Chapter Text
Suryong wondered, and sometimes he'd do far more than just that, he'd drown in his sorrows, swimming in the liquid he lovingly calls alcohol, and he loses himself in memories that he won't remember when he wakes up from his drunken stupor.
// SHING! //
With a swift move, his sword unsheathed from its cage, and with quick movements of his leg did he dance, and he swung the fine blade with all his might in wondrous cascading loops that makes even a pinnacle of a first rate master gape.
And—
Suryong mourned.
He mourned the death of the 4 masters, old people who had yet to even scratch their goals, the aspiring and carefree people he laughed with, befriended and oh so dearly got attached to, innocent people who got eloped within schemes they should never have the pleasure of experiencing.
And, the guilt he felt, the trauma he caused to mere children, kids who were whisked in schemes far too big, kids with doe-eyes slowly turned into husks, kids who had dreams, and a life ahead of them, severed and broken and crumbled, and the mirror is gone.
Mourning.
Under the moonlight, his sword began in graceful curves, almost like a dance, then it transitioned to a wild forest, or a deep and cutting blade, into cold and fast, refined and most graceful steps, the sword obeyed and moved without complaint.
Suryong executed those moves, the weapon carrying more memories and regrets and Guilt and it reflected on it's shiny surface, as every swing he took and every strike, graceful and naught. And for naught it all was.
Truly, as he swung and danced and moved, performing graceful and verdant swings from techniques long ago, he's come to understand why many swordsman, and that master had claimed that blades could speak, not just an instrument, but something you could use to communicate.
"Let us speak with our blades, and not our words."
He paused, the fine blade still in the air midway in his sword transition, the pointed edge of the sword looked up at the moon that gracefully reflected his figure, and he had his hands calmly clasped onto the sword, letting it's magnaminous and impartial frame speak to the sky.
The moon was fully shining tonight, glittering and bright, pure and untainted, forever doomed a watcher, an observer, untainted and clean and let it remain so, and cast it's graceful light onto the earth and let its mark be known in its waves.
“Masters.” Suryong took a deep gulp of air, his tongue coated in things unspoken and unseen, regret and so many more, what he couldve said-
“Please—” He pleaded, a harsh, short whisper, and only the wind that lazily passed through answer, running it's breezy fingers down his hair, and the stars glittered in mirth.
“Let me relive this tale once more.” Baek Suryong's blade whipped through the air, and he moved gracefully, the dance elegant and eloquent, descended soon into something more desperate and edged for battle.
Pages of memories flying through his mind as he looked at them with sorrow, affection, and far more complicated feelings he did not dare to see nor witness, for every swing was accompanied with an air of lethargy, every swing a testament to the masters blight, every strike a way to say sorry.
Suryong let another curve of his wrist follow, another cold step as he continued to move, not for himself, but for memories of bygone days, moving like a bird, a sparrow, the moonlight itself, and like a wild animal.
He remembered of kids he taught back then, turned them into mindless husks, tortured them relentlessly as he thirsted only for results, not for their being, not their care, kids—
They were only kids.
He let out a breath, pausing, sword mid-air and so definetly still, the metal sheen pointing upwards at the moon once again, it was a silent apology, one he did not speak of, yet the stars witnessed it all the same.
They did not cheer for something so overdue.
A gasp as small knees fell onto the ground, then the body as the head hit the cold floor, ‘Instructor, I- im so so tired— please.!’ The young voice only pleaded, frail and high, only a child.
The sword clattered and rolled against the feet of the kids instructor, he stared at them with a sneer, disapproving and disappointed, not even bothering to help them get up.
He snarled, ‘I'm so tired of teaching punks like you, always wanting a rest when I could simply just give you one in death.' The instructor kneeled and grabbed the blade, throwing the sword at the child as it landed square on the forehead.
His eyes widened momentarily, before relaxing and holding in a slight grimance at the fact the blade hit the childs forehead, he thought the reflexes he'd train on the kid is more than enough for the disciple to catch it.
He sighed, placing a hand on his own forehead. 'I thought you’d be able to dodge that, did your stamina get weaker?’ He sneers, standing up and glaring at the children around him.
All too weak.
And he needed results.
The child sobbed as he was forced to get up, again and again— and again—
Another swing to the air, it feels far too cold.
Yet, he’d condemn many to the cold as well.
Maybe it was only fair this was what he'd receive as well.
