The Lone Survivor 1: 1.
The Lone Survivor It was early spring in a far corner of the eastern South Phoenixlands.
The sky hung heavy and dark, a smear of spilled ink.
Crimson lightning spiderwebbed through the clouds, followed by the deep crack of thunder that sounded like the roar of a god echoing across The Wasteland.
Crimson red rain fell, mourning the world below.
Beneath the downpour lay a ruined city, empty of all life.
Shattered walls guarded nothing.
Collapsed buildings littered the streets alongside the dead and the grim remains of the fallen.
The silence was absolute.
These dusty paths, once bustling with people, were now desolate.
All that was left was a ghastly mixture of mangled remains, dirt, and shredded paper.
Not far off, an overturned horse cart, nearly splintered to pieces, was stuck in the mud.
Draped over the axle, a rabbit doll swayed in the wind, its white fur stained a deep, dried red.
Its cloudy eyes seemed to burn with hostility, staring blankly at the cobblestones.
Near the cart lay a young man.
He couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, his clothes tattered and filthy.
An animal hide pouch was tied at his waist.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his body still.
Icy wind slipped through the holes in his clothes, slowly stealing what little warmth he had left.
When a few drops of rain hit his face, he blinked open cold, hawk like eyes, his focus locked on something a short distance away.
About twenty yards off, a skinny scavenger bird fed on a stray animal’s carcass, glancing around nervously every few seconds.
The Ruined City was a dangerous place.
The slightest movement would send the bird scrambling for the sky.
The young man waited, a patient hunter.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The bird suddenly plunged its head deep into its food.
The young man’s eyes went ice cold.
He exploded into motion, fast as an arrow, pulling a black iron skewer from his pouch as he raced toward the bird.
The skewer’s tip glittered.
Maybe it was the glint of metal, or maybe it was the harming intent radiating from him, but the bird sensed the danger.
It flapped its wings in alarm, trying to launch itself into the air.
It wasn’t fast enough.
With a completely blank face, the young man threw the skewer.
It streaked through the air like a dark blur.
There was a sound of a thud, and the force of the blow sent the bird flying backward until it slammed into the horse cart, where the rabbit doll swayed.
The young man’s face remained impassive as he hurried to the cart to retrieve his weapon and his prey.
He’d thrown it with so much force that when he yanked it free, a chunk of wood came with it.
His task done, he turned and walked away without a second glance.
The wind picked up, making the doll seem to watch him go.
The rain felt even colder now, soaking through his tattered clothes.
At one point, he hunched over, wrapping his arms around himself with a frustrated grunt.
He hated the cold.
Normally, he’d be indoors in weather like this.
But now, he hurried down the street, passing countless broken down shops and stores.
There wasn’t much time.
The hunt had taken longer than he’d planned, and he had somewhere else to be tonight.
It shouldn’t be far now.
The street ahead was choked with an aura of despair that clung to the destruction around.
But the young man was used to it.
He didn’t spare the scene a second thought.
Instead, he kept his eyes on the sky.
He seemed anxious, as if the darkening sky was more terrifying than all the destruction combined.
Finally, he spotted a medicine shop in the distance.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried toward it.
It wasn’t a large place.
Medicine drawers were scattered everywhere, and the shop smelled of herbs and mold, like a freshly opened tomb.
The whole place was a wreck.
In the corner, the body of an old man with the same sickly, greenish black skin leaned against a wall.
He had passed away with his eyes open and now stared blankly out into the world.
The young man glanced around, then started rummaging through the shop.
The medicinal plants were in the same state as the bodies.
Mostly greenish black and decaying.
Only a few looked normal.
The young man studied the untainted herbs, searching his memory.
He finally identified a plant used to treat deep cuts.
Taking off his tattered shirt, he looked down at a deep wound on his chest.
It wasn’t healing.
The edges were turning black, and a little red was still seeping out.
He crushed the plant in his hand, took a deep breath, and smeared the paste onto his wound.
Pain made his vision swim.
He shook from head to toe, nearly falling over.
He forced himself to keep applying the medicine, but he couldn’t stop the beads of sweat that popped out on his forehead, rolling down his face and splattering on the ground like drops of ink.
After about ten seconds, the wound was covered.
The young man was drained.
Leaning against a medicine cabinet, he caught his breath, then put his shirt back on.
He looked out at the sky again.
Then he pulled a worn out map from his pouch and carefully unfolded it.
It was a simple drawing of the city.
The medicine shop was marked, and many of the city districts in the northeast were crossed out or scratched off with a fingernail.
Only two districts remained untouched.
“After all this searching, at least I know it’s in one of those two districts,” he thought.
He folded the map, put it away, and prepared to leave.
Just as he was about to walk out, he stopped and looked at the old man’s body, specifically, at his clothing.
The old man wore a leather jerkin of such good quality that it was still mostly intact.
After a moment, the young man walked over, peeled the jerkin off the corpse, and put it on.
It was a little big, but it was warm.
He looked down at the old man for a moment, then knelt and closed his eyes.
