Yin Long’s hand rested on the cuff of his cloak, the tip of his blade digging slightly into the ground. His gaze had finally slid away from his fear, away from the girl, but now it rested on the impurities in his cloak.

A beautiful crimson, clean and striking despite the fact that it seemed to reek and drip with blood. It was a weapon for murder, but it was beautiful. But now it was dirty. Ashen oil flowed across its surface, a stain in the blood that seemed as if it wanted to seep outward to infect the rest. Was it pain? Was it suffering? Was it the dark mire in his mind? Was it the parts of others that he had grafted onto himself recently?

Just as he couldn’t tell with the oil-like tears he had cried recently, he couldn’t tell with this stain. But whatever the case was, he knew he was stained now. As the cloak was, so too was he.

"Young Master, its not good to get too distracted. You still have a duty to fulfil."

A voice slithered into Yin Long’s ears as he stood there. It crept down his spine like ice yet nestled in his head like feathers blessed by the sun, warmer than what he remembered even the sun to be. His gaze rose again, settled on his fear again.

Lan Yun. How gentle she looked as she stood there, so caring and warm. Even the broken smile on her face almost morphed into the one in his memory. But it couldn’t reach it, she would never be able to smile again, he’d never get to see that smile again. But even so, she urged him on. Even so, she continued to push him towards a sky he had never set his eyes on.

Back then, he rose to fulfil his own desires and dreams. And now too, he rose.

Plip.

Finally, he became aware of something hitting him.

Plop.

Something soft and wet landed on his head.

Plip.

It was hot. Warmer than the sunlight he could no longer feel.

Plop.

Like the sound of the smithy he heard in the town, the sound was familiar to him, the soft popping echoing in his head.

Plip.

The hand holding his cloak rose and caught the warm rain, heavy crimson drops soon filling his palm. Some of them slid down his face and landed on his lips, a familiar metallic taste spreading across his tongue.

In that moment, the surroundings became clear to him again. The headless corpse still in the middle of falling to its knees reminded him of where he currently was and what he had been doing. For a brief moment, it had slipped his mind as his attention floated back to the past, an occurrence that had become increasingly common, to the point where he sometimes wasn’t sure if he remembered his own past or someone else’s.

The blood that rained down on him came from that corpse, it sputtered out from the cut neck as if it was desperately reaching for the sky. He had made that corpse, he had cut that life short. The eyes of the falling head were locked on him, a look of confusion now forever etched into them, his own shattered reflection forever sealed in them as well.

"Ananta Visrama."

A prayer fell from Yin Long’s lips, murkier than the blood and heavier than the ashen oil that was already appearing at the corners of his eyes. His knees bent, the subdued sounds of the surrounding battles finally entering his ears. There was a bit of screaming, a bit of grunting, a bit of metal meeting metal, and a bit of metal meeting flesh. But right now, the headless corpse and the confused eyes were his main priority.

"Now, now you are free, so just give it all to me and rest."

His hand landed on the head and the law of Yin poured out and dug into the corpse, its soul, its very essence. The pain, the suffering, the tears, everything was dredged out without mercy and passed along. Pain was the easiest thing to force onto others, the easiest emotion for others to share, but few accepted it so willingly.

Kao Mercarius. A strange man from a stranger land. There were places, people, things, beasts, and traditions that Yin Long had never heard about. Everything he saw through the now-headless man’s eyes was new. But no matter how different their lives and homes had been, there was one thing they shared universally, their pain.

The first broken finger. The first cut into his stomach. The first lover that abandoned him. The first home he was chased out of. The first family he lost because he couldn’t fight against the group of thugs that swarmed them.

Kao Mercarius had suffered, and so Yin Long cried tears of murky oil for him.

With each tear that fell, the suffering of the dead was lessened. With each tear that glistened under the sun, the living got to suffer a bit more. And finally, the last tear fell and the headless corpse vanished, pale yellow dust blowing away with the wind.

Yin Long’s knees straightened as he stood up, the last of the pale yellow dust dancing around him for a few moments before it too flew away to a better life. His gaze slid slightly, drifting past the fighting groups and settling on the four men that had been carrying the stretchers that carried the bodies.

Perhaps it was because the others were too pre-occupied with their fighting, but it seemed like these four men were the only ones who had seen what Yin Long had done. He was ready to see them cower and tremble, or perhaps just running away immediately if they were a bit smarter. But the sight that greeted him was completely different.

They were indeed quivering, but they weren’t cowering, nor did they look like they wanted to run away. Their eyes were shining, alight with the bright gleam of hope. They shuffled about impatiently, as if they were caught between waiting for him and rushing right at him.

"Look, Young Master. Not just the dead find suffering to be unbearable, even the living can be saved."

