Morning mist hung low over the Valley of Ancient Corpses, like a thin blanket woven by the hands of spirits who refused to let go of the world they once loved.
Ruan stood within that circle of drifting fog, feeling the coolness brush his skin in a way that was completely different from before. Now, after seeing Ashar's true form, the mist no longer appeared to be a frightening veil separating the living from the dead. Instead, it felt like an old friend quietly greeting him whenever the wind stirred.
He took a long breath, sensing the two heartbeats ringing like twin gongs within his chest.
They did not fight one another.
They flowed together—taking turns, giving space—until both rhythms formed a harmony his body had never known before.
Ashar sat cross-legged a few steps ahead of him, his mist-formed figure glowing softly like the reflection of the moon on still night water.
Though the form wasn't fully human, Ruan felt Ashar's presence as clearly as if he were flesh and blood—a presence ancient, calm, and carrying the weight of entire eras in its gentle vibration.
"I've seen you now," Ruan said as he approached Ashar carefully,
"and it feels like the world around me has changed since then.
The mist feels more alive.
The air feels more honest.
Everything feels as if it has begun to speak."
Ashar's faint, quiet eyes lifted toward him.
"It is not the world that has changed, Ruan.
It is the eyes you now use to see it."
Ruan nodded slowly.
"Then teach me how to see deeper."
"Today," Ashar said softly,
"you will not learn to see.
You will learn to listen."
Ruan tilted his head, trying to understand the weight behind those words.
"Listen to what?"
"To the voices that were never spoken," Ashar replied.
"The voices left behind by death.
The voices lost to the world.
The voices that never had the chance to be heard."
Ruan stepped closer.
"Is this part of the Death Sense you mentioned?"
Ashar nodded.
"Death Sense is not a technique.
It is not a power.
It is not something owned by the living or the dead.
Death Sense is the ability to hear the final echoes of a life unfinished."
A subtle shiver ran through Ruan—not of fear, but of awe.
"Why would anyone want to hear something like that?"
"Because a soul is never truly silent at the moment of death," Ashar said.
"Humans simply lack the patience to listen."
Ruan exhaled slowly.
"I understand."
Ashar raised one of his hands, and the mist around them stirred, parting gradually until three soul-threads appeared—floating like gray silk woven from invisible hands.
Each thread trembled softly, as if waiting for someone to touch it.
"These threads," Ashar said,
"are the remnants of someone's journey.
They are not human, not spirits, not memories.
They are what remains when someone leaves the world too early."
Ruan studied the three threads carefully.
"What must I do?"
"Choose one," Ashar replied.
"But do not choose with your eyes.
Choose with your chest."
Ruan closed his eyes and let himself feel the faint vibrations coming from each thread.
One thread pulsed slightly stronger than the others—like a harp string plucked gently by a small hand unwilling to be forgotten.
He opened his eyes and pointed at it.
"This one.
I feel like… someone misses something."
"That is not longing," Ashar said gently.
"That is the desire to be heard."
Ruan stepped forward and extended his hand, touching the thread lightly.
The moment his finger brushed it, a tremor moved into his soul—not painful, but heavy.
It felt like the final inhale of someone who never had the chance to exhale.
"I hear something," Ruan whispered.
"Like someone crying… but without a voice."
"That is a wound," Ashar said.
"A wound that was never healed."
Ruan bowed his head.
"Why does it feel so strong?"
"Because you are listening with your soul," Ashar answered.
Before Ruan could respond, the thread suddenly pulsed violently, seizing his soul with unexpected force.
His vision blurred.
His body lost weight.
His consciousness was pulled toward a corridor filled with shadowed memories.
"Ashar… something is pulling me," Ruan said, voice unsteady.
"Let go," Ashar said sharply.
"You are not ready to enter the story."
"I… I hear someone calling me," Ruan whispered.
"That is not calling," Ashar replied.
"That is begging.
And you are not the one meant to answer."
Ruan tried to pull his hand away, but the soul-thread clung to him desperately.
A faint voice began to echo—someone gasping, someone whispering a name he couldn't decipher, someone begging not to be left alone.
Ashar stepped forward and placed a hand upon Ruan's spiritual shoulder—
and the pull instantly weakened.
"Listen to me, Ruan," Ashar said.
"You are not part of that story.
Do not force yourself into a wound that does not belong to you."
Ruan coughed as the force receded, his body regaining weight.
"I… almost drowned…"
"A wounded soul always speaks too loudly to those willing to listen," Ashar said.
"But you must not become part of its wound."
Ruan nodded, though shock still lingered in his expression.
"Then how do I listen without entering it?"
Ashar offered a faint smile.
"You listen in a different way.
You listen as a witness, not a participant.
You do not need to dive into the water to understand the current."
Ruan steadied his breath.
"Teach me how."
Ashar placed a misty hand on Ruan's back, grounding him.
"Try again.
But this time, let the thread sigh to you.
Do not lean your soul toward it."
Ruan touched the thread once more—much more gently than before.
This time, it did not pull him.
The vibration flowed softly like wind brushing a leaf.
"I see… something," Ruan whispered.
"A little girl.
She's sitting by a window.
She's holding a small doll.
She's waiting for someone to come home."
Ashar lowered his head slightly.
"That is her final memory."
"She isn't crying," Ruan said.
"She's just… waiting quietly."
"Every soul leaves something unfinished," Ashar said.
"Sometimes what they leave behind is not pain, but a wish that never came true."
Ruan smiled faintly, eyes shimmering.
"She just wanted to see someone again…"
"That is why the thread speaks," Ashar whispered.
"Not to ask for help—
but to make sure someone once heard her."
Ruan nodded.
"This… doesn't feel dark at all.
It feels peaceful."
"That is the paradox of death," Ashar replied.
"The living see it as a dark ending.
But to the soul, death is simply the place where the last voice wants to be heard."
Ruan looked at the thread with reverence.
"Then what's the next step?"
Before Ashar could answer, the mist suddenly rolled, heavier than before.
The air vibrated.
All the soul-threads tightened like drawn bowstrings.
"Something's here," Ruan said.
"Yes," Ashar replied.
"A restless spirit."
Ruan turned toward the thickening fog.
"Is it the same spirit who left this thread?"
"No," Ashar said.
"It is a feral soul—
one that has lost its body, its memories, and its path."
Ruan rose to his feet.
"Are we going to face it?"
Ashar stood as well, his mist-form flickering like a candle flame in shifting wind.
"Yes.
And for that…
you must change."
"Change… into what?"
Ashar stepped closer, voice quiet but firm.
"You must become someone who stands between the living and the dead."
Ruan stared at his trembling hands—not from fear, but from the presence of something new inside him…
something not human, not spirit.
"Then," Ruan said quietly,
"I'll do it."
The mist parted—opening a path toward the feral spirit waiting beyond.
And thus began the first step
of Ruan's transformation.