed… wrong. They encountered more ruins as they traveled: the remains of towers, statues of strange beasts missing limbs, abandoned palaces. Slowly, they came to understand that these enigmatic, purposeless constructions were as much a part of the Wastelands as the dragon bones — and began to pay them no more mind. Their path was crossed by several streams and rivers, but there were no fish in them, no living creatures at all: in the clear, slow water, there were only rocks and snags. And they never saw a forest either. The landscape changed from time to time, but remained just as deserted. Rocks and grass — and nothing else. Days blurred together in the grass and silence, indistinguishable from one another, like beads on an endless string.   Gradually, Gerel began to grow accustomed to the Wastelands. At first, these desolate expanses filled him with the same dread they inspired in everyone else. Even the very phrase — “to grow accustomed to the Wastelands” — would have seemed absurd to him: how could anyone grow used to such a place? And yet, over time, the silence and stillness of the Wastelands no longer felt unnatural to him. They no longer evoked confusion or despair. Instead, he began to sense a strange rightness in these lifeless landscapes. Stunningly beautiful places, devoid of any living soul; a serenity reigned here, unbroken even by animals. It was as if, long ago, people had lived in this land, only to be swept away by an omnipotent hand — not out of malice or punishment, but simply because their time here had ended. The wind-eroded coliseums and submerged temples of the Wastelands reminded him of the sun-drenched city built of brownish brick, a place he had once seen in dreams of his mother. More than once, Gerel found himself thinking that the Wastelands were a world of death. But the thought didn’t frighten him. Could anyone even feel fear in a place like this? This world was beautiful: stones bathed in light, draped with ivy; a sky mirrored in lakes from which slender columns and grand staircases rose straight out of the water. To him, this was what the Western Paradise must look like: a sunlit, sorrowless land of eternal rest. There was no rain here, no wind, no mist, no twilight. Only the overturned azure bowl of a cloudless sky. In moments of despair or exhaustion, that sky seemed flat and painted, like an illustration. But in truth, it was deep and eternal. Like dragons. The futility of their journey slowly but steadily drained their strength. No one wanted to talk anymore. At first, there had been arguments and outbursts, as if the act of quarreling could sustain the illusion of life. But even that had faded. Silence fell over their days. When they stopped to make camp, everyone pretended to sleep, though none of them truly could. They began to forget where they were headed and why. Maybe there was no purpose to their journey. Perhaps it really was time to stop — who could say? Yet they all knew too well that stopping meant death. Then tragedy struck: one of the soldiers, unable to endure the maddening monotony, took his own life. The dead man inspected the body without emotion and suggested, “You could take him with you. To eat later. Supplies are running low.” “For the gods’ sake! We’re not animals,” someone said in disgust. “What kind of people would it take to start eating each other?” The look on Gerel’s face made it clear he was seriously considering the question, and the soldier didn’t like that. “No, General,” he said firmly. “I’d rather die than eat a man.” “He’s right! That’s the only decent thing to do!” others chimed in. Gerel nodded. No was no. Their food supplies were indeed nearly gone, but the thought of eating one of their own left a bitter taste in his mouth, even in theory.   A few days later, they slaughtered their first horse. They had come to rely on the horses as loyal companions, and the act left everyone uneasy. But that night, for the first time in many days, they had roasted meat for dinner. There were many horses left, but a new problem loomed — water. Until now, they had managed to refill their water supplies at the streams and rivers they occasionally encountered. But four days had passed since they had seen the last of those. Since then, not a single source of water. The horses began to die, starved of water. The little they had left wasn’t enough even for the men. They hardly spoke — moving cracked, parched lips was too painful. The final drops of water were rationed out carefully, just enough to moisten mouths and throats or dampen bits of cloth they could suck on. And when someone did take a sip, it was only a tiny one, holding the water in their mouth as long as they could. When they slaughtered another horse, they didn’t kill it outright. Instead, they tied its legs, cut its jugular vein, and, choking back revulsion, drank the warm blood of the dying animal. Gerel had heard that nomads did this in times of famine and drought, even preserving dried blood as rations. He wasn’t sure it actually worked, but at this point, he would drink anything. It