Chapter 3

"What... what the hell are you..."

The man—John—choked out the words, voice trembling as if a hand were gripping his throat.

Silead didn’t respond. He continued to retch violently. His stomach had long since emptied, but his body convulsed on instinct, mouth filled with the taste of rust and blood.

And that knife—

Was still lodged in his skull.

At that moment, only one word surfaced in John’s mind:

Monster.

John stared at the figure kneeling amidst the corpses, his pupils shrinking, his face pale as wax paper, lips twitching uncontrollably.

He staggered backward, reaching for support. His foot caught on something, and he landed hard near the blood-soaked edge, his hand plunging into mangled flesh. He didn’t even notice.

Scrambling up, he didn’t dare make a sound. His footing slipped, and he all but crawled toward the foggy forest nearby.

A second later, he vanished into the shadows of the trees, leaving only the rustle of frantic footsteps and the tearing of cloth on branches...

No one knew how much time had passed.

Silead remained on his knees in the mound of corpses, trembling.

The blood had long since cooled. The bodies no longer radiated warmth. The world felt frozen, even the wind refusing to draw near.

Maybe he was tired.

Or maybe... he had adapted.

The coughing and dry heaving gradually subsided. His throat felt scraped raw, like sand had been poured down it.

And then, the ache in his skull hit him—a blunt, pulsing pain, like a hammer slamming the back of his head.

"...Ugh..."

He winced, instinctively raised his hand, and touched—

Not blood.

Not bone.

But the cold handle of a blade.

Silead froze, only now realizing what it was.

A knife.

Stuck in his head.

He gritted his teeth, panting, grasped the hilt, took a deep breath—and yanked.

Crack!

The blade came loose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across his face. His vision blacked out, nearly knocking him unconscious again.

But he didn’t fall.

He held on.

Sitting there, soaked in blood, clutching the gore-covered blade. His chest rose and fell like a beast’s—or a dying man’s.

The pain jolted his brain awake.

For the first time, Silead felt himself.

Not rage.

Not madness.

But the pain of being alive.

He looked down at his hands. Blood and shredded flesh clung to his fingers and knuckles.

"..."

He said nothing.

He tossed the dagger aside.

It landed with a muffled thud in the dirt, swallowed by the earth, leaving no echo behind.

He stood.

Slipped—but didn’t fall.

He caught himself, swaying, and took a slow, dragging step away from that place of blood and ruin.

Head low, gait unsteady, he left the village behind—until he heard the sound of running water.

Through a gap in the trees, a narrow river glided quietly, its water shallow and clear, gleaming faintly in the morning light. Pale, round stones lined the riverbed, as if carefully washed and arranged.

Silead stood at the edge and stared into the water.

For a long while.

Then he knelt.

His knees sank into the wet soil. The dried blood on his armor cracked and flaked off like shedding scabs.

He reached forward. The instant his fingers touched the water, a jolt of cold pierced into his bones, sharp as a blade.

But he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he plunged his arm deeper, cupped his hand, and splashed the icy water onto his face.

Ssshhhhh!

Blood and grime flowed down his cheeks, rippling the surface with scarlet rings—like wounds festering in the open.

He said nothing.

He scrubbed.

Again. And again.

Hands. Face. Neck. Even the gaps between his armor plates—blood, gore, filth—washed away, spinning in the current like the souls of the dead, clinging and unwilling to leave.

His head bowed, water dripping steadily from his brow, off his nose, down his chin, falling into the stream.

His expression didn’t change.

Cold. Like metal.

Only when the water cleared, when no more red marred the surface, did he stop.

He slumped against the bank.

Leaning back against a mossy tree, he tilted his head and exhaled.

A deep, foul, sticky breath that seemed to crawl out from the depths of his chest.

It stank of blood, of mud, of something unspeakable.

As if he had turned himself inside out.

He slid further down the trunk. His back pressed against the rough bark. He said nothing.

