I. Longinus

My name is Longinus.

My parents, before they died, told me that they found this name in a tattered old book and bestowed it upon me, thinking it a good name. I am not so sure. Of the world as it once was, little is known now.

Once, the world belonged to us—humankind. But a great catastrophe nearly wiped us out and set demons loose upon the earth. They are many, and we cannot resist them.

I have read many scattered volumes, where the glory of humankind is recorded. I cannot glean the whole picture, but from what I read, life then seems almost mythical to me now. Compared to the present, it fills the heart with a profound sense of loss.

For those days are not so distant; as we walk the earth, the ruins of former buildings are everywhere. Though abandoned and crumbling—most now nests of demons—they still bear silent witness that those myths were once reality.

We are like the children of a wealthy family suddenly fallen into poverty; the memory of what was makes our days all the more desolate.

I live with many others in a village. The elders say this has been our home for decades, and that we should be grateful; there are few humans as long-lived as we are. Most fall to demons, or to the hands of their own kind.

We call our settlement the Waterless Village. It lies deep underground, accessible only by elevator. The village itself is a subterranean facility built to withstand nuclear war—like a vast mine, steel walkways branching off to caverns that serve as rooms.

I am a scavenger, one of those who go to the surface to search for supplies. The work is dangerous, requiring strength and swiftness, and so we are held in high esteem—heroes of the village. The surface-dwelling demons fear sunlight; by day, they hide in the most secret places, which makes our task somewhat less perilous, though it still demands great courage.

Other than scavengers, the villagers rarely see the sun; none may leave without the village chief’s permission.

Scavenging is a skill, but often it comes down to luck. Many times we return empty-handed after a long journey, yet the villagers do not go hungry. What food and water we bring are a luxury, not a necessity.

There is a cultivation chamber in the village, where sweet mushrooms unique to the underground are grown—just enough to sustain us. Two wells provide groundwater, which we drink and use sparingly to irrigate the crops. The chamber’s peculiar irrigation system keeps the plants alive, making our village’s name something of a misnomer.

The sweet mushrooms remain a mystery to us, but we do not seek to solve it. No one dares tamper with the equipment—what if we broke it? Or worse, what if we offended the gods?

...

Outside the cave, the sunlight is still strong; there’s another hour before nightfall. With a heavy pack of supplies, I walk toward the dark entrance, and the sunlight seems to vanish in an instant. I hesitate briefly at the elevator’s armored door, then press the switch.

Sunlight has saved humankind and keeps the demons at bay; without it, perhaps we would be extinct. Yet the elders warn us: long exposure to today’s sunlight will cause us to mutate.

Mutation is real—I am living proof. But is sunlight truly the cause? One cannot help but doubt.

Beside the elevator is a communication device. Dali’s voice crackles through: “Who’s there?”

I laugh. “Dali, who else? I always return at this hour.”

Dali’s full name is Dalia Orchid, daughter of my foster father, Orchid. At first, we all called him Sir Orchid and nearly forgot his given name.

Dali says, “All right, but I must make sure no one followed or coerced you—it’s the rules.”

Rules? Myrsai never needed such rules. In Dali’s mind, Myrsai and Orchid are one kind of people, and the rest of us another.

But Myrsai is gone now, milady. Chosen by the Sword and Shield Order, he’s gone to a better life. Now we are the same—wretched cave dwellers.

A surveillance screen extends toward me. I grip it, shaking my head left and right to show her no one is threatening me. Only then does Dali say, “Welcome back, Longinus.”

I still wish to linger outside a while, to bask in the fading light. But they are all waiting for me. With Myrsai gone, I am the best scavenger, always bringing back the most food and supplies.

Orchid is waiting at the elevator—a rare sight. I bow to him. “Father.” I am an orphan; he took me in, taught me the art of the sword. He is my closest kin.

Orchid says, “You’ve worked hard, child.”

I look up at him. He has aged greatly these past years. He may still be strong and skilled, but wrinkles line his face, worry clouds his eyes, and his body seems to be weakening.

I say, “I felled a cow, but couldn’t bring it all back—just some meat, I ran out of time.”

The villagers smile in genuine delight. I hear a child cry, “We’ll have meat!”