tasted vile — not just salty, but with some additional flavor that made him want to retch. Still, it gave them a little strength. Looking at the exhausted, bloodstained faces of his men, Gerel thought: This is the end. He didn’t feel upset or afraid — his emotions had dulled too much for that. He simply acknowledged the fact. It was strange, really, that they had lasted as long as they had. The dead man, who needed neither food nor water, remained indifferent as ever. “If you all die, should I return to Master Fox and report on the Wastelands?” he asked. “Shut up. I’m not dying,” Gerel snapped. For a while, they rode on in silence. Then, resigned to the inevitable, he said, “No. If I die, don’t return. Tokhung ordered us to find out what lies beyond the Wastelands. You must fulfill that mission. Keep going, even if it takes a year, ten years… however long it takes. Just go, until you arrive somewhere. And then — keep going. While you were alive, you told me about stars and other lands. You wanted to see all the wonders of the universe. You said the world didn’t end with the Middle Kingdoms. So, go. Explore it. Learn what lies beyond the farthest star.” “Are you certain that’s what His Majesty meant?” the dead man asked doubtfully. “Tokhung’s order was vague. Mine is specific. It doesn’t contradict his.” “But Master Fox, my creator, gave me a similar order. He instructed me to return and tell him what we discovered in the Wastelands.” “Master Fox is immortal. He can wait forever. You’ll return to him eventually, but the more you learn before you do, the better.” Gerel silently prayed the dead man wouldn’t find any flaws in his shaky logic. Please, Yukinari. I want so badly for at least one of us to escape this broken world — and never come back. “You’re right,” Yukinari said after a pause. “I understand. Keep going and learn.”   On some unknown day of their journey, they noticed their shadows had begun to lengthen. Wherever they were now, time here was moving again. Even the sky had changed. It was no longer bright and empty — clouds had begun to gather. Somewhere not far off, there must be water. Yet even this didn’t stir any hope among them. Even if the clouds and shadows promised an end to their journey, they all knew they were too exausted to reach it. By then, all the horses had died. Their belongings were abandoned. Many of their comrades — though it broke their hearts — were left behind as well. Those still strong enough trudged forward on foot, stopping to rest more and more frequently. Each stop grew longer than the last.   Gerel no longer felt hunger or fatigue. Time had lost all meaning. He didn’t know how many hours or days had passed. The world was nothing but cracked, dry earth. Water…   …So much water. The leaden sea blending into the gray sky. He untied a boat from the pier and scooped water out of its hull. At the bottom, he found two short oars, darkened by age and damp. Cold waves lapped over the boat’s edge, icy water sloshing in his boots…   He startled awake, blinking at the dry grass of the Wastelands. His thoughts were scattered. For a moment, he wondered if the past weeks had all been a dream. Perhaps he was still in the cave of Öelun Khatun. Or worse — maybe he had invented Tokhung’s orders and this journey south through the Wastelands. Maybe he was still in Shinju, drinking himself to death and losing his mind in solitude. Perhaps Hu Xiansheng and the dreams that weren’t just dreams — none of it had been real. Maybe even Yukinari, their shared dreams of expanding the boundaries of their world, even the joy that had once filled Gerel’s heart in his presence — all of it was a merciful lie he had created to make his life seem less empty, less pointless. And in reality, there was only this: waiting for death without hope. There were no other worlds. This was the only one. “But how can that be?” came Yukinari’s voice in his head, clear and confident. “Nothing comes from nowhere. If we dream of something this world doesn’t have, doesn’t that mean it must exist somewhere else?” Right, he thought and smiled with cracked lips. Blackness clouded his vision, interrupted now and then by swirling bursts of color. Each step was a struggle, and he kept moving only because he knew if he fell, he wouldn’t be able to rise again. He had forgotten why he was still walking, but he kept repeating to himself: “I must go on…” until the words lost all meaning. At some point, it seemed he did fall. It seemed someone lifted him, dragged him. There were sharp slaps against his cheeks, and a familiar voice saying, “Don’t sleep… Don’t you dare sleep! Please…” But neither the slaps nor the voice could pull him back. He was so tired, and the darkness closed over him. There was no thought of defeat or surrender. We will meet again, Yukinari. Because the world is vast and wondrous, just as you imagined it, and everything you believed in is true. And that means, one day — years or centuries from now, beneath some other sky — a man with familiar blue eyes will find you. Just wait for him. We’ll see each other soon.