The roaring fire still couldn't light the darkness ahead.
Suddenly, Wei stopped running.
Chun knew this place well. "Do you… want to check your home?" she asked.
She hesitated. She wasn't sure it was a good idea.
The skeletal warhorse had appeared. That meant the ones who attacked the village were undead soldiers.
They weren't bandits who grabbed what they could and left.
They were killing machines. Or beasts that fed on people.
"We'll go," Wei said quietly. "If the door's locked, we won't go in."
Chun nodded and moved to a dark, empty-looking thatched hut on the left.
The door wasn't locked.
She glanced at Wei, unsure.
Wei stood at the doorway. He didn't push it open right away.
His hand hovered in the air, knuckles pale, frozen before the wooden door.
There were no cracks in the wood. No signs of it being forced open.
It hadn't been kicked in.
Holding her breath, Chun pushed the door open a narrow gap.
The moment she stepped inside, the air felt unnaturally cold.
Not the room—her heart.
This was Wei's home.
She was afraid of seeing a kind, gentle middle-aged woman lying on the floor.
That soft smile. That warmth that felt like home.
Now, the thought of it felt like a knife.
She didn't want Wei to be cut by that pain as well.
The room was thick with darkness.
She felt Wei clutch her sleeve, as if he feared that the next step would reveal something terrible.
Chun said nothing. She only sighed softly and tightened her grip on his hand.
At first, she thought he was just struggling to adjust to the dark.
But soon, she realized something was wrong.
She could already see.
Yet Wei's movements weren't just cautious. Every step carried a subtle strain, like he was enduring something invisible.
The air smelled of ash.
The furniture was intact. The water bucket stood where it always had, neat and familiar, just as his mother had liked it.
But Wei walked with extreme care, still moving like a blind man.
Chun's heart tightened.
He wasn't afraid of the dark. He was silently bearing something—and she hadn't noticed at first.
There was no lamp inside.
The only window was half-closed. Night air squeezed through the gap, making the tablecloth stir gently.
The pot lid rested loosely on top.
The fire had already been put out.
This wasn't the sign of someone fleeing in panic.
It was more like—
Someone had left on purpose.
A familiar smell lingered in the air. Warm, gentle, rich with oil and sweetness.
Rabbit stew.
For a moment, Chun could almost hear Wei's mother laughing by the stove, turning back with a smile:
"Chun's here? Come, try my cooking!"
Suddenly, Chun stepped on something soft.
She jumped back, her hand turning cold in an instant.
"Wei… the floor… there's—"
She felt his breathing quicken, as if he had fallen from flight into a deeper abyss.
He was afraid.
Not of the dark room.
But of stepping on something cold.
Afraid it might be his mother. Afraid it might be a silence that would never answer him again.
On the floor lay a pair of old boots.
Wei's boots. Repaired. Placed neatly with the openings facing outward, deliberately set by the door.
Both of them let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
Wei stared at the boots.
Then it hit him—
That wasn't how his mother usually placed them.
The room was deathly quiet.
Chun noticed the table. The bowls and chopsticks were neatly arranged. The rabbit stew's scent still clung to the air—neither fully fresh nor completely gone.
She saw a note pressed beneath one of the bowls.
The paper looked like it had been torn hurriedly from wallpaper.
The handwriting was uneven, as if it had been written halfway, then forced to stop.
"These people are different from before."
It looked like more was meant to follow.
But there was only a smudged streak of ink.
Chun read the note aloud to Wei.
Wei frowned, bringing the paper close to his eyes, but still couldn't tell whose handwriting it was.
The table hadn't been moved.
It wasn't overturned.
The chair stood beside it, only pushed back a little.
He remembered that angle.
His mother always pushed the chair out slightly so she could turn easily to fetch water.
Wei's gaze slowly shifted to the stove.
The pot lid sat crooked.
Not knocked aside—just set down carelessly.
The fire inside had long gone out.
But the ash had been stirred.
Someone had checked it.
Wei didn't step closer.
He stood where he was, staring at the pot, as if waiting for it to give him an answer.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
If there had been a struggle here, it wouldn't be this quiet.
What had happened?
The silence pressed down so hard that even breathing felt wrong.
"Wei, we should leave… now," Chun whispered.
Seeing him lost in thought, she grew anxious.
Then—
Tap.
A soft sound came from behind them.
Chun turned back uncertainly.
Nothing.
It must have been her imagination.
"Wei, why are you still standing there?"
Tap.
Again.
Clear this time.
Not the wind. Not the wood settling.
More like—
Something being gently put back where it belonged.
But Chun's attention was on Wei's face.
Because his eyes had narrowed, and thin lines of blood were seeping from the corners.
In that instant, Chun understood—
He wasn't just protecting her.
He was silently enduring pain she couldn't see.
"Wei, close your eyes," she said softly.
"Don't think about anything.
I'm here."
Wei did as she said.
He closed his eyes.
And in that moment—
From deep within the darkness of the house,
something
quietly
drew closer.