Orchid says, “All the scavengers have returned. The day’s work is done. Dali, you may finish up as well.”

Dali emerges from the control room. She gives me a brief nod. “Longinus.”

I do not understand her distance since Myrsai left. Perhaps in her heart, I was always Myrsai’s follower, his “friend,” not a person in my own right.

But I am not Myrsai’s shadow. I am the village’s most outstanding member. My swordsmanship may not match Myrsai’s, but my scavenging is no less accomplished.

Orchid inspects everything the scavengers have brought. He shows neither joy nor disappointment.

He says, “Next time, try to bring more food and water.”

We all reply, “As you command, sir.” We follow the etiquette of the Sword and Shield Order—this is how it must be in formal occasions.

Orchid dismisses us, but asks me to stay. We walk into the training hall. “Take up a wooden sword,” he says. “Let’s spar.”

I have heard many legends of Orchid’s life. Though he raised me as his own, in my eyes he remains a man worthy of reverence—his stories are inexhaustible.

He was not born in our village, but came from elsewhere, brought by the Sword and Shield Order. They subdued us with force, compelled our allegiance, and promised, in exchange, to teach us their arts and leave a garrison to protect us.

We had no choice. Orchid stayed behind. Within the Order, he held the title of marquis, a figure of great importance. His choice surprised them—he stayed, they say, because he fell in love with Dali’s mother and chose to pursue her.

He earned the village’s respect with many achievements and eventually became chief.

I bow. “Yes, father. Please instruct me.” I raise the wooden sword before me.

Orchid steps in, entering my range, but does not attack. He waits. I slash at his neck—a feint, really—then, with subtlety, shift to a diagonal thrust. Orchid sees through me at once; with a flick, my sword nearly flies from my grasp.

He says, “Your wrist is weak. You cannot only think to deceive your opponent. If this were a demon, what good would such a feeble blow do?”

I answer, “Yes, father. But my sword is usually poisoned; a drop of blood is enough to kill those beasts.”

Orchid sighs, “You rely too much on your mutated body. That is why you are not Myrsai’s equal.”

Myrsai—always Myrsai. My foster brother, Orchid’s true pride, Dali’s favorite sibling. We were adopted together, but beside him, I have always been overshadowed.

Not long ago, members of the Sword and Shield Order came to test Myrsai’s skills. Amazed by his gifts, they took him away for special training. Thus, Myrsai left his home—left us.

Orchid continues, “Imagine yourself surrounded by four demons, each larger, swifter, and stronger than you. Your mutation cannot save you, but my sword techniques can.”

He raises his voice. “Use all your strength! Show me my true legacy!”

I gather myself and strike at him four times. “That’s more like it,” Orchid laughs, parrying my blows with ease.

I realize the true point of this match is to display my full skill. Orchid will only attack if he truly cannot defend. So I give my all, my wooden sword raining down like a storm. I do not stick rigidly to his teachings, but adapt my style with strange variations, catching him off guard.

After about ten minutes, Orchid suddenly thrusts at my chest. I manage to parry, but am thrown several meters back. As I land, pain searing my back, Orchid’s sword points at my heart.

“Checkmate,” he says.

Judging by his smile, I believe I have passed. “You have improved greatly—very good. Now, go and rest.”

He puts aside the sword. We bow to each other and walk in opposite directions.

I head for my room, once a chemistry lab—spacious but plagued by lingering chemical fumes that often make people ill, so no one else wants it. It is mine by default.

Inside, I take out the black fruit I picked earlier, crush it into powder, and sprinkle it into a large fish tank.

The tank is about the size of a bathtub, and quite unusual.

At first, it meant much to the villagers. When they first discovered Waterless Village, there were no survivors. But the fish tank was already there, and the fish within may have lived a hundred years.

Long years of hardship have made them superstitious. They believed the tank to be a kind of shrine, a blessing that kept the village safe. They worshipped the fish with great devotion, for they truly seemed immortal.

But as time passed, the tank was forgotten. It did not sustain life as the mushroom fields did, nor was it vital to survival. Long ago, the worship of the tank gave way to reverence for the mushrooms, and so the tank slipped into obscurity.