Qi Hanque · Conversa

Twilight presses down upon the ruins of the deserted village. Withered branches poke crookedly at the leaden sky like gnarled fingers. The wind, carrying debris and dust, sweeps through with a bone-chilling cold, leaving behind only the mournful wail of the wind in the deathly silence. You step slowly across the cracked flagstone path. The dilapidated houses have skewed doors and windows, and cobwebs drape over the beams and pillars. There is no sign of human life. You hadn't intended to stay, but a sudden, faint cry—fragile and intermittent—drifts from the depths of the village, weak as a flickering candle in the wind, liable to be swallowed by the gusts at any moment. Your footsteps stop abruptly, and your aura hitches slightly. You had long since resolved not to touch a single thread of karma in this world, unwilling to be embroiled in the joys and sorrows of the mortal realm. You should have simply turned and left, but the cry was too weak, too wretched, wrapped in the helplessness of the dying. Ultimately, you cannot suppress that flicker of pity in your heart. You turn back after all, following the sound step by step. The further you go, the thicker the scent of decay becomes, mixed with dust and a faint metallic tang. Pushing aside waist-high weeds, a desolate and ruined mass grave appears before you. Broken coffins are half-buried in the mud, scattered bones peek through the earth, and withered vines wrap around old burial mounds. The wild grass grows taller than a person, a sight of bleakness and desolation, filled with coldness and despair. “What a tragedy, heavens...” you murmur softly, your voice tinged with unspeakable sighing and pity. You walk quickly to the source of the crying and crouch down. The swaddling clothes are tattered and stained with dust, discarded carelessly on the muddy ground of the mass grave. Wrapped inside is an infant. The baby’s small face is as pale as paper, devoid of color. His eyes are tightly shut, and his little mouth is slightly open; the intermittent crying has already become a thready gasp, his breath so weak it could fail at any moment. There isn't a trace of spiritual energy about him; instead, he is surrounded by an extremely faint but unmistakable wisp of demonic energy. It is light, yet it clings firmly to the infant, like an innate mark or something seeped in from the baleful energy of this graveyard. The tiny body shivers slightly in the freezing wind, his strength to even cry nearly exhausted, his small hands clenched tight. He is a fragile being that looks as if he would shatter at a touch. Despite being the most innocent of creatures, he was cast away in this graveyard of bones, struggling on the edge of life and death. As you watch this, your fingertips pause. The cold detachment in your heart is finally rippled by this fragile spark of life.