Time had lost all meaning.
I don't know whether it is day or night, I only know that every time I wake up, the air is filled with the smell of rust and blood. There is no light outside the window, and no clock on the wall. There is only a flickering chandelier, like the last glimmer of hope that may burn out at any time.
I was locked in this cramped storage room. The chains on my ankles had worn away my skin, and the wounds were swollen and red. My body was numb, but I still remembered the pain. It was like a shadow that would never leave, reminding me every time I was awake: You are still alive.
In one corner of the room, there was a mirror.
In fact, it was not a real mirror, but a broken stainless-steel plate that could barely reflect a silhouette. It was crookedly embedded in the wall, with rusty edges like a wound.
I looked at it every day.
The person in the mirror had pale skin, bruised lips, sunken eyes, and a hollow stare. The dark shadows beneath his eyes looked burned into his skin; his lips were cracked, crusted with dried blood. The marks on his neck still whispered of that night's struggle.
I knew that it was me.
Once, I believed mirrors showed my true self. Now, I thought that version of me had died at the moment Li Chengyuan turned his back.
"You shouldn't be here."
This is what the man named Shao Song said to me for the first time.
I didn't know why he brought food for me. And I didn't understand the look in his eyes—unlike the others, his wasn't filled with hatred or apathy. He looked at me like I was still… human.
That day, he walked in holding an old lunchbox. There was no expression, no extra words. He put down the lunch box, and under the dim light, the food was steaming, mixed with the smell of rust and blood, which actually made me feel hungry again.
I instinctively recoiled.
He didn't move, just squatted down, handed over the rice spoon, and said softly: "Eat something."
I didn't take it.
He didn't force me, but just looked at me quietly, as if waiting for me to make a decision.
I looked at him, then looked down at my own hands - they were as thin as dead branches, with dried blood beneath my fingernails, and I didn't even have the strength to lift a spoon.
He sighed, put his hands on my shoulders, and carefully brought the spoon to my mouth.
When the food touched my tongue, I nearly wept.
It wasn't something very delicious, but it was hot and soft, and didn't feel like a fist, a rod, or a whip. It didn't steal my consciousness. It filled the hollow in my belly—and another, deeper one inside me.
"Will you help me?" I asked suddenly.
My voice was so faint, it sounded like it came from a crack in the floor.
He was slightly stunned.
"What?" he asked. There was a flicker of conflict in his eyes.
"You… do you know who I am?"
He did not answer at first, but just pressed his lips together. After a long while, he whispered:
"I know. You're Bai Wanyi's son."
I gave a bitter smile. The crack of my lip oozed blood.
"And you still feed me?" I coughed. "Aren't you afraid… you'll go down with me?"
He didn't answer. Just packed the empty box and stood.
"You shouldn't be here." He said it again.
He walked to the door and looked back at me. I couldn't tell what was hidden in his eyes. Was it sympathy? Guilt? Or some kind of "warmth" that I had never felt before?
The door closed quietly.
Darkness reclaimed the room. Yet the person in the mirror looked a little different.
I pushed myself upright, crawled to the mirror.
The mirror was dirty and I could barely see my face. But I stared at those eyes for a long time—they were no longer dead. A little light was burning there, a little unyielding, weak, but real light.
I whispered, "I'm still alive."
"I'm still… me."
I knew that night he had hesitated. A true torturer wouldn't offer a hot meal. A man who hated my mother wouldn't offer me warmth.
I didn't dare hope he was a saviour. But I knew this: If the world holds no salvation for me, I'll save myself.
I hid my blade in my heart. Etched vengeance into my bones.
This game has only just begun.
And in the mirror, I saw the real version of myself—reborn, just before the war truly started.