CHAPTER 11 : GAMBLE

Zhen's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a world drenched in the sinister glow of a sky painted in blood-red hues. His gaze swept over a ghastly scene below—a macabre mosaic of mutilated corpses stacked upon one another, their wounds grotesquely exposing the innards of humanity.

Amidst the gruesome display, a detached head lay in silent witness, its lifeless eyes staring into the void with a chilling emptiness directly gazing at Zhen. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, assaulting Zhen's senses like a relentless assailant. Above the cacophony of battle, the clash of swords and the desperate cries of combatants pierced the air, weaving a chilling symphony of death and despair.

Zhen was lying on the ground stained with blood, not of other's but his own. He didn't noticed at first but as the senses returned back , a sudden jolt of pain came over from his abdomen. And when he glanced there it was almost torn open, making him see the intestines and organs that had swollen. He was able to feel each , each inch of the pain as his own.

He looked at the body he was in. His eyes surveyed the armored husk he inhabited, a grim reminder of battles past. "The damage is concentrated in the abdomen," he assessed grimly, his thoughts racing amidst the chaos. Adrenaline surged through his veins, fueling a desperate resolve as blood poured from every orifice, a testament to the fragility of mortal flesh. " I'll need to act fast or this could be the end" he resolved, steeling himself for the impending struggle.

As Zhen's eyes beheld the ghastly tableau before him, a chill gripped his very soul. The setting sun cast an eerie pallor over the scene as men, their faces twisted in grim determination, plunged their blades into the lifeless corpses strewn across the battlefield. Each stab echoed like a sinister symphony of death, a haunting reminder of the savagery that lurked within the hearts of men.

"Oh, this is a dire turn of events," Zhen mused, his voice a mere whisper amidst the cacophony of war. Despite the urgency of his situation, he remained as calm as the still waters of a darkened lake. His mind raced with possibilities even as his body lay crippled upon the blood-soaked earth.

With death's icy embrace inching ever closer, Zhen's thoughts remained as sharp as the blade of his adversaries. "I must find refuge," he reasoned, his voice betraying none of the fear that gnawed at his insides. Yet, as he attempted to move, his body rebelled against him, a cruel reminder of his mortal frailty.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Zhen grappled with the reality of his impending demise. Yet, amidst the chaos, a flicker of hope emerged—a carriage, its shadowy form beckoning like a specter in the night. "A chance for salvation," he thought, his mind a beacon of cunning amidst the encroaching darkness.

With each agonizing inch, Zhen dragged his broken form towards the promise of sanctuary, his determination unyielding despite the searing pain that tore through his body. Every movement was a battle against the specter of death itself, a testament to the indomitable will that burned within him.

As Zhen's weary hands strained against the weight of his own exhaustion, his body threatened to succumb to the relentless toll of dragging and probable battle before. Each movement felt like a Herculean feat, his limbs weighed down by the burden of fatigue. Yet, in the face of adversity, surrender was a luxury he could ill afford.

With a grit born of sheer determination, Zhen seized upon a fleeting opportunity for concealment. "This will have to do," he whispered to himself, his voice a mere echo in the cacophony of war. Gripping the lower edge of the carriage with trembling hands, he dragged his battered form beneath its looming shadow.

Hidden from sight, he found a fleeting respite amidst the chaos that enveloped the battlefield. The clash of swords and the roar of combat faded into the background as he nestled into his makeshift sanctuary, his breath a whisper against the tumultuous backdrop.

"For now, I am safe," he thought, his mind a bastion of calm amidst the storm. With keen awareness, he noted the soldiers' unwavering focus on the enemy, their attention consumed by the heat of battle. In the shadow of the carriage, he remained unseen, a phantom in the night, biding his time until the moment was ripe.

Yet, even as he sought refuge from the carnage that surrounded him, the specter of his own mortality lingered like a shadow at his side. Each breath was a reminder of the fragile thread that bound him to the realm of the living.