The voice slithered into his ear again, snuck down his spine. He knew that Lan Yun was a bit away from him, but still it sounded as if she stood right next to him as she spoke. His head turned slightly so that he could look at her, so that he could show her the smile she could no longer wear.

Once he assured her, or perhaps himself, he turned back to the four men, each one shaking with excitement. His steps felt heavy as he walked. He could see that there was nothing, but he felt as if each step left behind a bit of the ashen oil that seemed to leak from him. It had stained him from the inside out, but perhaps that wasn’t enough for it. One day, perhaps it would fully leak out from him and stain the world with each step. At that time, what would he be? How many others would he have grafted into himself? Would he still be Yin Long?

"Ahh… Excuse me… Sir?"

A voice cut through his thoughts just as they were starting to tie him up. He had arrived in front of the four people before he knew it, their knees bending slightly now that he stood in front of them. The sounds behind him had gotten a bit worse so one or two of the others had probably noticed him and were trying to stop him. But seeing as they hadn’t gotten to him yet it seemed like the others from his group were tying them down properly. And if they were capable of that despite the difference in numbers then they should be winning soon, it was a foregone conclusion.

"Could… Could you do me first, Sir?"

The four men looked up at him, one of them mustering their courage while he clutched his hands. In his eyes, there was hope that was finally brighter than the despair that lurked within.

The three others sprung to action the moment the first one spoke up, wordlessly stretching out their necks. They looked like chicks squeaking at their mother for some food.

But they were all of them crying. Tears that couldn’t be seen were running down their cheeks, screams that couldn’t be heard were rushing up from their throats. What sort of fate did they suffer to appear like this down here? What sort of life did they live to willingly present their necks like this just for a chance at non-existence?

Soon he would know. Soon he would cry for them.

"Visrama."

Lao Suizen. Married at 21. First child at 22. Widowed at 23. Childless father at 31. Died at 38. Found love again in hell at 58. Became widowed again at 62. Became a slave at 62. And now, died again at 85. To him, suffering was the smiling face of a young child buried too soon.

"Visrama."

Guo Haishin. 10 friends at 22. 9 friends at 24. 8 friends at 25. 7 friends at 27. 5 friends at 30. 3 friends at 32. 1 friend at 38. O friends at 39. Took his own life at 40. Made new friends in hell at 51, lost them between 61 and 71. Became a slave at 72. And now, died again at 102. To him, suffering was a bright room slowly growing darker as the table in front of him held less and less people.

"Visrama."

Tenza Huorin. Mercenary at 15. Squad leader at 19. Company leader at 25. Noble at 37. Took his seventh wife at 42. Died by poisoning from his third wife and old mercenary companion at 45. Gathered new men in hell at 50. Took over a small territory at 65. Found one of his killers at 71. Finally allowed her to die at 78. Had his territory crushed at 82. Became a slave at 82. And now, died again at 152. His fear was a hand on his shoulder and a knife in his stomach.

"Ananta Visrama."

Shirin Daore. Adopted at 3. Lost his father at 5. Lost his mother at 8. Ate his first mouldy bread at 8. Begged for money for the first time at 8. Stole food for the first time at 9. Was taken in by other beggars at 9. Took the fall for them at 11. Was beaten to death at 11. Ate his first piece of mouldy food in hell at 11, stole his first piece of food in hell at 12. Was taken in as a slave at 12. Became free at 45. Built a home at 53. Lost his home at 55. Became a slave again at 56. And finally, died again at 57. His fear was the blanket of white that quietly covered the world during winter.

They suffered. From the youngest to the oldest, they all suffered. They cried and screamed, but no one ever heard them, so they suffered in silence. But now they had been heard, now they got to suffer as loudly as they wanted.

Now there was someone who cried tears of oil for them, someone who cursed out prayers like mud for them. So their tears got a cup to fall into, their screams got ears to sink into, and their suffering got a vessel to enter.

One in the headless corpse. Four in the men carrying the stretchers. Nine in the bodies stacked tightly on the stretchers. It was but a short moment, but 14 new people had been grafted onto Yin Long, hundreds of new sufferings crammed into his dark mire and his empty void.

When he spewed out the last of the 14 prayers, the sounds of battle had intensified to a grim crescendo. The guards that once outnumbered Li Mei Yen’s group were now forced together, standing back to back as they defended against the flurry of attacks that rained down. Two had already died, not counting the one Yin Long killed. Before long, the last ones would also die.

But even so, Yin Long raised his sword. To end it a bit earlier, to spew more curse-like prayers a bit quicker. The oil still ran from his face like tears, a few drops starting to slide out from his nostrils as he brandished his weapon. A bit away, the girl who couldn’t smile was still urging him on oh-so gently.