You leave Buddha behind without looking back.
Ash clings to your robe. Smoke follows like a shadow, curling in the cold air, thickening with every step. The Hollowed Spine rests at your side, its jagged, whip-like edge brushing your thigh with each stride. You don't flinch. You don't speak. You just walk.
No food.
No water.
No rest.
You know how to live without those things.
You've done it before.
The memory is an old one now, buried beneath the weight of this new existence. After the fall of your first home—before the temple, before the silence—survival was all you had. You wandered then, too. Carried memories like stones in your gut. Learned how to dig with your hands, steal from the dead, drink from poisoned wells and not flinch.
This walk is easier than that. You're stronger now. Or maybe just emptier.
Three days pass before you see signs of life. Not the signs of war this time. Not the charred remnants of cities or the cries of the dying. Smoke. But not from burning villages. Campfires.
You smell dried meat, hear drunken voices. Laughter that cuts through the trees like a blade.
You don't stop. But they see you.
A rustle in the bushes. A figure emerges—a man, crooked teeth visible even in the dimming light, and a dagger too clean to have seen much use. He's followed by another, then a third. They block the road, their stances wide, the expressions on their faces a mix of arrogance and desperation.
"Nice robe, old man," one of them says, a sneer curling his lips. "Let's make it ours, yeah?"
You stop.
You let your eyes scan them. They're malnourished. Undisciplined. All bark. But still dangerous in the way that dying dogs are, lashing out without understanding the strength of their opponent.
You don't speak. You just unclip the Hollowed Spine.
They don't recognize it for what it is. Just a strange, wicked hunk of metal and bone. One of them laughs, a harsh, jagged sound.
"Look at that! Grandpa's got himself a leash," he mocks, stepping forward with a slouching swagger.
Then the whip moves.
It sings in the air, the sound of it a sharp crack that slices through the air, through fabric, through flesh, through bravado. The first man drops, clutching a ruined arm, eyes wide with shock.
The others hesitate. Just for a moment. But not long enough.
Your body remembers. Not the peace. Not the prayer. The violence.
You move with purpose. No wasted motion. Just precision, silence, and the sickening whistle of the Hollowed Spine carving regret into the earth.
When it ends, only one man remains breathing, crawling backward, his hands shaking as blood mixes with tears on the ground.
"I—I didn't know…" he stammers, his voice breaking, desperate.
You walk past him. You don't look down.
He doesn't follow.
You continue your journey, the sound of his sobs fading into the distance as you walk under the dim light of a moon that watches but does not care. Still, you do not rest. You do not sleep.
Because peace died with the city. And the wicked do not rest.