The forest stretched endlessly before him, a sea of green and shadow.
He walked without thought, yet not without direction. His feet knew the path even if his mind didn't think of it, drawn forward as if answering a silent command.
In the shades, the damp air clung to his skin- heavy, pressing, dense. It seeped into his breath, his bones, deeper, deeper—like something unseen was tasting him with each step.
He looked around, witnessing each movement, just as if it were the first time. His breaths came slow, deep.
Tasting the air of freedom…
The world around him looked alive. Felt alive.
No, it was alive.
The rustling leaves whispered in tongues too quiet to hear, too loud to ignore. The sound of birds- **of life itself- ** faded, but not from distance.
Something else, something that made the branches tighten, the undergrowth still.
He felt it, somewhere in the space between his ribs, in the marrow of his bones.
A feeling so raw, so primal, and so real, it defied words. Hunger. Thirst. Rage.
But more than that. A presence.
Almost like being watched...
Not the trees. Not the world.
Something else.
Yet, he wasn't concerned. It was not an uncommon occurrence.
This feeling—it was like he didn't belong. Like he shouldn't belong.
Yet, at the same time, he wanted to belong.
He wanted. He hated. The contradiction twisted inside him, tangled and restless. It made no sense.
So he walked.
Further. Further.
Gathering herbs along the way—sharp leaves for pain, bitter roots for bleeding.
He chewed on one. The acrid taste spread across his tongue, masking the faint metallic tang of something else.
His own blood.
The same blood he had yet to spit out.
The pain lingered, ever-present, a gnawing presence in his gut—twisting, clawing, fighting.Fighting itself. Fighting him.
But the pain was irrelevant.
So he ignored it.
As such, more words would be wasted.
...
After what felt like hours, he finally stopped.
A place unmarked, untouched. The soil here was damp but not in the way of fresh rain.
It felt undisturbed.
As if nothing had ever walked here.
As if nothing should.
He knelt, pushing the undergrowth aside, fingers sinking into the cold, loose earth—
Something solid met his touch.
A small smile. Gentle movements. A familiar thought.
'Sword… my sword…'
A shabby, worn-down wooden sword. His hands traced its splintered blade, the rough edges that should have long since given way to decay.
Such a simple tool.
What meaning could it hold?
It was nothing.
Just a repeated action. Just a movement. A hollow cycle of something.
Something only for him.
'A tool to satisfy my—' A tool only to satisfy his…
'Insanity.' Insanity!
His fingers clenched. The familiar weight in his grip.
His breath slowed, eyes closed, but his brows frowned.
His stance shifted—not by choice.
Something deeper.
Something remembered, yet never learned.
The tree before him stood still, waiting.
His muscles tensed.
More force.
More strength.
Too much.
Far too much.
His arms trembled, fingers whitening. Still not enough.
His teeth clenched, breath shaking.
Eyes—still shut.
And then—
They snapped open.
He struck.
A full-force swing. His body screamed. His grip locked.
The blade cut through the air—
And stopped.
"Guh...!!"
Not from reaching its target.
Not from weakness.
Not from hesitation.
Because something pulled back.
Not him.
Not his mind.
Something else.
His arms shook, a violent shudder raking through his body—not just from exertion and restraint.
His fingers twitched. The skin on his palm split. He didn't feel it.
The blade rose.
Again.
His stance reset—
Another strike—
"Aah!!"
It didn't reach.
It was never meant to.
Only his scream did.
His arms returned, stance, another.
"UAHG!!"
...
Stance... Strike... Pain...
Again...
Stance... Pain...
Again...
Pain...
Again...
...
Again...
...
AGAIN...
...
AGAIN...
...
Each blow fell heavier. Harder.
Until his movements blurred.
Until his breath turned ragged.
Until the edges of his vision wavered—
His teeth clenched. The ragged breathing drowned out the screams he would not let escape.
His palm split, blood welling, soaking into the grain of the hilt.
This was no training.
It never was.
A move failed, falling.
His arms—too heavy.
