Deep within the mountains, an echoing scream shook the air.
It was not human.
The sound rolled across the cliffs, disturbing the silence that had ruled this place for centuries. As the echoes slowly faded, the source of the disturbance revealed itself—on a flat stretch of cold rock lay a boy, motionless, as if already dead.
His condition was beyond description.
His right arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, bone pressing visibly against torn skin. A deep scratch ran across his face, dried blood clinging to his cheek. His clothes were soaked and stiff with blood, some of it his own, some of it not.
Beside him lay proof of what had happened here.
Corpses of monsters were scattered across the ground—small beasts crushed beyond recognition, larger ones torn apart with frightening force. It was clear that this place had been a battlefield, and that the boy had been fighting for a long time.
The mountain was not finished with him yet.
A sudden rustling sound came from the bushes nearby.
From the shadows, ten cyclopes emerged. Their massive bodies loomed over the battlefield, each gripping crude weapons carved from stone and bone. At first, they moved with confidence—but the moment their single eyes took in the pile of corpses, they hesitated.
Even monsters understood danger.
The boy stirred.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up from the rock. As he stood, a sharp cracking sound echoed through the air. His twisted arm began to move, bone shifting back into place as torn flesh repaired itself. The deep scratch on his face faded, followed by the countless wounds covering his body.
His breathing was heavy, uneven.
He raised his head and looked at the cyclopes. There was no fear in his eyes—only exhaustion, and something far more dangerous beneath it.
"One more time," he said quietly.
The ground beneath his feet shattered.
In an instant, the boy disappeared from where he stood. The distance between him and the cyclopes vanished as he launched himself forward with terrifying speed. His fist slammed into the chest of the nearest cyclops, the impact releasing a deep, thunderous sound.
The massive creature was sent flying, its body crashing lifelessly into the mountainside.
Pain exploded through the boy's arm, sharp enough to steal his breath—but he did not stop.
A second cyclops swung its weapon downward. The blow struck his shoulder with crushing force. Bones broke. The sound echoed clearly.
Yet before the monster could react, the boy stepped in and drove his other hand forward, striking straight into its single eye. The cyclops screamed before collapsing to the ground.
The remaining monsters charged at once.
The boy moved among them with raw, overwhelming force. He struck, dodged, and countered with his bare hands, his body breaking and repairing itself again and again. A blow shattered his ribs—then they healed. His leg bent at an impossible angle as he leapt—then straightened before he landed.
Every movement destroyed his body.
Every heartbeat restored it.
One by one, the cyclopes fell.
When the final monster collapsed, the boy dropped to his knees. His vision blurred, and his breathing turned ragged. Blood spilled from his mouth, staining the stone beneath him. Though his wounds healed, the pain remained—piled upon itself, refusing to fade.
He let out a weak, breathless laugh.
"You're probably wondering who I am," he muttered, staring at the bodies surrounding him.
"And why I'm doing this."
His body trembled as exhaustion finally caught up to him. The mountain wind brushed against his bloodstained clothes as his consciousness began to fade.
"For that," he whispered, "we'll have to go back one year."