Chương 1: Horror
Pain. That's the first thing he feels—sharp, relentless pain that cuts through him like a blade, radiating from his chest and making his head swim with confusion.
Each heartbeat deepens the agony, hammering out a cruel reminder that he's alive. Blinking against the dim light of dawn, he strains to push himself up, but his body resists—small, weak, and unsteady.
His hands shake as he tries to plant them against the ground, only for his arms to buckle, sending him back into the dirt with a shuddering gasp.
He can taste the copperiness of blood on his lips, a sickening reminder of something terrible that has occurred here.
Panic surges within him, sharp and chaotic, drowning out rational thought. He searches his mind for something familiar, grasping at the darkness for a name, a memory—anything that might anchor him in this nightmare. But all he finds is a void, echoing with confusion and fear.
The cold earth bites into his palms, the uneven terrain bruising his skin as he struggles to rise. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to sit, his limbs trembling as though they're too feeble to bear even his slight weight. His heart pounds, rapid and uneven, each beat making his head swim.
He casts a frantic gaze around, his heart racing wildly in his chest. Bodies lie scattered in grotesque positions, their stillness a chilling contrast to the turmoil inside him. A wave of nausea rolls through him as the horrific scene sinks in—this isn't just a nightmare; it's reality.
His gaze drifts, reluctantly, to the bodies scattered around him. They lie in twisted, unnatural positions, limbs bent at impossible angles, like broken marionettes discarded by an uncaring hand.
Some wear expressions frozen in terror, mouths slightly open as if their final breaths were stolen mid-scream. Their eyes stare unseeing into the abyss, glassy and vacant, yet somehow still carrying a trace of the dread that consumed them. Their faces are twisted, locked in a grimace of horror that clings even in death.
Others lie face down, sprawled as though cast aside. Their backs are marred by jagged, merciless gashes, the fabric of their clothes torn to shreds, soaked with blood that's dried to a dark crimson. The ground beneath them is smeared with the evidence of their struggle, as though they'd tried to claw their way to safety. Some arms are outstretched, fingers frozen in desperation, while others lay limp, surrendering to the silence.
The air is thick with the lingering stench of iron and decay, a grim reminder of the violence that swept through, leaving only the shadows of lives now lost.
The scent hangs in the air, mingling with the dampness of the earth and filling his lungs with a sickening heaviness.
Near him, a figure—a young woman, barely older than he feels himself to be—lies on her side, one arm reaching forward, fingers frozen in a desperate, unanswered plea. Her eyes are wide open, their glassy, vacant stare a silent testament to the violence that claimed her. Dark streaks of dried blood trail from her mouth and nose, painting slender, macabre lines down her cheeks, small, dark rivers etched starkly against her pale skin. The faint smear of her fingertips in the dirt suggests her final moments were spent reaching out, clinging to a hope she could not hold.
Further away, he spots a man slumped against a twisted tree, his head hanging at an unnatural angle, neck bent as though the weight of defeat finally overtook him. His armor is dented and stained, each mark and scar bearing the story of a battle hard-fought, though his strength had not been enough. Scattered pieces of his broken weapon lie nearby, relics of his last, futile defense. The ground around him is torn, a deep groove leading to where he'd clawed his way forward, as if refusing to let life slip from his grasp. His fingers are still buried in the earth, clutching handfuls of dirt with a final, unyielding resolve—a defiance that lingers even in death.
His stomach churns violently as he takes in the horrific scene before him, a landscape painted with chaos and despair. The bodies surround him like a morbid ring, grotesque and lifeless, marking the boundaries of his new reality—a world stripped of warmth and laughter, now a cold, unforgiving void. Confusion twists within him, sharp and insistent. 'What's going on?' The thought pulses relentlessly through his mind, each beat matching the frantic rhythm of his heart as he looks down at his own small, trembling hands, a stark contrast to the starkness of the death that surrounds him. 'What happened to them… and why am I the only one left?'
Each lifeless figure around him seems to whisper secrets he cannot decipher, their eyes staring blankly into the void, as if they hold the answers to questions he dares not voice. They lie in twisted positions, as if caught in a dance of despair, their frozen expressions etched with a terror he cannot comprehend. He grips the ground tightly, his fingers digging into the cold, unyielding earth, feeling its rough texture as a futile attempt to ground himself against the overwhelming wave of dread that threatens to pull him under. The air hangs heavy, saturated with an unshakeable silence that seems to amplify his panic. It presses down on him, making it hard to breathe, to think, to find a way out of this nightmare.
