Two months passed since Rey entered the Third Realm. He had barely made it out alive from the cursed bridge, and since then, his journey had been nothing but filth, hunger, and agony. His body was nothing close to human now. His walk was unstable, each step dragging as if the earth itself refused to carry him forward. The monster organs that kept him alive were rotting slowly inside him—or at least that's how it felt.
He couldn't feel warmth, or hunger properly. Only pain and hatred. The spider-thread skin he had sewn into his body helped him stay in one piece. Without it, his flesh would tear apart from the tension between his original body and the monstrous replacements. The threads covered his chest, coiled tightly around his back and arms, and half of his face was wrapped in that tight, cold material—hiding both the pain and what he had become.
And yet, he was alive.
The Third Realm wasn't as wild as the Second. There were fewer monsters here, but the land itself was different—colder, more silent, like a world that had forgotten even how to scream. Rey didn't meet anyone. Not a beast, not a human. Just death and dry bones scattered across ruins and dried-out rivers.
For the first week, he tried to find shelter, but he quickly learned that staying in one place was dangerous. He kept moving, hiding during the daylight under rocks or inside abandoned monster nests. At night, when the winds howled and the darkness swallowed everything, he hunted for rotten meat, drank tainted water, and ate whatever he could find—even monster feces when nothing else remained.
His revenge burned in his heart, but his body could no longer keep up. He couldn't fight. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even stand straight. So, he did the only thing he could: hide.
For twenty-seven years.
In those years, his body didn't grow older in the normal way. Maybe it was the monster flesh, maybe it was this realm, or maybe it was just the curse of the Abyss—but he remained. Not young, not old. Just... surviving.
He built dozens of hiding spots across rocky cliffs, dead forests, and sunken valleys. None lasted long. Earthquakes, acid rain, or collapsing grounds destroyed them all, one after the other. Still, Rey kept running, crawling, hiding, surviving.
The rage didn't die. It waited. Inside.
Then, one day, it changed.
While exploring a collapsed ruin hidden inside a mountain's spine, he found something strange. It wasn't gold, or power, or magic. It was just... a map.
A faded, half-burned map drawn in a language he didn't understand—but symbols, lines, and old markers were still visible. It had no title, no names. Only paths. Routes across this realm and beyond. A small mark was drawn near the bottom edge. A place... something hidden.
Rey's dry, cracked lips curved slightly for the first time in years. Not a smile of joy—there was no joy left in him. It was a smile of recognition.
A path.
A direction.
Something to follow.
He didn't wait. He picked up the map, folded it, and limped out of the ruin. His left leg barely moved. His right eye was nearly blind. But his heart—burning—guided him forward.
Not as prey anymore.
But as a shadow with a purpose.
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