Chapter Fifty-Five: The Wicked Blade

The clock on the wall ticked rapidly, its second hand spinning at an unnatural pace. Though invisible in the darkness, its ticking echoed sharply in the silence, making the sound all the more strange. It was as if it had always been this way since time immemorial, and would continue on and on, endlessly.

Lei Ming remembered that moment with perfect clarity—he had taken a razor blade and slashed open the artery on his hand. Or perhaps it was a vein; he could not tell the difference. All he knew was the sharp blade had torn a bloody, mangled mess into his left wrist. He could still picture that thin razor, etched with the silhouette of a black swordfish, its edge glinting with a faint blue light. He hadn’t wanted to sever his own lifeline, but the blade seemed to whisper to him: “Go on, cut deeper. End it all—no more pain, only eternal bliss.”

He hesitated, not truly wishing to do it, but his right hand moved as if possessed, carving hard into his left wrist. Oddly, he did not feel pain or fear, only a coolness spreading through him, a strange sense of release, as if a great burden had been lifted. He watched quietly as his crimson blood seeped from the mutilated flesh, trickled along his palm, and dripped between his fingers—at first warm, but cold by the time it reached his fingertips. His life ebbed away with the blood, draining his strength.

His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, until at last they closed completely. Lei Ming felt himself growing colder, as if sinking into boundless darkness. Time seemed to slow, and his body stiffened and numbed, gradually losing all sensation. It seemed certain now—he was truly dying.

Regret crept in, slow and inexorable. No matter what, he should never have entertained thoughts of suicide. Was there anything left to fear if even death held no terror? But death was agony. In this darkness without the passage of time, a single second stretched into an eternity of waiting. Endless blackness, unending cold—the very melody of death. There were no memories flashing by as in the movies, no sorrow, no sighs; nothing but the cold, the loneliness, and the interminable expanse of time.

“Damn it, who was the bastard that sent me this razor? Is this a blade of death?” Lei Ming cursed and questioned ceaselessly in his heart.

“I can’t die, I refuse to be defeated by a tiny razor blade! My life may be poor and unremarkable, but my blood, my youth—must they be spilled so meaninglessly?” His heart gave a sudden throb; a wave of heat surged from his chest, coursing swiftly through his veins, filling him with a sudden, inexplicable emotion. He felt a single hot tear slip from the corner of his eye.

Thump. His heart beat again, and he clearly sensed a burst of white light erupting in his heart, spreading outward through his pulse, driving away the darkness. His body was slowly reviving.

Thump, thump, thump—the rhythm of his heart was returning. To Lei Ming, it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Warm blood rushed forth, surging through his meridians, bringing heat back to his stiffened limbs. His body, once rigid, began to soften visibly, emitting wisps of steam like a bamboo steamer. Had anyone seen him now, enveloped in a mist of white vapor, they might have been scared out of their wits.

As his heart raced, blood flowed faster and faster through his veins, battering against a mass of black smoke at his right wrist. The black smoke, undaunted, fought back against the white energy carried by the blood. At first, the white energy arriving at the wrist was scant, quickly beset and annihilated by the black smoke, which grew even stronger in its wake, turning back along the meridians toward his heart. Lei Ming watched anxiously as the black smoke and white energy clashed in his arm, twisting and writhing like two serpents locked in a deadly struggle.

“Come on, come on!” Lei Ming cheered silently, desperately hoping the white energy would break through and overcome the black smoke. For deep within, he sensed that if the white energy triumphed, he would regain control of his body, awaken fully, and escape death’s grasp.

“I must live! I am not afraid of you! If I do not fear death, what else can daunt me? White energy, let us fight together!” With a surge of spirit, an unending stream of white energy burst from his heart like reinforcements, swiftly bolstering the vanguard locked in battle with the black smoke. The white energy grew stronger, gradually pressing the black smoke back. The black smoke, losing its initial ferocity, retreated in defeat until it was forced to the wrist, where it made its final, desperate stand.

Lei Ming felt sensation returning to his body. He opened his eyes, only to be overwhelmed by dizziness and a wave of nausea rising from his gut.

He retched, spewing a pool of black water. The stench was so foul it seemed to invade his soul—unbearable, even for someone freshly returned from the brink of death.

“Now, for the final blow!” Lei Ming braced himself, ignoring the discomfort, and joined the white energy in a last assault. The white energy gathered into a sharp arrow and crashed into the black smoke. The black smoke shrank, finally fleeing through the open wound on his wrist and retreating back into the razor blade.

At the very instant the black smoke fled, Lei Ming regained control of his body. After a moment to adjust, he propped himself up with trembling hands, sitting up and gulping for breath.

“It feels so good to be alive!” Lei Ming gazed joyfully at the sunlit world beyond his window, at the birds singing merrily. Everything seemed so beautiful.

Yet a foul stench, tinged with blood, drifted toward him, jarringly out of place. Looking down at the mess, Lei Ming saw the black water he had vomited mingled with the blood from his wrist, forming a grotesque swirl of red and black. Amid the filth, a cold gleam caught his eye—the strange razor blade, the one that had tempted him to suicide. The sight of it sent a sudden, searing pain shooting through his right wrist.

He shook his dizzy head, forcing a bitter smile, and looked at his own mangled wrist. It had already begun to scab over, a blackened crust forming atop the wound. The pain, once ignored, now flared up with a vengeance, so intense it made his head swim and drenched his entire body in sweat, as if he’d been pulled from a river.

“Ugh—”