His mind races, grappling with the impossibility of it all. Each lifeless body feels like a lost fragment of a puzzle he can't piece together. Memories flutter at the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with their familiarity, yet remaining tantalizingly out of reach. Were they friends? Family? Strangers? The confusion gnaws at him, but amidst the turmoil, a single thought cuts through: survival. Desperation fuels his instincts as he struggles to make sense of the chaos, searching for a clue, a sign, anything that could guide him back to the light.
He feels the cold seep into his bones, a bitter reminder of the reality he now inhabits. The stench of decay is suffocating, wrapping around him like a shroud, and with each breath, he fights against the rising tide of nausea. The world he once knew feels impossibly distant, replaced by this horrific tableau. In the depths of his fear, he vows silently, 'I have to leave.' He steels himself, trembling hands curling into fists as he gathers his resolve, ready to confront whatever darkness lies ahead.
He's painfully aware of how small he feels, like a shadow of his former self, dwarfed by the enormity of his surroundings and the weight of the tragedy that has unfolded. His legs quiver as he rises, each movement a battle against gravity and the heaviness in his chest. He sways unsteadily, nearly collapsing back down as dizziness clouds his vision, threatening to consume him whole. Every step feels precarious, each movement foreign, as though his limbs belong to someone else entirely, disconnected from his will. 'Why is this so hard?' The question echoes in his mind, amplifying his sense of isolation.
A cold, pragmatic thought pushes its way through the fog of his discomfort—if he's going to survive, he needs supplies. The clarity is stark against the backdrop of chaos, a sliver of determination in the dark. Stifling a shudder, he kneels beside the first body he encounters, a woman whose pale face is frozen in an expression of terror, as if she had witnessed the unspeakable in her final moments. The sight sends another wave of nausea rolling through him, a bitter reminder of the fragility of life and the grim reality he now faces.
Yet, he steels himself, drawing on a reserve of strength he didn't know he possessed. With trembling hands, he begins to search her belongings, a task made all the more daunting by the gravity of the moment. His fingers are clumsy, betraying him as they fumble against the fabric of her torn clothing. He struggles to pull open the tattered pouch she carries, the worn leather a testament to a life once lived, now reduced to this grim tableau.
Each moment stretches into eternity as he fights against the nausea rising in his throat, urging him to look away, to escape from this nightmare. But the desire to survive overpowers his instincts. With a deep, shuddering breath, he forces his small hands to work, digging into the depths of the pouch. Inside, he discovers a few meager supplies—a frayed piece of cloth, some crumpled papers.
The sight sends another wave of nausea rolling through him, but he steels himself, forcing his trembling hands to search her belongings. His fingers are clumsy, and he fumbles, his small hands struggling to pull open the torn pouch she carries.
He moves from one body to the next, each encounter a grim reminder of the life that once thrived in this now-harrowing landscape. With a heavy heart, he searches for anything of value, finding bits and pieces that may help him navigate the chaos surrounding him. First, he uncovers a torn map, its edges frayed and creased, the ink smudged but still legible. The faint markings on it hint at places he might go, paths he might take. Clutching it tightly, he tucks it under his arm, feeling the weight of hope mingling with despair.
Next, he finds a flask, surprisingly intact, that still holds a little water. As he unscrews the lid and tilts it to his lips, he savors the refreshing coolness that trickles down his throat. It's a small victory, but in this desolate reality, it feels monumental—a precious resource that could sustain him in the days to come. He replaces the lid with care, knowing how vital every drop is in this wasteland of sorrow.
Then, he comes across a worn cloak, its fabric tattered and stained with blood. It speaks of a struggle, of someone who fought for their life, and the sight churns his stomach. Yet, he forces himself to confront the reality of the situation. He knows he cannot afford to leave anything behind, no matter how difficult it is to stomach. Each item, no matter how macabre, is a piece of survival; each one could be a lifeline in the coming hours.
As he gathers these finds, they feel heavier than they should, burdening him not just physically but emotionally. The weight of their former owners' stories presses down on him, a haunting reminder of their lost lives. Still, he presses on, gritting his teeth against the surge of nausea and sorrow that threatens to overwhelm him. With each item added to his collection, he steels his resolve, reminding himself that he must not succumb to despair. The world may be dark and unforgiving, but he will forge ahead, driven by a fierce determination to carve out a future from the remnants of this tragedy.
Finally, he approaches the man slumped against a tree, his armor dented and hands still clutching a sword. The weapon glints in the faint morning light, its blade streaked with dried blood, a testament to a final stand. He reaches out, trying to lift it, but it's far too heavy for his small, weakened body.
