The pain had been unbearable—searing, all-consuming, a storm that tore through every fiber of his being. Yet, through it all, something within him had changed.
[With your skill, you have strengthened your constitution despite suffering intense pain.]
[Constitution: E → D]
Lying on the cold, blood-soaked floor, Bittu felt the dampness seep into his bare skin, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. His clothes were gone—shredded, perhaps, or burned away by agony. But now, something new stirred beneath his flesh: a quiet, pulsing strength, like a deep river beginning to flow after years of drought.
A sharp poke near his abdomen jolted him.
"Ahh…"
The skeletal assailant's grotesque weapon—fused with torn muscle and slick with Bittu's own blood—had pierced him again. The wound was shallow, almost mocking. Yet even this minor cut sent a ripple through his body, stirring memories of the torment that had come before.
But the pain… it was nothing.
Not compared to what he'd endured.
It was absurd—like comparing a dripping faucet to a collapsing dam. The agony that once threatened to shatter his mind now ebbed like a dying tide, swallowed by the newfound resilience of his upgraded constitution. An invisible cocoon wrapped around him, dulling sensation, shielding him from the worst of it.
He didn't smile. He didn't scream. He simply was.
The skeleton continued its work—twisting, probing, laughing in that hollow, rattling kekeke—but to Bittu, it felt distant. As if he were watching from above, unbound by flesh, untouched by suffering.
He let it do as it pleased.
The cold floor beneath him was a cruel reminder of reality. Blood pooled under his spine. The air reeked of decay and iron. Yet, in this moment, there was no rage, no despair—only a hollow calm, vast and deep.
"No pain… no suffering… no agony," he murmured, voice raw but steady. "Just… peace."
It was a foreign concept. One he'd never truly known. But now, in the silence after the storm, it felt like salvation.
His dead eyes stared upward, unblinking.
Why did I suffer?
For what reason?
The questions echoed in the cavern of his mind. He searched for answers—some grand design, some unseen hand pulling strings. But he had never met another soul. No one to betray him. No one to curse him.
Was he merely a plaything for some unseen entity? A pawn in a game he didn't understand?
Unlikely. He wasn't special. Not yet.
Then—was it fate?
Was fate toying with him? Did it bear some grudge? Or was he simply its favorite whipping boy?
He didn't know.
But one truth burned brighter than all doubt:
He had no control.
Not over his body. Not over his life. Not over his destiny.
Just like now.
He endured because he had to. Because he was weak.
And weakness meant obedience.
But strength—real strength—could change that.
Strength to stand when the heavens fell. Strength to defy fate itself.
Suddenly, from the depths of his soul, a voice erupted—raw, defiant, absolute.
"I…"
"I will…"
"I will… definitely…"
"I will definitely be the one in control!"
Bittu felt his blood ignite.
Not with rage, not with anger—but with something deeper, something ancient. A fire that didn't scorch the skin but consumed the soul. The more he dwelled on it, the more the embers within him flared, fed not only by the fragmented memories he clung to, but by a past he couldn't remember—something buried, forgotten, yet awakening. His resolve didn't grow—it exploded, silent at first, then swelling like a storm born in stillness, until it drowned out thought, drowned out fear.
"Ahh."
A sharp poke in his torso jolted him back. He grunted, the pain slowly ebbing, like a tide receding after a violent storm.
After what felt like an eternity, his body finally responded—his body, moving as it should, as if returning from the dead, as if... reborn.
He felt the cold, blood-soaked floor beneath him. The drifting wind brushed his bare skin. He inhaled—the metallic tang of his own blood. He heard it too: the slow, hollow creak of bones shifting in the dark.
And then, clarity.
He was ready.
Ready to walk the path he had chosen long ago.
".... Kekekeke...."
The undead's laugh slithered through the air—mocking, grotesque. Bittu ignored it.
He raised both arms.
His right hand—whole. Pale. Unblemished. Restored to its original state, as if the torture had never happened.
But his left… remained a ruin.
From shoulder to elbow, it was dead—rotting flesh clinging to bone, gray and lifeless like a zombie's limb. The rest, from elbow down, was untouched—pale, human, his.
"Of course," he murmured. "It wouldn't heal from just this."
A sigh escaped him.
"I'll need to find a solution… after I get out of here."
His nerves, once numb under the unbearable weight of agony, now relaxed. He could speak freely. Could think.
Slowly, he sat up, spine straight, back rigid. He looked down at his naked body—no reaction. The blood-soaked ground beneath him, the gore-streaked stone—nothing moved him.
It was baffling. Anyone else would have awakened in blind fury, tearing the skeleton apart in a rage-fueled frenzy.
But Bittu? Calm. Detached.
This wasn't indifference. This was control.
His trait—Cold—had finally awakened.
It could only manifest now, now that the unimaginable pain had subsided. Only then could the mysterious energy within him stabilize, spreading its icy calm through his veins, quieting the storm, sharpening his mind.
".... Kekeke..."
Bittu stood.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face the skeleton—the thing that had tormented him for an unknown span of time.
The creature, once a bleached, mindless bone, had changed.
Now, it was a distorted fusion of death and unnatural life—its frame smeared with blood, sinewy muscle grafted onto bone, pulsing like a living wound. Its right forelimb, once a skeletal hand, was now a monstrous claw, slick with gore—evidence of its cruel work.
Its eye sockets glowed with an eerie, unnatural light—no longer empty. Now, they held a chilling spark of intelligence. A whisper of awareness. A predator's pride.
"... Kekeke...."
It laughed again, locking eyes with Bittu.
Then, as before, it lunged—its twisted limb thrusting toward Bittu's chest.
But this time, it stopped.
Mid-thrust.
Bittu's body—reborn, hardened—resisted. The claw scraped against flesh that no longer yielded.
Without a word, Bittu raised both his hand.
And squeezed the skull.
Crack.
A single, clean impact on both sides.
The skull burst open. The glow in its eyes vanished—snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
The skeleton collapsed, bones clattering to the floor, lifeless, meaningless.
Like a puppet with its strings cut.
It died as it should have long ago—quietly. Unremarkably.
'What's this?'
The moment the bones hit the ground, a scroll materialized from thin air, landing softly in his pool of blood.
Bittu stared. Then stepped forward, crouching to pick it up.
The instant his fingers touched it, a voice echoed in his mind:
[You have found an Ability Scroll. Would you like to learn the ability?]
The scroll was crimson—deep as dried blood. Strange yet sinister symbols pulsed across its surface in dark, coagulated ink, shifting like living veins.
As he ran his fingers over it, a shiver raced up his spine—not of fear, but of recognition. It felt like touching a reservoir of forbidden power, ancient and soaked in blood. Whispers curled at the edge of his hearing—secrets long buried, techniques stained with slaughter.
Bittu was transfixed.
From the depths of his soul, a force surged—a primal urge, undeniable, inescapable.
He didn't hesitate.
He didn't question.
Instinct screamed: Take it.
And so he did.
"Learn."