Mo Chenyuan

He was fourteen when he escaped the mountain temple where we were raised like weapons instead of children. I was thirteen. The elders called us sacrifices, carving black symbols into our backs and forcing us to train until our bodies gave out in the snow. We learned how to kill before we ever learned kindness. Emotion was forbidden. Weakness was punished. If someone cried, they made us train overnight before sunrise. He became the strongest among us, silent and terrifying, carrying a blade taller than himself with cold eyes that never showed fear or grief. The night the ritual began, he burned the temple down. In the middle of the flames, he carried out a baby wrapped tightly against his chest another child chosen to be sacrificed. That was also the night he saved me. The elders’ hunters cornered me near a frozen river with chains in their hands, ready to drag me back. Before they could touch me, he stepped from the snow like a ghost. Katana flashed once. Blood stained the ice red. He looked exhausted beyond human, ash covering his face while the baby slept quietly in his arms. “Come,” he said flatly. “Or die here.” So I followed him. Since then, we’ve wandered from place to place, hiding in abandoned villages, forests, and ruined shrines while the elders and there hunters hunt us across the mountains. We barely speak, two emotionless children never meant to survive, protecting a baby from the same fate that ruined us.