Chapter 2: Echoes of Shattering Jade – When the Past Breaks, the Truth Bleeds Through
Back in the village, the earth bucked beneath the teenagers. Startled cries erupted as the low fire toppled, scattering sparks into the darkness. Wei braced himself against a support pillar, while Lifen clung to Grandma, her eyes wide with terror. Grandpa clutched the closed box, his expression grim with foreboding.
“What’s happening?!” Wei stammered, his voice trembling.
“Quake—Wei, get them out! Neinei! Girls! Quickly!” Grandpa shouted, grabbing the nearest teen and pushing them towards the exit while gesturing urgently for the others to follow.
Grandma’s voice rang steady despite the chaos. “Stay together! Away from the walls!”
The earth still shuddered when the beam fell, descending in a swift blur of dust and cracking wood. Wei, positioned closest to the doorway, turned and fled. Raw instinct governed him; he didn’t look back. Outside, the street pitched beneath his feet. For a breathless moment, he stood frozen, eyes wide, staring back at the gateway he had just burst through, the crash of collapsing timber reverberating behind him.
“Wei!” Grandpa’s voice sliced through the noise—rough but unwavering.
Still, Wei remained motionless. Then, another voice penetrated the dust: “Wei.” Grandmother. Just his name. No judgment, no urgency, yet it landed with impact.
He turned and ran, squeezing past shoulders, slipping through the constricted gap. Inside, light filtered through falling grit. A cracked beam had crashed, crushing shelves and half-blocking the garden pagoda’s exit. Grandpa stood beneath it, shoulder braced against its weight, arms trembling but firm. His eyes locked on Wei—no scolding, no questions. Merely: “There. Take that side. We push upwards together.”
Wei ducked opposite, shoulder to the wood. They lifted. The beam groaned; muscles shook. Lifen was already there, ushering others through.
“Keep your heads down—go!” she urged.
Grandmother passed through last, composed. She gazed at Grandpa, her eyes silently pleading, Don’t you leave me. Her smile found Wei then, a brief, gentle nod acknowledging his assistance. With one final, lingering glance back at Grandpa—a look heavy with unspoken fear—she mouthed “thank you” to Wei and slipped beneath the creaking beam of their unsettled home.
“Go on, Grandpa. I’ll follow,” Wei stated.
But as he spoke, the old man turned, grabbed his arm, and gave a firm nudge. “Come.”
Wei didn’t argue. He released his hold and followed as the beam crashed down behind them.
Outside, Wei stood panting, heat flooding his face—not from exertion, but from the deeper throb of shame in his chest. The silence crushed him. Every strand of manhood he had fought for, every boast claimed as leader of the pack, evaporated. That single moment had flayed him bare, revealing not a leader, but a quivering boy just beyond the shattered door. A coward. Shame smoldered within, hardening into an anger ready to erupt.
Above, the sky hung heavy and leaden, the quake’s thunder still resonating like some ancient fury. In that instant, the old legends of warring celestials felt less like stories and more like portentous warnings. The ground had cracked beneath something unseen, and its work was not yet finished.
Across the city, Jin stood frozen amidst the remnants of his collapsing apartment, his phone lifeless. Walls gaped open around him. In a single roar, the world Jin knew had folded in on itself. He could scarcely breathe, his mind racing and limbs stiff with terror, as dust like ghost-smoke curled through the broken air. Mei shivered in a devastated teahouse, her mother’s voice lost to static. The elders herded frightened teens beneath a sky that trembled—a cosmic echo. The warmth of dumplings and tea, the cozy night of stories and soft laughter—all devoured in an instant by the earth’s fury. The Jade Star’s warning seemed more potent than ever. A morning chill settled over the fractured city. The quake had split stone and steel, but not the spirit of those still moving through its dust. Uneven sunlight spilled through broken rooftops, catching on shards of glass like fallen constellations.
From the street, the scene Jin surveyed hardly resembled his old neighborhood. The ground had shifted—but not everyone. The aftershocks rattled windows, not resolve.
Old Wong adjusted his cap beside him. “Streets cracked, roofs gone... but the tea still boils. We’ve lived through worse. Just didn’t call it that back then.”
Then—abruptly—a rescuer raised a hand. He froze, tilting his head, listening. “There,” he said. “A voice.” They moved—faster now, with more precision. No wasted motion. Something was still alive beneath the ruin. And so were they.
Debris blocked half the road; deep fissures jagged across the pavement. Every step felt like a gamble, the ground humming with the memory of the upheaval. He clutched a flimsy backpack—containing only a water bottle, a few dumplings wrapped in foil, and a basic first-aid kit salvaged from his apartment’s wreckage.
After the earthquake, he had navigated five crooked flights of stairs in darkness. He searched—for a signal, for help, for anyone—but his search was brief. Everywhere, people were already in motion: neighbors, strangers, emergency crews, all pitching in. The city wasn’t alone. No one waited for instructions; they simply helped.