"For now, those guys aren't the issue, but this bleeding is," Zhen muttered to himself, urgency tainting his voice. His eyes caught sight of the metal strings, arranged in a chain-like formation near the edge of his armor. "I suppose that might do the trick," he reasoned, gingerly manipulating the strings before pulling them free. The sudden tug sent a searing pain radiating from his stomach, prompting a gory expulsion of blood onto the ground.

The retrieved strings were long, thick, yet surprisingly flexible, resembling the sinuous movement of a baby snake. A nearby fire pool caught his attention. "Ah, perfect," Zhen remarked, swiftly plunging the length of his sword into the fiery pool.

After detaching the necessary strings, Zhen wasted no time initiating the procedure. "Now, let's begin," he murmured, his voice devoid of emotion as he embarked on the daunting task. With steely determination, he commenced stitching the gaping wound with the thick strings, his movements methodical and precise.

Given the thickness of the strings, Zhen had to start stitching from slightly above the affected area, creating long spirals to cover the wound adequately. Each motion was deliberate, each action calculated to minimize further damage.

First, he inserted the string just below his chest, using its sharpened end to pierce through tissue and flesh, creating controlled tears to guide the stitching. With unwavering focus, he guided the string downward until it emerged from the open wound. With practiced precision, he inserted his hands into the cavity, pushing the string deeper before executing a swift, forceful tear to secure the stitching.

Repeated over several turns, the procedure gradually closed the wound, albeit imperfectly. Blood still seeped through the thick stitching, leaving noticeable gaps, yet it was a vast improvement from before. Throughout the ordeal, Zhen's face remained stoic, devoid of emotion or pain. His eyes, dark and unyielding, betrayed no hint of the agony that ravaged his body, retaining only an unfathomable depth. The silence that enveloped the scene was punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of Zhen's stitching, a grim symphony that echoed through the desolate battlefield, sending shivers down the spine of anyone who dared to listen.

As Zhen completed the stitching, he inspected the sword, now bathed entirely in red with a subtle tinge of blue. Satisfied with its hue, he swiftly pressed the blade against the stitched area. Despite the searing pain that engulfed him, Zhen's resolve remained unshaken. His brows furrowed, lips tightened, yet not a single sound escaped his mouth. Only the heavy rhythm of his breathing betrayed the agony he endured.

The strings grew hotter and redder with each passing moment. Their thickness made conducting heat through them a challenge, but Zhen persevered. By repeatedly pressing the strings against the heated sword, their temperature gradually soared. "Now is the time," Zhen muttered, his voice resolute as he pressed the molten strings against the wound. Despite his efforts, success was far away from him.

"Now comes the final step," Zhen reasoned, bracing himself as he manipulated his body, coercing the stitched ends of his abdomen to meet.

The scorching strings, pulsating with heat, seared the flesh as Zhen manipulated his torn abdomen. With a controlled crunch, he brought the ends together, the molten strands welding the torn flesh, albeit crudely. Despite the excruciating pain and dwindling energy reserves, Zhen persisted, his determination unwavering with each methodical action.

"This is merely a temporary fix," Zhen acknowledged inwardly. "Should I need to move or face further challenges, the stitches are bound to unravel. Yet, given the circumstances, it seems inevitable." With his current task completed, his mind instinctively projected forward, considering potential outcomes and preparing for what lay ahead. For Zhen, anticipation was second nature, a preemptive shield against the uncertainties of the future.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a breathtaking canvas, adorned with a myriad of twinkling stars. Their gentle glow cast a surreal beauty upon the battlefield, painting the scene with an ethereal charm. The darkness of night embraced the land, its velvety cloak adding depth to the celestial spectacle.

However, amidst this picturesque backdrop, a grim reality lurked beneath the surface. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Lifeless bodies lay strewn across the ground, their once-vibrant forms now reduced to mere shells of existence. Some lay with their torsos split open, revealing the grotesque inner workings of the human anatomy. Others suffered the indignity of having their heads torn from their bodies, a brutal testament to the savagery of conflict.

