Inside a small dormitory, Qing Yan sat alone on his bed, staring blankly at the system.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight to block out the morning light of the academy grounds.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the thin cracks of shadow, settling on the unwashed floorboards and the cold wooden table.
A single oil lamp flickered weakly in the corner, throwing long, twisted shadows across the walls.
Qing Yan pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his trembling arms tightly around his legs.
His knuckles were pale, his nails digging into the coarse cloth of his trousers until his palms went numb.
Two years had passed since he was captured, and he was still unable to move on.
Every time he closed his eyelids, the dark dampness of that underground dungeon rushed back to choke him.
He could still smell the foul water pooling around his ankles, the stench of sour sweat, cheap wine, and iron-heavy blood.