His phone still refused to connect. He kept glancing at its inert screen, the abrupt end to his father’s voice replaying in his mind. Dread clawed at him: What if his parents were injured or trapped? This singular thought spurred him onward, even as exhaustion weighted each footstep. Hunger gnawed at his gut. The dumplings in his bag wouldn’t last, yet their aroma teased him, daring him to devour them. A part of him burned to, but reason cautioned him to save them—though for how long, he couldn’t say. Ignoring the hollow ache, he pushed on.
A distant whimper drifted through the wreckage, stopping him cold. A young girl, her voice raw with thirst and desperation, clung to an old woman. Their eyes locked on him, pleading wordlessly. He took a half-step toward them... then froze. Jaw clenched, he deliberately turned his back, forcing his legs to move, shutting out the girl's cries. Focus. Survive! He walked away with unsettling ease, the lack of resistance disquieting him. Stumbling over rubble, he nearly fell onto a figure sprawled against a toppled beam—barely alive, breath rattling. Again, Jin faltered. A part of him screamed to help, raw empathy clawing through the fear. But a colder, fiercer urge hissed: Go, now, before pity costs you your life. He yielded to that colder urge, turning away as the dying moan behind him diminished, swallowed by the surrounding chaos.
Then, the scent of dumplings returned, impossibly strong, though no kitchen remained—only crumbling walls and shattered streets. He collapsed to his knees, anger and grief a boiling knot in his stomach. He caught his reflection in a shallow, muddy puddle: hollow cheeks, haunted eyes. Was that truly him? He didn’t recognize the man staring back. Heart pounding, a strangled cry escaping him, he stomped his foot into the water, shattering the reflection, distorting the monster he perceived there. Gasping, he stood and staggered forward, seeking anyone still moving among the ruins.
Rounding a corner, Jin saw a figure crumpled like an old man nearing death—a chilling reflection. The man's eyes were sunken deep into his skull; his skin hung loose, pallid, and lifeless.
“Take this,” the man rasped, pressing something into Jin’s palm with trembling fingers. “I have no need for it now... Sleep is coming. I’m... ready.”
The man’s eyes slid shut, his hand falling limp. Jin’s trembling hand opened. Nestled in his palm lay a small jade star, pulsing with a soft, internal light. Its shape wasn't his father's, yet the cool stone and the low hum vibrating against his skin felt unnervingly familiar. Squeezing the cool jade star, he rose on unsteady legs, glanced once more at the old man—already still—and wrenched his gaze away. His eyes flickered to the puddle, but he didn’t dare check his reflection again. Instead, he clutched the jade star to his chest and broke into a run, the city’s rumble and distant cries swirling around him. The air smelled of dust and despair. Whether that hidden force—celestial or otherwise—guided him to destruction or salvation, he couldn’t determine. He knew only one thing: if he stopped now, the hunger, guilt, and weight of every ignored plea would bury him alive. So he sprinted on, uncertain if he was running from himself, or hoping to find himself.
Jin clutched the jade star, its gentle hum pulsing softly against his palm, guiding him onward, whispering promises he couldn't quite comprehend. The city outskirts loomed ahead, their emptiness vast and silent beneath the pale, uncaring stars. He hesitated, chest heaving, heart thundering. Should he keep running? Behind him, shadows writhed like phantom memories, distant cries echoing like whispers of the lost. The emptiness ahead felt vast and hauntingly unbearable; a cold void gnawed at his resolve. He turned, feet shifting uneasily, dread creeping up his spine—heavy and suffocating.
“No,” he muttered, his voice breaking, feet rooted for a moment.
He turned back towards the city's darkness, fear tightening its grip. He started forward, stopped. His breath caught, panic blossoming. He spun again, then again, ensnared in indecision. Guilt coiled tighter in his gut, impossible to ignore. The jade star in his fist seemed to burn brighter, its soft, green glow feeling less like warmth and more like an accusation.
A distant snarl split the silence—jagged and wild—followed by another, then another, closer. His pulse spiked, terror ripping at his stomach. Jin ran, legs pumping, breath ragged, darkness pressing tighter, relentless. Shadows swallowed the moonlight, transforming streets into twisted corridors of despair. The snarling intensified. Snapping jaws echoed, chasing him deeper into the ink-black night. His lungs burned; exhaustion savaged every muscle. But fear propelled him onward.
Eventually, strength deserted him. Jin stumbled, collapsing onto the cold, harsh ground. Consciousness faded, dissolving into heavy, dreamless sleep. He woke with a jolt, gasping, dust-choked and dazed. Dawn seeped cautiously over the horizon, revealing the cruel familiarity of broken buildings and scattered rubble. Tears blurred the recognizable ruin. He had run all night only to circle back to the devastation—both outside and within. He had never truly escaped. And a cold dread whispered: perhaps he never would.
