Darkness.
Not the darkness of night, nor the one that follows when you close your eyes.
This was the kind that settled deep in your chest. The kind that crept up your spine and whispered "Why bother?"
Steve lay slumped against a crooked tree, its bark rough against his back. Dried blood crusted the fabric of his shirt where the wound had been. He'd torn off strips of his tunic to fashion a crude bandage, wrapping it tightly around his midsection. It stung like hell—but the pain grounded him.
It reminded him that he was still alive.
He reached into the small pouch tied at his belt, fingers trembling, and pulled out a vial—its glass chipped from the fall but miraculously intact. A minor healing potion. One of the many he carried when leaving for that mission, never imagining he'd end up needing them like this.
He popped the cork with his teeth and downed it.
It wasn't a high-grade elixir, but it dulled the sharpness in his ribs and the burning in his abdomen. His breathing grew a little easier. He emptied another onto the open stab wound before tightly re-wrapping it.
The scent of blood still lingered, and that wasn't good.
Predators smelled blood.
And this wasn't just any forest—it was the Forest of Death.
A place where even veteran adventurers entered with trembling hands and holy blessings, and even then, they rarely returned.
Steve had read about it. Heard whispers in the taverns. Half-mad tales in books that spoke of twisted beasts and cursed ruins. He thought they were exaggerated.
He knew now… they weren't.
But he couldn't afford fear. Not right now.
"Water…" he muttered to himself, forcing one foot in front of the other.
Water and shelter. That was survival 101.
His limbs felt like logs, heavy and bruised. But he moved anyway. The forest air was damp, dense, and thick with the scent of moss and rot. Every sound—every snapped twig, every shifting leaf—made his body flinch.
He hated it.
He hated the way his heart raced with every gust of wind.
He hated how useless he felt despite all his training.
And most of all, he hated her—the girl with the smile that used to mean the world to him.
"Was it all fake?"
His legs stopped moving.
He leaned against a rock, chest heaving, the weight of memories crashing over him.
The way she looked at him when they first sparred.
The stupid candy he bought her when she pouted at a festival.
The promise they made… "Forever."
He dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to crush the thoughts away.
"You were supposed to die with your parents."
Was it always planned? From the start?
Was her laughter just a tool?
Did she fake everything?
He wanted to scream. But even his screams would be swallowed by the trees.
He sat there for a while, staring at the dirt beneath him, the bloodstains on his clothes, the shaking in his arms.
"Maybe… I should just stop."
"Maybe it's not worth it."
"What's the point of surviving in a world where love is a lie and life is a joke?"
His head dropped, forehead touching the cold earth.
"It would be easier, wouldn't it?"
To sleep. To never wake up.
To just… let go.
But then something stirred inside him. Quiet at first.
It wasn't just revenge.
It wasn't just betrayal.
It was deeper. Older.
A fire that had existed in him long before he fell in love.
Before he even met her.
"I was reborn into this world with a second chance."
"I asked for this. I wanted this."
His mind replayed the day he died—saving a child, smiling even as the car bore down on him.
He remembered the joy when he saw magic for the first time.
The thrill when he first held a wooden sword.
The giddy excitement of calling out "Status!" even when it didn't work.
"I didn't come to this world for love."
A bitter smile crept onto his lips, dry and cracked as they were.
"I came to live."
And now, he would. Even if it hurt.
Even if it meant crawling through hell.
Because power wouldn't betray him.
And strength wouldn't lie to his face and push him off a cliff.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to his feet again.
He didn't want to die. Not anymore.
He wanted to earn the right to live.
The next few hours were a haze of pain and instinct.
He found a stream not far from where he'd collapsed, cupping water into his mouth until the nausea passed.
He followed it upstream, eventually locating a cluster of rocks forming a shallow overhang—primitive shelter, but enough for now.
As the sun began to set, painting the forest in an eerie shade of orange, Steve gathered moss, branches, and even bark to form insulation. His hands were scratched. His body ached.
But he moved.
Every second that passed was survival. Every moment that didn't kill him, a small victory.
A creature screamed in the distance. Something guttural and wet. Something big.
Steve didn't sleep that night.
He sat curled near the rock wall, dagger in hand, shaking with every crunch of a branch outside.
But he survived.And the next day, he woke up.
Alive.Still breathing.
Still broken—but healing, in places no potion could reach.