“Rest in peace,” he said, his voice soft and hoarse.
He ripped a curtain from the wall, covered the old man’s body, and left.
Back out in the open, he noticed a flash of light up ahead.
A hand sized mirror was stuck in the mud.
Looking down, he saw his reflection.
His face was caked in dirt, but it couldn’t completely hide his delicate, almost handsome features.
The innocence one would expect to find on a teenage boy’s face was gone, replaced by a cold indifference.
The young man stared at his reflection for a long moment, then lifted his foot and brought it down on the mirror.
The mirror shattered with a loud crack.
He left the shattered pieces behind and ran off into the distance.
Even in pieces, the mirror still reflected the sky.
And up there, covering The Wasteland and looking down on all living things, was the half face of what he called The Broken Benefactor.
The face was indifferent, its eyes closed, its hair draping down like a shroud.
It was as much a part of this world as the sun and the moon.
Beneath it, the beings of The Wasteland were like bugs.
The lives of all creatures were influenced by that face and changed because of it.
The world had broken apart, it had undergone The Sundering.
Under the gaze of The Broken Benefactor, the light of day slowly faded.
The long shadows of sunset created a haze that filled The Ruined City, creeping over the surrounding lands as if to swallow them whole.
The rain fell harder.
As darkness deepened and the wind picked up, sharp wails drifted through the air.
They were the cries of evil ghosts, the Grue, a summons to awaken them that lurked in the city’s corpse.
The sounds were spine chilling, enough to shock the soul.
The young man ran faster, more urgently, as darkness fell.
He passed a collapsed house and was about to keep going when his eyes widened.
Just now, he’d spotted someone in the distance.
A person.
They didn’t seem to have any injuries and wore fine clothing, leaning against a wall.
Most importantly, their skin looked normal.
It wasn’t greenish black.
In a place like this, only a living person could look like that.
The young man hadn’t seen another living person in a long time.
The unexpected sight shook him.
Then, a thought hit him, and his breathing grew heavy with a sudden nervousness.
He wanted to stay, but the darkness was closing in from behind.
He hesitated for a moment, memorized the location, and then hurried away.
Just before night fell completely, the young man reached his dwelling, which was a tiny cave littered with bird feathers.
The only way inside was through a crack too small for an adult to squeeze through.
The young man could just barely manage it.
Once inside, he crammed books, rocks, and whatever else was at hand into the crack to seal it shut.
The moment he finished, the world outside went pitch black.
But he didn’t relax.
He kept the iron skewer gripped tightly in his hand and held his breath, listening.
Soon, he heard the howling of mutant beasts and the cackling of Grue.
Some of the howls grew closer, more distinct.
The boy tensed.
But the sounds passed the bird cave and faded away.
Finally, he let out a slow sigh of relief.
As he sat in the dark, time seemed to stop.
He stayed in a daze for a while as his nerves slowly unwound.
Off to the side was a kettle of water.
He took a long drink.
Then, ignoring the sounds from outside, he pulled the prey from his pouch.
He ate, swallowing the pieces bite by bite.
It was a bitter meal, but he kept eating, forcing the raw meat down.
He felt a rumbling in his gut as his stomach struggled with the meal.
Only when he’d consumed the entire thing did he take a deep breath and close his eyes to sleep.
He ached with exhaustion, but his grip on the iron skewer never loosened.
He was like a lone wolf, ready to wake at the slightest disturbance.
Outside, darkness covered The Ruined City like a blanket, filling the heavens.
The world beneath that sky was immense.
The South Phoenixlands were just one small part of it.
No one really knew how big The Wasteland truly was.
But everyone in it, no matter where they were, could look up and see that broken face.
It was impossible to say when, exactly, the face had appeared.
But according to passages in certain ancient records, it had arrived long, long ago.
The Wasteland had once been a glorious, flourishing place, bursting with the energy of immortals and teeming with life.
Until that immense face appeared from the void, devouring and destroying.
When it arrived, all living beings in The Wasteland united to stop it.
They failed.
In the end, a small group of ancient emperors and sovereigns led their people away in a great exodus.
Not long after the broken face came to hang over The Wasteland, a nightmare began.
Its aura filled the world, tainting the mountains, the oceans, and all living creatures.
Even the Spirit Power used by practitioners in their Cultivation was no exception.
Living things withered.
Countless people were destroyed.
Almost everything was destroyed.
Those few who survived the calamity looked up at the half face in the sky and called it the god, the broken benefactor.
They called their world The Wasteland, and the place the ancients fled to became known as a holy land.
As the ages passed, generation after generation used those names.
However, the calamity brought by this god was not a one time event.
Its power continued to oppress the living, because every so often, sometimes once a decade, sometimes once a century, the Broken Benefactor would open its eyes.
When that happened, whatever it looked upon would be infected by its aura.
The people there would suffer a catastrophe, and that place would forever be known as a blighted land.
Over the years, more and more blighted lands appeared, while the inhabitable areas grew fewer and fewer.