‎That thought echoed, not with bitterness, but with the dull finality of someone who'd repeated it too many times to cry over it.

‎

He blinked slowly, his vision blurring at the edges.

‎'Unlucky. Always unlucky.'

He laughed, dry and empty.

"God d*mn it...."

'Every friend I've had? Dead. Every team I joined? Wiped out. Every single person I cared about? Buried.'

Their faces floated behind his eyes. Faces he'd sworn he'd protect. Names he couldn't say out loud anymore because they hurt too much to speak.

He pressed a palm to his temple, like he could hold the memories in place without them splitting him open. "I should've died with them."

‎'But I hadn't.'

He wasn't special. Wasn't chosen. Wasn't strong. The System picked him like a dog picked a toy. Not because it was useful, but because it squealed the loudest when broken.

His voice cracked through the pain, ragged and bitter. "Go on then. Kill me. I dare you. I f**king dare you. Come on—do it. Get on with it, you coward!"

But the System said nothing. Not yet.

The cruel, calculating machine that turned every mission into a test and every kill into currency. Only the strongest reached 1000 Points. And only then could they choose:

A dull buzz scraped at his thoughts like sandpaper to the skull. He just wanted quiet. To disappear. But the world refused to let him have that mercy. All he could hear was wind slipping through broken windows and a siren wailing far off, in some part of the city that still pretended to be alive.

He felt something warm spill from the corner of his eye. Not a tear. Blood, again. His body was giving up faster than his mind.

"I won't play your game," he rasped, "I won't kill for you. I won't fight!"

'They said endure. Keep pushing. And for what? To kill and climb and crawl through blood for a 'chance' at being free?'

A bitter laugh tore from his throat. "Free… There's no such thing."

He sagged lower, his breath hitching.

‎

‎ Just let me die. . .

‎

‎Then—

‎

A chime alerted him. It was silent, but certain like a bell ringing inside his mind, though no sound came.

His head jerked up.

Glowing yellow letters began appearing again into existence before his eyes. It was unmistakably not of this world.

He blinked once. Twice.

Still there.

Like ghosts that refused to leave, the letters hovered, suspended in his vision. Only this time, they weren't hallucinations. They hadn't faded like the faces of everyone he'd ever failed to save.

His breath caught. The air felt strange, buzzing in his ears. He lifted a cracked, bleeding finger, almost expecting it all to disappear.

The menu obeyed.

Tti-ring!

A crisp chime echoed in his head.

He stared at the options, his heart pounding. The world felt off-balance now. Still, a quiet part of him deep down understood.

With a trembling hand, he tapped Profile.

The screen shifted instantly:

‎ 

‎

‎It was strange—unsettling, even. But he played along.

‎

Curiosity, that old flickering flame, urged him forward.

He scanned the profile again, his eyes lingering on the redacted segments, their secrets sealed away. Perhaps it was because he was only Level 1. Or perhaps... something else was hiding beneath the system's surface. Still, what little it offered was enough to ignite a quiet fascination.

He noted the odd perk—Reaper's Bloom.

A literal flower beside death? He wondered. Or was it a warning masked in poetry?

This was his stat window. Plain, but essential. It laid out the bare bones of who he was, like the starting character of an old online game he hadn't touched in years.

He squinted at the perk next, curiosity burning through the fog of pain. With a small thought, the name expanded with a faint glow:

"Please," he thought. "Just give me something. Anything. A spark. A weapon. A way out."

Then...

His lips parted slightly.

"...What the hell is this?" he whispered to no one.

No answer came. Just the gentle pulse of golden letters, patiently waiting.

That was it.

His grand "gift."

His "miracle." His ticket back from the dead… once.

A weak, bitter noise crawled up his throat. Something between a chuckle and a gag. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Disappointment settled like lead in his chest.

No spells. No strength. No tools. No allies. Just a resurrection timer. Like the System already expected him to fail. And because it sat under the passive column, it wasn't even something he could control. It would just… activate. After he died.

Of course.

He scrolled. Hoping. Praying for something else. Anything else.

Nothing.

‎0 Points. Bottom of the barrel. Unranked. Disposable.

‎

‎

‎That last word echoed.

‎

He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. Blood surfaced, only to hiss and the wounds close up as soon as it touched the cold air.

"Well… you've always been the bottom. Don't act surprised now."

The screen vanished on its own. His body slumped to the ground in defeat. The fire next to him, now mostly embers, struggled against the damp wind.

He leaned toward it, toward the flickering glow, desperate for heat, desperate for warmth. But even that betrayed him. In the shallow water at his feet, his reflection wavered: one eye swollen shut, the other wide with shock, one cheek ripped open, leaving bone exposed like a grinning skull.

Kael's expression crumpled into something unsightly.

"I look like the end of some bad joke," he mumbled, dejectedly. His fingers brushed against the exposed bone. It didn't hurt as much anymore.

The System wanted him to fight. To go out tomorrow; break bones, crush spirits. Kill. Complete the next mission. Earn points. Climb the ranks. Survive...

But he couldn't.

He wouldn't.

He refused.

There was his moral binding, his last shred of humanity that had held him back from completely turning into a monster.

If survival meant killing, total death and despair, turning into the very thing that took everyone from him… then he didn't want it.

And still—

The fire crackled.

The blood dripped.

The System waited.