Dawn arrived slowly in the quiet valley. Pale light seeped through layers of mist, painting the ancient pines in washes of grey. The man born of the sword fragment sat with his back against the gnarled trunk of the old tree, watching a ghost of sunlight emerge in the east. He had not moved from the glade all night, except to pull himself into the shelter of the tree.
Now, as morning came, he observed the world with wide, wary eyes, like a newborn deer uncertain of predators. Each moment brought new sensations. The way dew gathered on his skin and cooled him, the first tentative chirp of a morning bird that made him flinch, the golden shaft of sunlight breaking through the canopy to warm his bare feet. He found himself mesmerized by a drop of water trembling at the tip of a fern frond, refracting the dawn in its tiny globe. When it fell and splashed onto a stone, he almost felt the impact as if it had struck his own skin.
Though he had a man's form, tall and lean, with long raven-black hair that clung damply to his shoulders, he moved with the cautious wonder of an infant. The hours after waking were spent learning the simple arts of being alive. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the rhythmic thump inside. Each thump was foreign, yet comforting, proof that he existed. He breathed in, breathed out, listening to the soft rush of air. Words drifted up unbidden to his mind, naming what he experienced. In the sword, he had no lungs, no heartbeat. These things were new, yet somehow familiar, as if he had known them long ago. The knowledge felt like echoes in a cave, distant and distorted.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. His legs shook, nearly buckling, but he caught himself against the tree. The bark felt rough and real. With effort, he managed to stand. The world spun momentarily, a brief dizziness as blood rushed in his veins. He steadied his breathing and the spinning eased. Standing beneath the broad branches, he realized how small the glade truly was. Encircled by mossy stones and leaning shrine walls, it had been his entire universe in slumber.
Now, beyond the edges of the clearing, he could see further. Tall ferns and brambles, the shadows between trunks where the morning light hadn't yet reached. The forest beyond seemed endless and darkly inviting. A whisper of instinct told him that beyond those trees lay more than just wilderness. There lay an entire world that had changed while he slept.
The thought of leaving this quiet sanctuary filled him with unease. Here, at least, everything was known to him in some wordless way. The sword shard's presence, now nestled in his chest, resonated with the stones and the tree; this place had become a cradle. Out there, beyond the moss-covered stones, anything could await: prying eyes, dangers... or answers. He closed his eyes and stretched out his senses tentatively. Though he lacked experience, something in him remembered how to feel the currents of Qi in the air. It was like extending an invisible hand made of thought. At first, he sensed only the immediate life around him. The slow pulse of the old tree, the faint consciousness of small creatures burrowed underground, the gentle flow of spiritual energy that the living things exhaled. Then, further out, he felt a distinct source of power to the north, high and distant like a far-off storm on the horizon of his awareness. It prickled at the edge of his mind: a concentration of Qi so great it was like a beacon. He did not know that on a mountain many leagues away sat a great sect whose cultivators lit up the spiritual firmament. He only felt uneasily drawn and repelled by that distant brightness. To the west, he sensed a more diffuse glow: possibly a settlement waking with the sun, hundreds of tiny life-lights clustered together. Humans, his intuition supplied. The concept of other people sent a strange thrill through him, part longing, part fear. Would they see him as human, or something else? Did he even resemble truly born men? He could not be sure.
He looked down at his own body. Dirt clung to his pale skin, and green smears of moss stained his arms and legs. Apart from the embedded shard in his chest, which now looked like a small dark metal birthmark just over his heart, he bore no obvious signs of his strange origin. He flexed his fingers, noticing blackened nails and faint scars tracing his forearms.
Perhaps remnants of the sword's fragmentation or simply marks from clawing his way out of the earth. His feet were bare and caked with mud.
Clothing... another memory echo surfaced.
Yes, people wore garments.
He remembered textures: the soft touch of silk, the weight of armor, though he could not recall when he had felt them. Instinctively, he knew he should cover himself before approaching any others; wandering naked would attract the wrong attention. But he had nothing here save moss and leaves.
The man knelt and picked up a tattered strip of cloth caught on a corner of the shrine ruins. It crumbled in his hand, centuries old and long rotted. Useless. He would have to manage without for now. Perhaps he could find something on his journey. The idea of a journey settled into his mind naturally. There was no question he had to leave. The same longing that gave him form now tugged him forward, an invisible chain linked to that blurred face in his memory. He felt in his very bones that somewhere in this changed world lay the truth of who he was, and perhaps the girl in the moonlight. To remain here in safety would mean living as an animal or spirit, but not as a man. And he yearned to be a man, to reclaim the life that was taken from him, even if he did not yet understand what that life had been.