The End of Suffering, or the Beginning of Another?

I hate noises—they never stop. Never.

Smack! Smack! Crack!

“My turn”

“...”

Smack! Smack! Thud, Thump! Crack!

The sound of blows echoed through the cramped room, each impact followed by a muffled groan. The stench of blood mixed with mold and the ingrained sweat of that filthy place.

Unbearable pain flared through his jaw. Every movement fought him, and even drawing breath forced a groan past his teeth.

He thought the place was strange. For a moment, the pain in his head made him forget everything—everything red and blurred.

Ah. Right. It’s my own blood.

"Still not going to talk?" one of the officers growled—the big one—shaking his aching hand after a few minutes of punching.

The young man slumped in the chair, his face swollen and covered in bruises. His eyes tried to focus, but his eyelids were heavy. He didn't know why he was there. He couldn't remember anything that justified such brutality.

The interrogation room light flickered dimly, casting shadows across the peeling walls. The young man had been there for over an hour, handcuffed to the chair, with blood streaming down his entire face. One of the officers was wiping his hands with a cloth, as if he’d been handling grease—but it was blood.

SLAP!

His head snapped to the side, cheek burning

"Are you going to talk, or are you going to keep playing the innocent act?" the smaller cop asked, after kicking the chair.

The young man tried to lift his head. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. He spat some blood onto the floor before answering in a weak voice:

"I didn't do anything. You know that..."

SLAP! Smack!

The reply came with a sharp, heavy slap, followed by a kick to the shin.

"The girl identified you. She said you broke into her house, took cash, jewelry, and a paper with her crypto passwords. You even threatened her. Do I need to spell it out for you? Just confess already."

He knew the whole thing… all lies. His ex-girlfriend couldn't accept the breakup, and her brother had connections. They'd bought his punishment—and these two cops just delivered the product. The complaint existed only to justify what they'd already decided: he'd pay.

"This… a setup... you're playing their game... the truth will come out eventually..." he whispered, breath barely there.

The officers exchanged glances. One laughed.

The biggest officer grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up, forcing eye contact.

"Setup? You're in a police station, kid. Here, we give the orders, and whoever has friends, money—well, that doesn't concern you. Don't even know why I'm explaining anything to an orphan. Go ahead, file a complaint. See what happens. We're the ones who check complaints anyway."

The officer raised his fist and grinned.

"And today... well... the cameras malfunctioned. Old equipment, you know."

Smack!

The beating continued for several more minutes, until darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. His limbs stopped responding. The world tilted, sounds muffled and distant, and consciousness slipped through his fingers like sand.

"Ah, maybe we overdid it." The biggest officer chuckled, then his expression shifted. "He's nearly out," he muttered, kicking the chair leg to straighten it.

"Better talk, kid. An 'accident' might happen..." The voice carried hollow menace, each word deliberate.

THUD!

He couldn’t respond. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he couldn’t. Pain ripped through him. The world spun.

A muffled curse. Then a solid hit to his chest. Something inside him snapped.

“Ugh…”

Great… getting beaten in an interrogation chair. For… whatever I even did…

With what little strength remained, he lifted his head. In the wall

The clock… 11:1—

Outside.

Through the small window near the ceiling, moonlight spilled in—pale and distant.

A Raven perched on a branch outside, cocking its head side to side, black eyes fixed on the scene inside.

Watching

At least there's a witness…

They hit his head so hard he forgot why they'd even dragged him here.

All that remained… one thought.

Life—total garbage.

A few fleeting moments flashed through the haze—escaping into brutally hard RPGs, losing himself in fully immersive VR games, forgetting reality for a while.

Those moments. That's all he had.

He didn't feel fear. Just relief. Death crept closer, and honestly, life held nothing worth clinging to anyway.

Finally… it's over. I hope someone beyond the Raven notices this injustice…

His face—beaten beyond recognition. He hadn't started handsome. His father drank until violence spilled out. His mother turned her face away every time fists flew. Life had softened him in all the wrong ways—weak jaw, round cheeks, forgettable features. Now, pulped meat and split skin erased even that.

Sometime later, he became an orphan. Abusive parents or no parents at all—he never decided which are worse

The only thing anyone ever noticed: his resilience.

Most people would've died—or shattered—after a fraction of what he'd survived.

His vision went black. Finally. Sleep.

Voices carried through the darkness.

"You killed him! We were only supposed to soften him up—look at your hand! You blew it! We don't get paid for corpses!" The timid younger cop's voice cracked, panic bleeding through.

"Shut up." The other cop clutched his broken hand, knuckles already swelling purple. "We dump the body, say he attacked us, claim self-defense. Strict performance of legal duty... or whatever the lawyers call it."

Said the big, bald one—the cop who’d hit him the hardest.

The timid cop groaned. "We're screwed. Twice this month already. She paid us to cripple him, not kill him! If anyone finds out—" He pressed both bloodied hands to his head, smearing red across his temples.

"Quiet." The big bald cop's voice dropped low, dangerous. "Move. Now!".

