Time had clung to my mind like a swamp, neither flowing forward nor backward. Hours, minutes, or eternity—I didn't know. I stumbled through the jagged path of the cave, each step sending stones skittering beneath my feet, my knees crashing against sharp rocks. The pulp on my shoulder—that revolting, bloody heap of flesh and bone—throbbed with every breath, as if it had its own heartbeat, each pulse driving a nail into my brain. Pain was a flame, a beast, devouring my body, shredding my mind. Damn it, I muttered inwardly, my voice exhausted, cracked. Log out, log out, get out of this nightmare! But the system, cold and merciless as a jailer, swallowed my screams. The hologram's mocking silence wrapped around my neck like a chain. I kept walking, because I had no other choice.
The cave was dark and suffocating, a tomb of stone. Its damp, cold walls reeked of mold and blood, filling my lungs. Coughing fits tore at my chest, my throat burning with dust and the metallic taste of my own blood. The bleeding had turned my body into a swamp; my head spun, my vision blurred, the world tilting right, then left. But then, a distant light flickered, a faint reflection on the cave's stones. A spark of hope ignited within me, feeble but stubborn. My steps quickened, as if that light promised an exit, salvation. But with every hurried step, the pulp on my shoulder scraped against the rocks, oozing blood with a wet, disgusting sound, my legs trembling. Still, I didn't stop—hope was a poison, sweet and sustaining.
When I finally passed the rugged path, I saw daylight—pale, gray, but real. The cave's mouth stretched before me, a narrow slit, a breath of freedom. But then my eyes drifted upward, and my heart stopped for a moment. I had to climb. A steep, jagged rock wall, riddled with sharp outcrops, loomed at least twenty meters high. FUCK THIS! IF I EVER PLAY THIS GAME AGAIN! I screamed, my voice echoing in the cave, but no one heard. The surroundings were silent, an eerie, abandoned place—no birds, no wind, just the cold indifference of stone. I stashed my sword in my inventory, my bloody hands readying to grip the rocks. Climbing with one arm was a nightmare. My right shoulder, a sack of flesh, dangled, catching on rocks, tearing with every movement. Blood, warm and sticky, trickled down my leg, dripping onto the stones, each drop a needle in my nerves. I had moved beyond feeling pain—my body was a heap of meat, my mind clinging only to the instinct to survive. Exhaustion had seeped into my bones; every breath, every movement, was a curse, but I couldn't stop.
I began to climb, my left hand grasping rocky outcrops, my fingers bleeding on their sharp edges. Each grip reopened the wounds in my palm, blood and sweat mingling, dripping onto the stones. My right shoulder swung like dead weight, the half-torn arm scraping against rocks, making a wet, revolting sound—as if flesh was ripping, bones grinding. Pain was no longer a sensation but a presence; a flame stretching from my shoulder to my brain, searing my nerves, blackening my vision with every twitch. At one point, my fingers slipped, a rock slicing my palm like a knife, and I was falling—my heart exploded in my chest, my breath caught. But at the last second, I grabbed an outcrop, my nails digging into the stone, my bloody fingers trembling. No, I won't fall, I told myself, teeth gritted. Adrenaline flooded my veins like poison, my heart pounding in my ears. I looked up—daylight, so close, yet so far. Every inch was a battle.
I reached a rocky ledge, but the pulp on my shoulder caught on a jagged stone. Flesh tore like cloth, blood gushed, hot and vile, splattering my chest, my face. I bit my lips to keep from screaming, blood filling my mouth, metallic and salty. The pain was a wave, swallowing my brain, as if someone pressed a red-hot iron to my shoulder, stripping flesh from bone. My vision darkened, narrowing to a tunnel, but I fought to stay conscious, the smell of my own blood sharp in my nostrils. Exhaustion was heavy as lead; every movement, every breath, was torture. Why am I still here? I thought, my mother's face flashing in my mind, Yuki's tears, my father's silent collapse. For them, I said, and reached for the next rock, my fingers trembling, my nails breaking.
The climb felt like eternity. Every meter was woven from blood, sweat, and desperation. At one point, the pulp on my shoulder got wedged in a crevice, and when I pulled, chunks of flesh tore off, sticking to the rocks, dangling like a grotesque slurry. The pain was so savage my mind went silent—no scream, no thought, just void. But my body kept going, a machine, my left hand gripping stones, my legs pushing against rocks. Daylight was no longer a dream but a reality, gray and cold, but freedom itself. With one final heave, I pulled myself up, the stones' sharp edges shredding my palms, but I climbed, and at last, I reached the cave's mouth. I collapsed, bloody, sweaty, a heap of flesh. My breath, ragged and wheezing, mingled with the stones. My shoulder still throbbed, the pulp still bled, but I was alive. I threw myself into the void, screaming for help with all my strength. Minutes later, a few players found me. Whether they were players or not wasn't clear—no one had "I'm a player" written on them. Then, I passed out.