His body—too weak.
No.
What.
It moved. How?
His arms rose.
Why!?
His eyes—wet.
Tears?
His stance was gone strength—not his.
"Good…"
Strike. Stop.
How?
"Do you… Think..."
Strike. Stop.
Does he?
"I'm…"
Strike. Stagger.
"Good!?"
Rage.
Strike. Hit.
The tree shook. Leaves rustled.
The wooden blade slipped.
A dull thud. His knees buckled.
His eyes locked onto the mark left in the bark.
Pain. Pain. Anger.
Such a desperate look...
His face twisted, small drops escaping, lips parted, but—
"FrIEnD…"
It wasn't a scream. His body wanted it to be. His mind did not allow it.
He stumbled forward, skinless palms grasping at the hard bark.
"I... sor...ry..."
THUD.
His forehead hit the tree.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Blood dripped down.
THUD.
Why?
His vision spun.
He fell to the side.
"I..."
Strange... Human?
No. It only was.
His chest heaved.
His throat ached.
His hands shook.
Nails dug deep into his palms, the sting distant, meaningless.
On his knees, his head down, looking at his bloody palms.
'Hungry…' Hunger?
A whisper slithered through his thoughts.
'Angry…' Anger?
Not a voice.
Not a word.
A command.
Kill.
The intent to kill...
His eyes closed.
Images.
The adventurers from today.
No.
Not just them.
All of them.
They—how dare they?
Prey.
They dare.
It is his. She is his. This is his. All of it. Everything.
PREY.
KILL.
ALL OF THEM.
He felt something.
—something deeper clawing up, rising from the pit of his stomach, curling around his lungs.
Something hungry, very hungry...
His mouth parted—a breathless shudder.
His lips stretched wider—too wide.
At the corners, in the middle- split... thin lines of red dripping down his chin.
A smile...?
His hand reached to his face, cover- hiding... the joy.
His eyes stayed still, unblinking for too long...
That mesmerized look, the thought was enough.
The thought, that arrogant man, he dared challenge him...
That open neck, his finger digging through it, the flesh torn off...
Ah, the taste, such shock, such ecstasy, his body shaking in joy...
KILL
His body moved.
It accepted the command.
"NO!"
He froze.
Trembling.
Fighting— every fiber in his body.
His will—absolute.
KILL.
ALL OF THEM.
His breath held.
His pulse hammered against his ribs.
His hands twitched, his mind a blur of motion—grasping, tearing, feeling warmth spill over his fingers, something still beating, still pulsing, still—
A laugh. A growl. A snarl.
Not sure which one left his throat.
His vision darkened.
His jaw locked.
Something behind his eyes screamed, drowning.
A single breath.
Long. Slow. Trembling.
Like a child breaking down in a weep.
The pounding, still in his skull- a steady, deafening drum.
His veins still burned, screaming for movement, for action, for flesh—
The heat in his body did not fade.
It lingered, coiling, waiting.
A presence, unnamed, unspoken, unwilling to leave.
He dropped.
His back pressed against the rough bark of the tree.
His hands still twitching, reaching, searching—until they found it again.
The sword.
His fingers traced the battered wood, following its grooves and imperfections.
"I… I am angry... hungry..."
A confession.
His limbs sagged.
The weight of something else bore down on him.
Pressing him into the earth, deeper, deeper.
Until he could do nothing but close his eyes.
...
Darkness.
Not the suffocating kind. Not the kind that traps or blinds.
Just absence.
Then, it shifts.
And he's there.
"Hmh?" He knows it instantly.
A dream.
Liam exhales, tilting his head slightly.
"Ah. This again." Not even a second of confusion.
He looks down.
Dirt under his fingers.
His hands are steady, but the blood isn't there.
Strange.
The forest stands around him, just as it should. Except the colors are wrong.
Dull, muted. Like everything is painted over with dust.
He stands, brushing himself off, his body light—too light.
It was supposed to hurt, wasn't it?