Maybe- maybe this was his penitence, for all the people he caused to suffer, kids and adults alike, his inaction had caused futures to go awry, and many destinies left unfulfilled, the stars disappointed, and he's sure his hands are stained with blood far more than he can comprehend.
Performing a sword dance to those he’d wrong, failed to protect, to those he couldn’t see anymore, who’d think he was a monster, who saw him as a friend, and.. all those.. contradictory feeling he doesn’t even begin to know how to open up.
He doesn't know how to unwind the gift people call emotions, doesn't dare to touch something so sacred, so powerful and so wonderful, a weakness and a strength, and something he should not grasp.
Suryong let out a gasp as something, a sharp pain enters his core, the sword clatters onto the ground as his hand trembles, he felt his knees buckle under him, giving up on helping this impostor who still called himself Baek Suryong, with a dull thud, he pitifully looks down.
The instructor felt vipers crawling up and entangling themselves between his arms, his blue eyes stirring, muddied and raining and fogging, and it felt wretched, painful and all too consuming andeverythingwasgetting—
Emotions were hard, was the conclusion.
A concept he knew he grasped, but for all the wrong reasons, the reasons that made him feel like this, his stomach, organs, as if rejecting the body he was put into, as if they were disgusted by the mere sight of him.
He could feel his intestines admonishing him, they twisted into pretty knots and bows and left no room for him to breathe, left him no room to sleep and it felt painful, it buzzed under his stomach and he had no way to unbound it or untie it.
Suryong did not move from his position for a while, as he once more got lost within the alleyways he called his own memories.
Memories— memories sometimes felt like a burden, they.. were useful, but Suryong felt as if they truly were one of the most impartial beings, reminiscing, remembering, it made him feel things, unexplainable.
It made him feel like a wet cloth, dunked in water so foggy and bloody, and twisted to try and make anew, only for the stains to never be moved.
He knew better.
He never let it get this bad.
Lunatic. They all whispered.
Suryong once wore the insult with a grin, a badge of honour as everyone envied his results, the best instructor in that wicked cult of desperation.
Now, it only made memories surface, and his gut coils up once more, memories were so fickle, they felt like a mother he never had nor bothered remembering, but she embraced him all the same, yet it was as evil as vipers who he was so used too, but if he isn't careful, may he get lost and let it coil around him, unforgiving.
It was so frustrating.
He couldn’t bring himself to do anything though, even at this position, everything just felt, cold, he felt lethargic and weak and slow, and he felt the weight of life opening up it's ugly jaws and trying to swallow him whole.
Suryong, for the first time.. in a while.
He felt tired.
The teacher didn’t even bring himself to laugh at the irony of it all, since when did he give those children at the blood cult a break? Let them get a break?
He broke their emotions, killed their egos, what made them— a human, under orders, sure, but he still did it all the same, and it was an absolute truth as he had ruined countless more lives.
And yet, here he was, lamenting, sulking, being too lethargic to even move, it was pitiful, he was sure those kids, disciples he once trained, they'd be inclined to kill him like this, he was an easy target.
Alas, they'd only do that under orders, his fault.
He smiled slightly, it didn’t reach his eyes.
Those masters must be looking down at him right now, crossing their arms and shaking their heads as they see the man who they planned together with, ate together and told, shared stories with one another being reduced to this mess, all because he had decided today was the day he'd drown for a while.
He didn’t know what they called it.
Mourning?
No, maybe it was something else, though, he just felt too tired, he didn't bother remembering, too much effort.
“..Ah.” A tired tone, he remarked as his hands dug at the ground beneath him, for once in a while, Baek Suryong felt as if he was weighed down, he felt like a truly, chronically ill person he was born to be.
A snicker, weakly smiling as it faintly reached his eyes, the absurdity of it all was amusing, at least.
“What a load of bull****.” Suryong snapped from his pity party, though, everything still felt as heavy, and slow like molasses and it melted together far too well, but— he'll do it, he'll live, at least, he still has aspirations and goals.. and.. so much more.
Those people had goals too, you know?
As he started lifting himself up, Suryong’s eyes widened drowsily, and suddenly, that same pang of ache shot through him like an arrow, and everything felt too much and too cold, his body being pushed down, heavy— heavy-!
A surge of cold claws— tails, entangling itself around his legs, arms, waist, neck, head, panic surged as he let out a burst of qi he should have definetly not released.
His vision went black.