The first breath he inhaled was not air, but liquid. Thick. Salty. Metallic.
The man choked, his body convulsing in a panic reflex. He tried to sit up, but something heavy pinned his chest down. In the dank darkness, his thin hand groped upwards, his fingers sinking into something soft and cold. Flesh.
He pushed with all his might. The heavy object shifted with a wet splat, rolling off to his side.
The man coughed violently, retching black fluid from his lungs onto the muddy ground. His lungs burned, as if they had just been filled with shards of glass. When he looked up, trying to gather his sanity, the world spun in a painful shade of red.
Not because of the blood covering his face, but because of the glowing text that seemed forcibly carved into his retinas.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
[Subject Identity: LOST]
[Soul Integration: UNSTABLE]
The letters pulsed a deep crimson, floating permanently in his field of vision, no matter how often he blinked.
"Where..." his voice was hoarse, broken, like the grinding of two river stones.
He tried to remember his name, his mother's face, or how he had arrived here. Yet, his mind was a blank space. Empty. As if someone had scooped out all his memories with an ice cream spoon.
The only thing remaining was pain.
He looked around. His eyes slowly adapted to the gloom. He wasn't in a bed. He was on a hill. But this hill wasn't made of dirt.
Stiff, pale limbs. Faces frozen in silent screams. Hollowed torsos. He was sitting atop a mountain of corpses. Thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of human bodies discarded into this giant pit like kitchen scraps.
The stench here was so dense it felt tangible. A sickeningly sweet smell. The scent of fermented death.
A new text appeared, buzzing in his ears like an annoying fly.
[STATUS ALERT]
[Current Humanity: 15/100]
[Warning: Sanity is Critical. Stave off the Hollow.]
He didn't know what the numbers meant, but his primal instinct screamed: Run.
He tried to stand, but his legs trembled violently. He looked down at his own body. Ribs protruded from beneath pale, bruised skin. He wore only rough burlap that was nearly disintegrated, tied haphazardly around his waist. He was nobody here. He was just another corpse that, by some twist of fate, forgot to die.
Grrrr...
The sound came from his right, from behind a pile of severed arms.
The hair on his neck stood up. That wasn't the sound of the wind. That was the sound of hunger.
The man turned his head slowly. A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. A creature crawled up from the crevices of the corpse pile. It was shaped like a dog, but the size of a calf. Its skin was hairless, covered instead in sores oozing golden pus. Its jaw was imprecise—too wide, filled with rows of overlapping, irregular fangs.
A Corpse Hound.
[Enemy Detected: Lesser Rot-Hound (Lvl 2)]
[Threat Assessment: Lethal]
The System warned him. Lethal. Of course. He doubted he could even lift his own hand, let alone fight a monster.
The hound growled wetly, drool dripping down to burn the skin of the corpse beneath its paws. It smelled fresh meat. Meat with warm blood still flowing through it.
The man backed away, his heels slipping on spilled intestines. His hand brushed against something hard and cold. Iron.
He looked down quickly. A shovel. The handle was cracked, and the metal blade was dull with rust. This was the tool of someone who had likely been devoured by this monster before.
Kill or be killed.
The thought wasn't his. It felt alien, cold, and logical. Like a whisper from the red text in his eyes.
The hound leaped.
Time seemed to slow. He saw the muscles in the creature's hind legs tense, saw golden pus spray from a wound on its back as it soared through the air.
The man didn't think. He acted on pure, fearful reflex. He raised the rusty shovel with both hands, squeezed his eyes shut, and swung blindly forward.
CRACK!
A hard impact vibrated through his arm bones.
There was a wet crunch, followed by a high-pitched shriek resembling the cry of a strangled baby.
The man opened his eyes. His shovel had struck the side of the hound's head mid-leap, deflecting its attack. The hound tumbled to his side, half its face caved in. But the creature wasn't dead. It thrashed wildly, claws tearing at the air, trying to rise again.
The man's heart pounded, battering his ribcage. The fear was slowly turning into something else. Adrenaline.
Without waiting for the monster to recover, he raised the shovel high.
Kill. Kill before you are eaten.
He swung it down. The blunt edge of the shovel slammed into the hound's skull. Crack. Black blood splattered onto his face. The monster still moved.
He struck again. And again. With every blow, his fear receded, replaced by an intoxicating rhythm of violence. He screamed, a wordless sound, channeling all his confusion and horror into the swings of that rusty iron.
Until finally, all that remained of the hound's head was a mash of flesh and bone.
Silence. Only the sound of his ragged breathing amidst the mass grave.
Suddenly, the red text flashed brightly, accompanied by a warm sensation spreading from his chest through his entire body—like downing a glass of expensive alcohol in the middle of a snowstorm.
[Target Eliminated]
[Experience Gained]
[You have harvested 5 Runes.]
The pain in his muscles faded slightly. The fatigue weighing on his shoulders lifted for a moment. It was the most pleasurable feeling he had experienced since opening his eyes.
It was an addiction.
The man dropped his shovel, staring at his hands stained with black blood mixed with golden pus. He still didn't know who he was. He still didn't know where this was.
But he knew one thing. This System rewarded him for killing. And he wanted to feel it again.
Slowly, his eyes shifted upwards. Far above this pit of death, there was a giant circular opening. Light poured in from there—a strange golden-yellow light, illuminating dancing dust particles. In the distance, faintly, he could see the silhouette of a majestic tower soaring through the clouds.
Aurelias. The Kingdom where gold does not rust, but rots.
The man picked up his shovel again, gripping the rough wooden handle tightly. His name appeared in the corner of his vision, as if just decided by the universe.
[Host: Kaelen]
[Class: Grave Walker]
Kaelen began to climb.