Whether you live or die means nothing if you have no money or power. Sooner or later, you'll come to realize this truth: a man without them is nothing. The world does not cradle weakness. Your loved ones will forget you. Even your parents, those who once held you in their arms will turn their faces away. In your darkest days, they won't give you warmth; they'll push you aside, as if your existence were a burden.
And in that moment, you'll see it clearly you hold no value to anyone.
But if you accept it, if you remain as you are, then you are no man at all. To seize success, one must shed weakness to sharpen themselves, and become the best version of what they could ever be.
A blurred figure wavered before Veythor, hazy at first, like a memory surfacing from the depths of a dream. The man leaned against something unseen, his shoulders shaking, his sobs tearing into Veythor's ears. Veythor instinctively shoved away his own tears, gritting his teeth.
Damn it! What the hell is going on...?
The cries grew louder it was the kind of sound that belonged to someone drowning in a sea of despair, sinking with no hope of rising. The man's face slowly came into focus, and when it did, Veythor froze. His pupils trembled, disbelief surging through him.
Me? That's… me. My body, from my first life. What—
The thought died in his skull. Words refused to form.
The man his past self was clad in a faded grey overcoat. His hands shook violently as he drew out a revolver, the metal glinting in the void. With quivering fingers, he pressed the muzzle against his temple.
No...
BOOM!
The shot rang out like thunder in a coffin. Blood sprayed, warm liquid splattering across Veythor's face. The man crumpled lifelessly, collapsing into himself like a marionette with its strings cut.
Veythor stood rooted and speechless, staring as the image dissolved, body and coat fading into the dark abyss. Only the darkness remained. Only silence but even as the vision faded, the blood did not. The warmth still clung to his skin, stubborn, real.
"Veythor…"
A voice echoed through the void.
"Veythor…"
Again it called, faint yet unyielding. Veythor's eyes darted around, his mind sharpening, the haze of despair peeling away as his calculating persona clawed back into place.
You'll never destroy the world. You can't escape your fate. Your fate is sealed and your fate is to suffer. The words struck like chains tightening around his soul. His gaze darkened, the void trembling around him...
And then everything snapped back to reality.
"Veythor! Veythor!"
Shimi and Raika were kneeling over him, desperately checking his pulse.
"What should we do? He's… he's dying!" Shimi's voice broke, heavy with panic, her hands trembling as they hovered uselessly above his chest.
Raika looked down, his jaw tight, his face grim.
"We can't… We can't do anything. If only we knew healing magic, we could have saved him. But like this…" His teeth clenched. "It's too damned unfortunate. After everything he did to get us out, after all his efforts..."
Raika's fists curled tight, knuckles turning white. His voice shook with frustration.
"....and we can't even do a thing for him. We're just… useless."
Meanwhile, Miasha, after wandering the cavern's twists and shadows, finally stumbled upon the shortcut tunnel the three had taken. But the moment she stepped onto the path, heavy footsteps echoed toward her.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. The fleeing monster was charging towards her.
She stepped back, hand sliding into her inventory before pulling free a short sword. The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light. Then the creature emerged from the tunnel its grotesque frame staggering, body mangled.
Miasha's eyes widened. Not in fear. In disbelief.
"A Skimer Head? Here? Impossible…" she muttered.
But as her gaze swept over its torn flesh and bleeding wounds, her lips curved into a smirk.
"Don't tell me… those three brats actually managed to injure a Skimer Head? No… more than that. They've practically butchered it."
The monster spotted her and froze, panic flashing in its single, trembling eye. It staggered, then lunged forward in blind desperation.
Shhhhnk!
With one swift motion, her blade sliced through its neck. The head toppled to the ground, blood gushing as the body collapsed with a heavy thud. A crimson pool spread fast, painting the cavern floor in gore.
Miasha wrinkled her nose, muttering with disdain, "Eugh… what a pain in ass... and it stinks."
Her smirk faded as her thoughts turned.
If it was this heavily injured, then those kids must be half-dead by now.
"Damn it," she whispered, her tone colder now. "I can't let them die. The Organization needs them alive."
She sheathed her blade and bolted into the tunnel, her footsteps echoing into the dark.
And so, new questions burned in the silence.
Would Miasha save them in time?
Would Veythor cling to life, or sink deeper into the abyss?
And what was this Organization that demanded their survival?