The weight pulls at his arm, forcing him to drop it after a few futile attempts. Frustration wells up inside him, but he brushes it aside. He needs to be practical.
His eyes drift down to a dagger strapped to the man's belt, smaller and more manageable. He slips it free, feeling the cool weight of it in his hand. It's sharp, well-maintained—a tool he can actually carry.
He tucks it into his waistband, a small sense of relief settling over him. At least now he has some way to defend himself, should he need it.
As he continues to search, his hand brushes against a small, leather pouch at the man's waist. Opening it, he finds a few coins—nothing extravagant, but enough that he instinctively pockets them.
He doesn't know if he'll even need money, but something tells him to take it. In a world as uncertain as this, any resource could be valuable.
His fingers brush against a thin chain around the man's neck, and he pulls out a silver locket hidden beneath the armor. The metal is cold to the touch, worn but polished, suggesting it was something cherished. He hesitates, then opens it, expecting to find a symbol or emblem, something belonging to a warrior. Instead, he sees a miniature painting—delicately rendered, faded but clear. Inside are two figures: a woman, smiling softly, and a young girl with bright eyes and a hopeful expression.
A strange ache rises within him, stirring memories he cannot grasp. He closes the locket, swallowing hard as he feels a flicker of guilt for taking something so personal. But practicality overrides sentiment; he tucks it into his pocket, hoping he'll find a way to put it to use.
But as he steadies himself, he knows deep down that he's caught in a web of questions he cannot yet answer. One truth resonates clearly in the chaos: he doesn't belong here, not in this fragile body and not in this haunting place.
The bodies lie motionless around him, frozen witnesses to something he cannot remember. Every instinct urges him to leave, to escape this place and the questions clawing at the edges of his mind.
He staggers to his feet, wincing as a sharp, searing pain radiates from his side with each movement. His hand instinctively presses against the ache, but it does little to dull the discomfort.
Only then, as he straightens himself, does he truly notice the unfamiliarity of his own body—the startling lightness, the frailness of his limbs, and the unsettling way his muscles seem too weak to carry him.
He feels smaller, almost delicate, as though he could be knocked over by a mere gust of wind. The realization is jarring, leaving him feeling vulnerable and out of place in his own skin, as if he's somehow been shrunk down to a shell of who he once was.
He takes a shaky step forward, his foot sinking into the damp, uneven earth that shifts beneath his weight. A chill runs down his spine as he glances around, scanning the eerie landscape for any sign of life or familiarity.
His surroundings are a haunting mix of twisted, gnarled trees whose branches claw at the sky and thick, clinging fog that blankets everything in a ghostly shroud. Shadows stretch long and ominous across the ground, shifting and swaying with every slight movement, as if they're alive and watching him.
An uneasy silence fills the air, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves, heightening the sense that he's not alone in this forsaken place.
Somewhere beyond the mist, he senses movement—a flicker, like something watching him, waiting. He shudders, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. I have to get out of here.
Yet he hesitates, glancing back at the bodies. Despite the horror of the scene, something compels him to look closer, as if answers lie buried within the silence. Among the fallen, he notices fragments of armor and torn banners, symbols that spark no recognition but fill him with an inexplicable sense of dread. 'Why does this feel important?'
He forces himself to turn away, the massacre fading into shadow as he stumbles forward. Each step is heavy, his legs weak and trembling, but he presses on, guided by an instinct he doesn't understand.
The mist thickens, curling around him like ghostly tendrils, wrapping him in a cocoon of silence. It swallows up the world behind him, the familiar surroundings fading into shadow until they feel like a distant nightmare. Yet his mind lingers, gripped by half-formed images and feelings that hover just out of reach, as if tethered to a forgotten past.
A name rests on the edge of his mind, fragile and fleeting. He strains to remember, to grasp the syllables that slip away like smoke, leaving only a hollow ache. Faces flash through his thoughts—warm, shadowed, unrecognizable—and a voice, soft and distant, calls out to him, each word soaked in an inexplicable sorrow. His chest tightens, a pang of nostalgia for a life he cannot recall, yet one that feels as essential as breath.
With every step, the memories blur further, slipping through his fingers like sand. He reaches for them, desperate to hold onto something—anything—but the mist steals them away, one by one. He's left standing alone, adrift in the fog, haunted by fragments of a past he can neither remember nor forget. And as the mist settles around him, the emptiness inside grows, whispering that he has lost more than just memories.
The stillness around him is unnatural, broken only by the faint crunch of his steps. Somewhere in the fog, he senses a flicker of movement, as though something watches him from afar. He shudders, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and he grips the dagger tighter, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his small, trembling hand.
'I have to get out of here.'
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