The weight, the pain in his shoulder and spine, the sting in his lungs... the exhaustion, the hunger gnawing at his ribs.
But it's all gone.
Of course. It's a dream.
Liam sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The realization isn't new.
He's been here before.
Sort of.
Something shifts in the trees.
A scene is playing out.
Ah. That moment again.
He watches, but only barely. It's not quite right.
There—he sees himself, swinging that same battered wooden sword, over and over. But it's off.
There's no sound.
The wind doesn't move the leaves.
The impact on the tree? Silent.
The blood in his hands? Missing.
Only the motions remain. Like an echo.
Liam folds his arms. Should he be watching this?
Probably not.
He already lived it.
But the dream insists.
So, he narrates it instead.
"A nice little breakdown," he mutters. "Nothing too dramatic. Just the usual."
He gestures vaguely at himself, at the past-him, still swinging that sword in silence.
"Rage. A bit of hunger. Some fun murder thoughts." He waves a hand. "And then some tree-hitting therapy to wrap it up."
Nothing reacts.
He clicks his tongue.
"Hm. No audience, then."
Except—
The trees don't move.
Not a person. Not a voice.
Watching.
Waiting.
Liam's eyes flick to the side.
Not to look at it. Just to let it know... he knows.
Then, the dream loops.
He blinks—and suddenly, it resets.
The sword rises.
The swing lands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"Oh, come on," he groans.
Rubbing the back of his neck, watching the scene start over like a broken record.
"Alright, I get it. I'm supposed to reflect or something, huh?"
Another swing.
Another silence.
Another loop.
Liam flops down onto the dirt with a huff, crossing his legs.
"Well, I'm not playing along." The scene keeps going without him.
But the dream sees him stop.
He is no longer a part of it.
He is separate.
And now, the dream watches.
...
He sits there, in the quiet, arms resting loosely on his knees.
The past continues behind him, but he does not turn to look.
He exhales, slow...
"So."
The dream waits.
"I should be thinking about what to do next, huh?"
There is no response.
Just his own voice in the stillness.
"AGH!!"
"Not about the whole bloodlust thing, though." He waves a hand lazily. "I think we all know that'll sort itself out. Eventually."
"For the better or worse, HAHAH..." The dream marks his attempt at humor.
It is a habit.
He looks at the sky—if it can be called that.
It is gray.
Not cloudy, not dark. Just… empty.
And he sits beneath it, legs crossed, staring into nothing.
"…Mercy's gonna be twenty soon."
The words linger longer, even if there is no audience; he says it anyway.
"She'll get her system..."
He exhales slowly.
"She'll probably want to leave."
The thought lands heavier than expected.
His fingers dig absently into the dirt.
She should leave. His voice?
Right? Not really...
She should go find her real family... or at the least what's left of it...
She should see the world beyond this village.
She should be more than this.
That is what he tells himself.
That is what he believes.
Right?
His hand clenches slightly. "She might stay, though."
The dream feels the shift in his thoughts.
If she stays, is it because she wants to?
Or because she feels bad for him?
For him. The one without a system. The one stuck here.
His fingers curl deeper into the earth.
No.
If she stays, he won't let her.
She has to go.
She has to be something more.
Even if he has to push her away himself.
…Right?
The dream does not answer... as it should not...
His hand pressed against his forehead. "This is stupid."
There is no audience.
Just his own voice.
And silence.
"Fuck!" He fell back, resting his hands behind his head.
The sky... "Blue." Like magic, instantly, blue.
A deep breath, "Air."
The frozen clouds began to move with the rising winds.
"Blue..." Liam's eyes focused on the sky, the waves...
"The sea... I want to see the sea..."
"Blue... endless blue, nothing in sight, the only reflection, the blue sky..." Such peace...
"ENDLESS BLUE, BOTH UP AND DOWN!"
"Uh!? Who?" Like thunder, loud, unceasing.
"A SEA OF OCEANS, THE RAYS OF SUN GLISTENING, MIRRORING-REFLECTING..."
"What the..."