CHAPTER 39: BORROWED TIME

Tatehan saw his entire life flash before his eyes.

The first steps he took as a child. The time he fell into a gutter and bruised his knee. His first day of school. The first time he smiled. The first time he cried. His first blink. His last blink. His first breath. His last breath.

He saw it all.

The time he tried talking to his girlfriend back on Earth for the first time. Their first kiss. The first time they were intimate. The last time...

Everything flashed before him in rapid succession.

It felt like his mind was balanced on a fence, caught between dying and refusing to die.

He could only see the past. Not the present. Not the future. Just fragments of his life, both good and bad, blinding his vision with their intensity.

He couldn’t talk. He Couldn’t see. Couldn’t even formulate coherent thoughts.

Nothing.

He expected to end up in some higher place (or lower place) where the dead went after dying. But he went nowhere. He remained suspended in a state of pure darkness.

Which meant he wasn’t dead.

Which meant, somehow, he was still alive.

He didn’t know how long he remained in this state. But every time he felt his consciousness slipping toward the unknown, something, sometimes late, sometimes just in time, pulled him back. Back to that liminal space. That state of being on the fence.

Until one day.

Well, he couldn’t actually tell if time moved in this place. But eventually, he started to see wisps of light. Tiny at first, pinpricks, like needles piercing through fabric.

Very small, but he could see them clearly enough. The light grew slowly, approaching him, expanding, until finally...

A bright, almost blinding light tore through the darkness.

Ironically, the light blinded him just as thoroughly as the darkness had.

But he could see.

When he finally opened his eyes, the place he found himself in was dim, barely lit except for a fire crackling somewhere to his left. The flames were fed by stacked wood, casting flickering orange light across rough stone walls.

He tried turning his neck to see his surroundings more clearly, but the effort required was immense. He couldn’t manage it in his current state.

Looking straight ahead and stretching his vision as far as he could, he realized he was in a cave.

The cave was small but clearly lived-in. The walls were uneven stone, darkened by years of smoke and use. Supplies were stacked along one side, wooden crates, cloth-wrapped bundles, dented metal containers scavenged from who-knows-where. A makeshift shelf carved into the rock held tools, strips of dried meat, and what looked like crude medical supplies.

The air smelled of smoke, dust, and something faintly strange, old blood, maybe.

The fire burned in a shallow pit near the center of the cave, surrounded by a ring of stones to contain it. Above, a narrow ventilation shaft had been carved into the ceiling, letting smoke escape into the Martian sky. The floor was covered in worn blankets and patched fabric, creating a rough sleeping area.

It wasn’t comfortable. But it was functional. The shelter of someone who had learned to survive.

Tatehan’s eyes drifted back to the fire. A man sat beside it, methodically sharpening a blade. Even before seeing his face clearly, Tatehan knew, this was the one who had saved him.

"Don’t move. You’ll tear the stitches," the man said without looking up. His voice was rough, but not unkind.

Tatehan stared at him, trying to process what he was seeing.

The man looked to be in his mid-40s, weathered by hard years, but not broken by them. His build was lean and wiry, like a desert predator. Not bulky, but clearly strong. Every inch of him seemed built for efficiency and survival.

Defined muscles showed through his worn clothing, and his skin was marked with scars, old wounds that told stories of battles fought and survived.

His face was sharp and angular, all hard lines and weathered edges. High cheekbones, a strong jawline. When he finally looked up at Tatehan, his eyes were striking, deep-set and dark brown, almost black. Cold and calculating, but not cruel. Just... cautious. Watchful. A heavy brow gave him a perpetually serious expression, like someone who had long ago stopped expecting good news.

A long, pale scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw, an old wound, faded but still prominent against his tanned skin. Smaller scars crossed his nose and cheeks, evidence of countless close calls.

He had a short, unkempt beard, more stubble than anything groomed, streaked with gray through the black. His hair was dark brown, shoulder-length, and tied back in a loose ponytail. A few strands had come loose and hung across his face.

Gray streaks marked his temples, the kind that came from stress, age, and a life lived taking risks.

His hands were rough and heavily calloused, the skin cracked from gripping weapons and tools for too long and too often. Dust and grime were embedded in every crease. He clearly didn’t waste water on bathing.

Tatehan stared at him in astonishment.

A human. An actual Martian human.

He’d been expecting them to wear cybernetic suits or futuristic gear, but no. This man wore a tattered long coat, once black, now faded to a dusty gray-brown, that reached his knees. It was torn in places and patched with mismatched fabric.

Underneath, he wore a worn combat vest with multiple pouches holding survival gear. Dark, sturdy pants were tucked into heavy boots, scuffed, reinforced, and caked with dried mud.

He wore fingerless gloves, probably for better grip. A cloth wrap was tied loosely around his neck, ready to be pulled up over his nose and mouth during dust storms.

And on his back, secured in an X-shaped harness, were his twin chakrams.

Tatehan stared at the weapons in awe. This was it, the awakened weapon that granted this man his abilities.

"I never thought you’d wake up, to be honest," the man said, setting down his blade. "I was starting to lose hope."

Tatehan was speechless, still trying to process everything. He knew he’d spent too long in that liminal state. He’d been certain it wouldn’t exceed a week.

"I didn’t realize how severe your condition was when I saved you from the mauler," the man continued. "But after bringing you here, I realized you might not survive. You broke a lot of bones, kid. I would’ve thought you were dead if not for your faint breathing."

Tatehan glanced down at his body and saw he was wrapped in bandages from head to torso.

"The fuc—"

"As I said before, don’t move. Or you’ll tear the stitches."

Tatehan’s eyes widened in sudden panic.

"How long was I unconscious?"

The man paused, considering.

"A month," he said finally. "And... some days, I think. Maybe more. Hard to tell time here."

Tatehan could hardly believe what he was hearing.

Over a month.

And some days.

This was the most shocking thing he’d heard in his entire life, apart from his reincarnation.

Words flashed across his retina:

[Partial Regeneration has been working overtime. Progress: 87% healed]