In this juxtaposition of beauty and brutality, the true nature of warfare revealed itself. The serene facade of the starlit sky belied the horrors that unfolded beneath, a stark reminder of the consequences of human strife and the depths of human depravity.

Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Zhen lay motionless beneath the carriage, his body still and his breath shallow. To the casual observer, he appeared lifeless, a mere casualty of war. Yet beneath the facade of death, the spark of life flickered within him, a silent testament to his resilience.

With cautious eyes scanning his surroundings, Zhen assessed his situation. The wound that once threatened to consume him was now sealed, a testament to his ingenuity and resolve. Yet, he knew that the fragile peace he had forged with his own hands could shatter with the slightest misstep.

As he emerged from his makeshift sanctuary, Zhen felt the weight of his own mortality bearing down upon him. Every movement was a delicate dance between life and death, a precarious balance that he struggled to maintain. With each step, the specter of his own mortality loomed ever closer, a constant reminder of the stakes at hand.

With a determined effort, Zhen pushed himself upright, his body protesting with every movement. Yet, he refused to yield to the agony that threatened to consume him. Leaning against the carriage for support, he steadied himself, his resolve unshaken despite the odds stacked against him.

In the darkness of the night, amidst the chaos of battle, Zhen stood as a solitary figure, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching shadows. With each passing moment, his determination burned ever brighter, a testament to the indomitable spirit that dwelled within him.

"If I perish in this realm, so too shall I in reality," Zhen mused, his stance cautious, a silent sentinel against the encroaching darkness. His back arched slightly, a silent vow to safeguard the fragile stitches that bound his flesh together. His lips curled a little forming what can be said as a smile for some , while something else a sign of indomitability for others.

Surveying the battlefield, Zhen's gaze swept over the carnage that lay before him, a grim testament to the brutality of war. Scores of fallen soldiers lay strewn across the blood-soaked earth, their lifeless forms a somber offering to the god of death.

Unperturbed by the macabre scene, Zhen pressed onward, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of life amidst the sea of corpses. "It is imperative to escape from here , but if this body's side has won , it would be a great help", he contemplated, navigating the labyrinth of death that surrounded him. Each step was a gamble, his body a fragile vessel teetering on the brink of collapse.

Turning his attention to the emblem emblazoned upon his armor—a regal lion flanked by twin swords—Zhen sought solace in its unfamiliar embrace.

"I spy a camp ahead," Zhen murmured, his gaze fixed upon the flickering torchlight that danced amidst the tents. As he approached, the vigilant sentinels stationed at the perimeter of the camp took notice of spotted his shadowy figure advancing through the gloom.

With fire torches held aloft, two guards hastened toward him, their eyes ablaze with suspicion and wariness.

"Regardless, I must press forward," Zhen resolved, his determination unwavering even as fatigue threatened to overwhelm him. "I cannot risk traversing miles only to discover these men were allies of this body."

As the torchlight illuminated their armor, revealing the crest of a majestic purple eagle set against a backdrop of stars, dread coiled like a serpent in Zhen's gut. Recognition struck him like a blow, a sickening realization dawning in the depths of his soul.

"A purple eagle," Zhen mused, his mind racing to comprehend the implications, the words heavy with despair "No, it cannot be..." Realization dawned upon him with sudden and chilling clarity, but it was too late. The guards had glimpsed him, and in that fleeting moment, their judgment was swift and merciless.

An arrow carrying a storming force rushed towards him through the air.

"By the gods, why did I tempt fate?" Zhen's thoughts echoed in the darkness, his eyes fixated on the approaching arrow, a lamentation drowned out by the clamor of impending doom. "Foolishness! To think that my ties to family could dull my senses so much!. How could my decision making be clouded by mere guess!" 

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