His mind was blank. A slurry of haze and noise. He felt like a piece of his heart had been carved out and left somewhere behind.

Finally, the wind returned.

It carried dampness from the stream and slowly blew away the lingering stink of death and despair.

Silead shuddered.

Was it from the cold?

Or had he finally stepped out of that frenzy?

A shadow passed overhead.

A raven landed on a branch in front of him, cocking its head, as if judging whether he was alive or already dead.

Silead slowly raised his right hand.

Pressed his fingers to his chest.

Cold and hard.

Still the same crimson armor.

He remembered trying to take it off—untying straps, forcing clasps, wrenching joints—all to no avail.

It wasn’t worn.

It had grown on him.

Like flesh.

He didn’t try again.

He just looked down.

And noticed something strange.

He remembered—

The shoulder guard had cracked in the village fight.

The helmet had been pierced by a dagger, the blade sinking into his skull.

His elbow had been smeared with blood and flesh and splinters of bone, like some creature crawled from a corpse pile.

But now—

The armor was pristine.

No cracks.

No blood.

The color even deeper than before, gleaming faintly like newly forged steel.

Silead raised his right hand and curled it into a fist.

Strength remained.

No, it had grown.

His fist made a dull, metallic sound—not one made by human bones.

The armor was responding.

No—it was growing.

Syncing. Repairing. Evolving.

He exhaled slowly. A soft breath, but it thumped against his ribs like a drum.

He didn’t need food.

Even the pain from his skull being split open was fading into numbness.

This body—

Was no longer human.

And the armor—

Was no longer just armor.

He sat there in silence.

The wind whispered through the trees, leaves rustling like hushed voices.

Thousands of unseen eyes seemed to whisper in the breeze.

Silead closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to hear.

Didn’t want to remember the faces under his feet.

But one truth remained clear:

He was still alive.

...

Silead returned to the village.

The soil beneath his feet was no longer soft.

Brown earth soaked with blood squelched underfoot like rotting meat.

The corpses he had torn, smashed, broken—still lay where they fell.

No one had touched them.

Flies buzzed in clouds. The air reeked of blood and decay.

He didn’t look back. He walked past twisted bodies and entered empty houses.

Took whatever he found.

Silver coins. A cloak. Flatbread. Tonic. Herbs. A dagger. Tinder. Even half a chicken leg in a bowl.

Everything.

Until he reached the easternmost house.

He stopped in front of the dead fireplace.

Because he saw something.

A sword.

The very same one the knight had driven through his chest, failing to kill him.

It now leaned quietly by the hearth, half-covered by firewood.

The sword had returned.

Silead walked over, crouched, and drew the blade free, shaking off dust.

The cold iron touched his fingers.

No flourish. No test swing.

He simply strapped it to his belt.

Then turned.

And left the house.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t know where he was going.

Only that he had to leave.

Somewhere—anywhere—with people.

A town. A village. A hunting camp.

He needed information.

About this world.

He fled the village with no direction.

...

Not long after Silead left, the sound of hooves echoed from the forest’s edge.

The clinking of armor grew louder. A rider halted at the village gate.

Clad in silver and white plate, the knight dismounted. Eyes behind his visor lingered, frozen.

Soldiers followed.

First with frowns.

Then pale-faced silence.

"This wasn’t done by bandits," one whispered.

"Looks like a monster attack," another added. "These wounds... no ordinary weapon could do this. The villagers never stood a chance."

The knight knelt by a corpse. His cloak flapped in the wind.

He was silent for a long time.

Then stood.

His voice low.

"We’re not investigating. Withdraw. Report to the lord. This... isn’t something we can handle."

No one objected.

Weapons sheathed. Boots back in stirrups.

Moments later, the village returned to silence.

The wind swept through the empty paths, lifting bloodstained mats and faint traces of the smell of death.

And Silead—

Knew none of it.

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