When I opened my eyes, reality hit me like a slap. I had finally escaped the nightmare of Galactic Game Online, the system's cold chains undone. I tore the headset off, the sweat-soaked device tumbling to the bed's edge, crashing to the floor with a plastic clatter. I pressed my hand to the bed for support, but a wet slap echoed. My palm sank into cold, sticky dampness—the entire bed was drenched in sweat, as if I'd slept in a lake. My clothes clung to my skin, heavy with the stench of fear, sweat, and the cave's phantom blood. My breath was ragged, my lungs still carrying the cave's dust. I sat up quickly, my legs trembling, as if my bones had melted, leaving only skin and nerves. Yuki's voice pierced the room like a scream: "BRO! ARE YOU OKAY?!" Her fear bled through the tremor in her voice, slicing into me like a knife. I shouldn't do this to her, I thought, but my voice, scraped from my lungs, barely emerged: "I'm fine… but my room's a mess. Can you help, please?" "OKAY!" she said, her voice frantic but resolute, her footsteps fading as she ran off. I was grateful for her small act of courage, but my mind was a swamp—the cave's darkness, the pulp's vile weight, the fire of pain, all haunted me like ghosts. I stood, my legs nearly buckling, but I dragged myself to the bathroom, each step a burden.
Stepping into the shower, my knees gave out, and I let myself collapse, the cold tiles shocking my back. I turned on the hot water, and it pounded my face, chest, hair, soft but insistent. Steam filled the bathroom, a misty veil, but it couldn't erase the cave's darkness. Water slipped into my mouth, salty with sweat and a metallic tang—as if I were still there, breathing blood and dust. What did I go through? I asked myself, a trembling, questioning voice within. The pulp on my shoulder, the flesh catching on rocks, the sword's edge slicing my palm—was it real, or the game's curse? My body reeked, a vile mix of sweat, fear, and something rotten. I looked at my legs, and my heart stopped—they were thinner, as if I'd starved for weeks, muscles wasted, skin clinging to bone. How is this possible? My mind spun, lost in a labyrinth. Was the game just virtual reality, or was it consuming my body too?
I grabbed the shower gel, my hands shaking, alien to me. As I rubbed it over my skin, every touch stung like a needle, as if my nerves still carried the cave's pain. Why was it so real? I said inwardly, my voice foreign even to me. Shampooing my hair, the foam reminded me of bloody stones, the pulp's wet, grotesque sound. How do I forget that pain? MK-2's fire, bending my body, blanching my skin, stealing my breath, was etched into my mind like a nightmare. I recalled forum posts—players talking about the agony of death in the game, some quitting, some driven mad. They were right, I said, fear gripping my stomach like a fist. This game isn't a game. It's a trap. But my mother's hospital bills, that $30,000 nightmare, chained me to this trap. The gray-white wolf, still a shadow in my mind—its pelt could be a way out, but at what cost? My flesh? My sanity?
I dragged myself out of the shower, my legs still trembling, as if I'd collapse any moment. The bathroom mirror was fogged; I wiped it with my hand and faced my reflection. My face… wasn't mine. The skin under my eyes was coal-black, sunken, like a corpse's. My cheeks were gaunt, skin clinging to bone, as if I'd starved for weeks. Is this me? I said, locking eyes with the stranger in the mirror. Trauma had settled into me like a shadow, every breath haunted by the phantom pulp on my shoulder. How do I carry this pain? My mind slipped back to the cave—the blood dripping on stones, the sword's cut in my palm, the system's mocking silence. Why didn't it let me log out? The game's boundaries had pierced reality, and I dangled like a puppet on their edge. For Mom, for Yuki, for Dad, I said, but the words felt weak, swallowed by fear.
I slipped on a robe, my wet hair dripping down my neck, and returned to my room. Yuki was drying the bed with towels, her face a mix of worry and curiosity. She looked at me, her eyes widening for a moment, then softening, but her fear lingered. "What happened here, bro?" she said, her voice shaky but curious. "I guess I got sick," I said, forcing a smile, "but this much sweat doesn't add up, does it?" The joke sounded hollow even to me, but a small smile flickered on Yuki's face. We dried the bed together, the edge of my robe stained with the blood from my hands, unnoticed. The bed was so wet I'd sleep on the couch tonight. Yuki dropped the towel and turned to me, "You've gotten so thin," she said, her voice cracking with worry. She reached for my cheek, her fingers cold but gentle, and my eyes welled up. "Let me cook for you, you need to recover," she said, but her eyes were distant, brimming with questions. I had questions too—how had the game done this to me? Was that pain just virtual, or was it gnawing at my soul? But my mind kept slipping back to the cave, to the pulp's vile sound…
Dinner was a long silence. Yuki pressed me, as if there were answers I owed her, but I ignored her, craving only sleep. That night, I collapsed on the living room couch and sank into a deep, heavy slumber.