Chapter 5: Work for Survival
After hearing the young man's answer, the dwarf stared at him for a moment, then said:
"That's strange… fitting, really."
He continued with a dismissive tone:
"Well, your name doesn't matter. What matters is your work. But your name… hmm.
I'll call you Stranger—just like you called yourself."
The dwarf suddenly shouted with energy:
"Erik! Tell him what to do first:
Clean the bathroom, wash the cooking tools, then report to me."
The young man took the cleaning supplies and headed for the upstairs bathroom.
As he ascended the light-brown wooden stairs,
each step creaked sharply beneath his feet—
as if the wood itself groaned under the weight of his existence.
He reached the door.
A foul, thick stench hung in the air,
choking the breath from his lungs.
He muttered to himself with bitter sarcasm:
"I haven't even opened the door yet…
and it already smells like hell itself."
He shoved the door open—
and was met with a grotesque sight:
Chunks of human flesh scattered across the floor,
dark blood trailing in lines,
and black stains smeared across the walls.
His body trembled,
but he began cleaning anyway,
exhaling with every stroke as if purging the terror with each breath.
Time passed—he didn't know how long.
But eventually,
he returned to the dwarf, drenched in sweat and on the verge of vomiting.
The dwarf barked loudly, as always:
"Well done, Stranger!
Now, finish cleaning the kitchen tools—then you can sleep upstairs."
Exhausted but obedient,
the young man completed the task.
Afterward, he climbed to a small, dim room.
A single candle flickered—barely illuminating the space.
He stripped off his dirty clothes and walked over to a small basin to wash.
Then, he stood before a medium-sized mirror.
He couldn't remember his name…
not even his face.
But as he looked at the reflection,
he saw a man in his mid-twenties.
Skin pale—like someone who hadn't seen the sun in years.
His eyes were gray, faded,
with a distant gaze—searching for something lost since birth.
His black hair was tied back neatly,
yet it felt heavy… as if it held buried memories.
His body was strong—built to survive, not to live.
Still, it bore clear signs of hunger and fatigue.
Strength alone was not enough in this world.
He stared at himself for a long moment.
Then sighed.
He walked over to the worn wooden bed, lay down,
and slowly closed his eyes, whispering:
"Another day in a world that doesn't know my name…
and where I still don't know…
why I exist."