Chapter Text
He was never fast but today speed meant life.
Smoke clawed at his throat, stinging his eyes. The acrid tang of ash coated his tongue. Feet pounded the dirt road. He stumbled over roots and stones, twisted his ankle once but forced himself to keep moving. The village that had once tolerated his family now wanted them gone. His father had done nothing wrong and still he ran.
His mother who had baked cookies for the village children, who had smiled at them, who had been kind to everyone, was gone. The same children now threw rocks at him, their laughter sharp and cruel. Tears ran with him. He was prey and the mobs were predators.
The fire hissed behind him. Sparks floated like angry fireflies, landing on the scorched dirt and singeing his hair. Every movement reminded him of his parents’ bodies, hanging like shadows, branches bending as if to weep. His chest burned and his lungs screamed. He ducked under a low branch, scraping his arm, and felt the sting of a fresh cut.A dog barked nearby, claws scratching the cobblestones. Snitching his location to everyone else. Shouts echoed off the walls of burning homes. Jia pressed himself flat and waited, counting the seconds until the danger passed. Every nerve screamed to run, yet he stayed still, heart hammering.The road twisted through the village, mud sucking at his boots. A cart tipped over in the chaos, sending a wheel spinning across his path. He vaulted it, barely keeping his balance. Behind him, the fire raged, flames licking the sky. Smoke filled his lungs, thick and hot, and he coughed, spitting blood from a scrape on his lip. Every step was agony. Every breath was fire.
He remembered his father’s words, fleeting lessons in courage and cunning. Keep moving. Don’t look back. Think fast. It had always seemed simple, theoretical. Now it was the only way to survive. He leapt over a pile of debris, rolling into a narrow alley, his legs shaking, arms scraped raw. A group of villagers blocked the main road, shouting and waving sticks. He darted down a side path, ducking behind a broken fence. Rats scattered at his presence, squealing into the night. He caught a glimpse of the river beyond the village, its dark surface glinting in the firelight. If he could reach it, maybe he could lose them. Maybe he could live.
The smell of smoke and burnt wood was thick in the air. His feet were blistered, his knees scraped, his palms raw from gripping broken rails and jagged wood. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but stopping was not an option. Not yet. Not ever.
Branches snagged his clothes, tearing fabric and skin alike. A chicken squawked as it fled from the chaos, scattering feathers into the dirt. Jia rolled under a low wall, pressing himself against cool stone. He listened—breathing hard, ears straining. The shouts behind him grew distant but the threat had not disappeared. Predators did not forget their prey.
He allowed himself a moment to glance back. The village was a panorama of chaos: houses burning, smoke curling into the night sky, shadows dancing on walls. His parents had been kind. His parents had believed in decency. And it had been repaid with fire. His stomach knotted. He swallowed bile. Survival was all that mattered now.The alley ended in a small courtyard littered with debris and refuse. He paused, chest heaving, eyes scanning. A broken cart offered partial cover, and he crouched behind it, listening. Somewhere nearby, another dog barked. His ears picked up the crackle of footsteps, the distant laughter of children, cruel in their mimicry of the adults who had driven his family from this world.
He thought briefly of food. Of water. Of somewhere safe to rest. Somewhere he could heal without fear. He had none of that. Every plan was improvisation. Every step measured by instinct and speed. Every shadow could conceal danger.
He rose slowly, careful, feeling the ache in every joint. Ahead, the road curved past the village edge into fields that stretched wide, dark under the night sky. Perhaps there he could find refuge. Perhaps he could outrun them. Perhaps he could survive. A sudden shout erupted behind him, closer than he had hoped. Instinct took over. He sprinted again, legs pumping, lungs on fire, heart hammering. Dust and ash whipped around him, stinging eyes and throat. He rolled over a stone and fell into a ditch, scraping knees and palms raw. Pain registered but he ignored it. Pain meant life. Pain meant moving.
He crawled to the ditch’s edge and peered out. The villagers were past him, searching in the wrong direction. For now, he was safe. Temporary. Fragile. He pressed himself against the damp earth, chest rising and falling like a bellows. His mind raced. His body burned. He had escaped the village but not yet survived. The night was wide and unknown. The road ahead offered no guarantees, no safety, only more movement, more cunning, more hope.
Somewhere in the darkness, a fire flickered across the horizon—perhaps another villager, perhaps a fire. He did not know. All he knew was that he could not stop. And he would not.