The shock was like a thick glass bulb in which he had been placed headfirst. The sounds—his mother's frightened cries, his father's rough but terrified commands—reached him muffled, as if from underwater. He saw faces flashing by, saw Ayame crying as she pressed a rag soaked in some burning tincture to his wounds, but he felt no pain, no cold, no warmth.
His consciousness was there, in the forest. Two images stood before him, overlapping, merging into one.
The first: the warg pup's muzzle distorted by malice, sharp fangs, sprays of drool. The crunch of bone under a rock. A short, cut-off howl. Warm, sticky blood on his hands.
The second: leering faces above him. The dirty concrete of the auto repair shop. Heavy boots kicking his ribs. The smell of gasoline and his own blood. And the same words: "Dump him in the forest. Let him die."
Both memories were about the same thing. About pain. About cruelty. About his own weakness.
The healer Tobas, who had run over breathless, cleaned the wounds, muttering incantations. A soft, green glow emanated from his hands, and the burning pain in Seito's back was replaced by a slight itch of healing skin. But the old man could not heal his soul.
"Lucky kid," Tobas wheezed, packing his potions. "Scratches, nothing more. But the fright... a strong fright. His soul has gone numb. He'll be quiet for a while. Let him be, don't disturb him."
His parents did not leave. They sat next to him on his bed, stroked his hair, held his hand. Their eyes held horror, guilt, and endless love. They blamed themselves for not watching him closely enough, for letting him slip away.
Seito saw it. And he was ashamed. Ashamed of his reckless act that had made them worry so much. But most of all, he was ashamed of his fear. Of the animalistic panic that had paralyzed him at the sight of the monster.
He, Light, who had been through death, who had sworn never to be weak again, had been scared again. Found himself on the brink of death once more.
When his parents, exhausted, finally fell asleep, dozing off next to his bed, he closed his eyes and called up the system interface. He didn't look at the list of new functions or the level increase. He looked at the experience line.
[Experience to next level: 127/200]
Those numbers were paid for in blood. Someone else's. And almost his own.
He replayed the fight in his head again and again, like a recording from a security camera. His paralyzing panic. The moment the system activated "Emergency Mode." The cold, emotionless clarity that allowed him to make a calculated throw. And... the result.
He had killed. He had committed an act of violence to preserve his own life.
In his past life, he had hated violence. He was a mechanic, a creator, someone who fixed and restored. The cruelest thing he had ever done was punch a table in frustration. And for that, he was killed.
This world was different. There was no place for passivity here. Weakness was synonymous with death. Not the slow, social death from poverty and loneliness like in his previous world, but quick, cruel, and final. He would have been found torn apart in the forest, and his parents would have wept over his mutilated body. And that would be it.
The thought of it was like a knife blow. Sharp, cutting pain.
He could not let that happen. Could not die again. Could not make these people, who had given him warmth and love, suffer because of him.
He clenched the sheets in his fists. The trembling finally subsided, replaced by something hard and cold. Like that stone he had thrown.
He understood. Understood the most important, most terrible truth of this world. To live, to protect those you care about, you sometimes have to kill. You have to get your hands dirty with blood. Not out of a thirst for violence, but out of necessity. It was the price of survival. The price of strength.
His first blood had not been spilled by him—it had been spilled from him by those bastards in the workshop. His second blood was the blood of the warg pup on his hands. The difference was, the first time he was a victim. The second time, he became the one who survived.
He slowly got out of bed, trying not to wake his parents. He walked over to the basin of water and began to wash his hands. He watched as the pink water ran off his fingers, washing away the last traces of the fight. He felt no disgust, no fear. Only emptiness and resolve.
He returned to bed and opened the system again. Now he looked at it with different eyes. It wasn't just a tool for growth. It was his arsenal. His weapon in the war for his own existence.
He accepted the level up.
[Level increased! Current level: 2.]
[Stat points: +5. Distribute them.]
[All main parameters increased by 0.5.]
He studied his increased stats. Strength, Agility, Endurance... He allocated all free points to "Willpower" and "Magic Perception." Physical strength was important, but strength of spirit and the ability to sense danger were more important. He could not afford to freeze in horror again.
Then he studied the Bestiary. There was an entry about the warg.
[Warg. Agile predator, hunts in packs. Weak spots: base of the skull, eyes. Threat level varies from Medium (young specimens) to High (alpha leaders).]
He read this with a cold, analytical interest. Just like he used to read technical manuals for repairing engines. You need to know the enemy's weak points to neutralize them effectively.
Then he moved on to the "Emergency Mode" function.
[Emergency Mode: temporarily increases all parameters by 50%. Duration: 1 minute. Aftereffect: all parameters are reduced by 20% for 1 hour. Use: no more than once per day.]
Risky. But better than nothing. It was his last resort, his emergency valve.
Finished, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The shock had finally passed, leaving behind a strange, unfamiliar feeling. He didn't feel good. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt... different. Changed.
He had experienced violence and death in his past life. In this one, he had committed violence to avoid death. The circle was complete. But he didn't feel stained. He felt... like a survivor.
He looked at his sleeping parents. At his mother's face, smoothed in sleep but still bearing traces of tears. At his father's strong hand lying on the blanket.
They were his anchor. His reason. For them, he was willing to become strong. For them, he was willing to spill blood.
"Forgive me," he whispered mentally. "But I cannot be just your son. I must be your shield. Even if for that I have to become sharp and cold, like steel."
He closed his eyes, and this time his sleep was dreamless. The heavy, stone-like sleep of a warrior who had learned the price of life and death for the first time.
And in the morning, when the first rays of sun broke through the window, he got up. His back hardly hurt. He walked to the window and looked at the forest, visible as a dark line beyond the palisade.
The forest no longer lured him with mystery and power. It was the enemy. A training ground. A test.
But Seito was no longer afraid of it. He knew what awaited him there. And he was ready.
He turned and smiled at his mother as she entered—his warmest, most childish smile.
"Good morning, Mom."
He would live this life. He would love them. But inside, deep in his soul, where the empty line of his true name was hidden, there now lived not only a boy named Seito. There now also lived a cold, determined killer named Light. And they had agreed to cooperate.