The argument faded. Footsteps retreated.

Darkness swallowed everything.

His body crumpled on the cold floor, abandoned.

Outside, the Raven tilted its head, black eyes fixed on the crumpled body.

Still watching.

***

The next day, the local paper ran a report.

GREENFIELD GAZETTE - WEEKLY EDITION

Local Man Dies in Police Custody; Authorities Claim Self-Defense

A 22-year-old man died Tuesday morning at the central precinct following what officials describe as "violent resistance during interrogation."

According to the official report, the deceased allegedly attacked officers during questioning, forcing a response that resulted in his death. Authorities maintain the use of force fell within legal parameters of self-defense.

The incident remains under internal review.

State Police released a statement: the deceased "charged officers with extreme aggression," and the force applied proved "necessary to contain the imminent threat." Two officers reportedly sustained minor hand injuries while "blocking his blows".

An internal medical report notes toxicology tests pending "to verify possible chemical use"—though no evidence currently supports this claim. Critics suggest the measure exists solely to reinforce a narrative of instability.

The deceased leaves no immediate family. Following administrative orders, the body will undergo cremation without ceremony or public viewing once paperwork clears. Police maintain "custody procedures followed protocol" but declined further comment.

The man faced detention on suspicion of theft and breaking and entering. Officials allege he invaded his ex-girlfriend's residence, stole money, and threatened her family.

Sources close to the investigation describe his history as marked by "aggressive behavior" and potential ties to "high-risk elements" in his neighborhood.

Old social media photos showing hand gestures surfaced as supposed evidence of his "violent profile."

Now, we go to our beloved field reporter, the famous White Hair.

"Hello everyone, White Hair here. From what I've uncovered, the deceased lived as an orphan since age 11—no close family, no support network. In his absence, attention shifted to his ex-girlfriend, who appeared before cameras tearful and shaken. Let's hear from her."

"Miss, could you tell us about the incident?"

"I just wanted peace... just wanted to feel safe. He went crazy." Her voice trembled. Her brother stepped in, pulling her close, guiding her past the microphones.

"She can't handle this right now. Traumatized. He grew aggressive, unstable—she feared for her life. She just wants to move forward." The brother's tone shut down further questions.

White Hair turned back to the camera.

"The officers involved remain on active duty. No independent investigation announced."

A group lingered near the woman. White Hair approached.

"What do you think about this case?"

"Serves him right! Who does he think he is, acting tough with cops? Good riddance. Criminal scum."

"Exactly," another voice chimed in. "He got what he deserved. Nobody mourns a criminal like that."

White Hair said nothing. The camera lingered on him—just long enough to catch the crowd's laughter in the background.

Then the feed cut.

***

He drifted into darkness.

Finally… free… wait. Am I dead? Why am I thinking? Doesn’t make sense…

He blinked.

Cold.

His back pressed into something wet.

He blinked again.

Trees.

Too close. Too dark.

His lungs burned.

He sucked air and coughed.

Rot. Soil. Leaves.

He tried to move.

Pain answered.

Light washed over his chest.

Warm. Steady.

Then…

“Hey… you’re finally awake.”

The voice of a women.

Too calm.

“Don’t move yet.”

Hands hovered above him, glowing gold.

The pain retreated. Slowly.

“…Hospital?” he said

“No.”

He stared past her.

No walls.

No ceiling.

Dry trees.

the same Raven in the—

Wait what?

Watching.

Then gone

…

He looked again to where he appeared

A shiver shot down his spine

Calm down, Karl. Too early to jump to conclusions. This kind of place shows up in every game or series anyway.

Great. Just great. No… I must think positively about this...

Then he turned his head, muscles protesting.

She was still doing the same stuff motionless, like a statue.

Kneeling at his side, legs folded beneath her, perfectly still. Golden light continued to flow from her hands, draping his body like a warm mantle. The pain was rapidly leaving

His vision had cleared enough to really see her now.

Those eyes watched him in silence.

Gold—deep and heavy, like sunlight trapped in molten metal. He lingered on them longer than he meant to. Eyes unlike any he'd encountered before. Beautiful, yes, but distant. A calm so complete it swallowed every hint of emotion.

She wore a white robe that wrapped around her frame, silver trim catching the glow, pale sky-blue patterns stitched into the fabric with precision.

A Moon symbol rested diagonally against her chest, weighty with meaning he failed to grasp. Power coiled around her fingers, subtle and controlled, the light bending to her will.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Whatever she was doing, it worked—and that realization unsettled him far more than the pain ever had.

This is an isekai. Has to be… the pain from my head… everywhere. Too real for a dream. Way too real.

“Don’t move… not yet,” she said, her voice low—steady, yet gentle. “Your bones were… broken. Most of them.”

He stayed in roughly the same position for almost 11 minutes after being dropped there, while she healed him

He looked at the place again

Could’ve been a farm, a quiet village… slice-of-life stuff. But no. Only one life. And if this is anything like the games I used to play—yeah, I’m screwed.

He scanned his surroundings again, desperate for some fantasy paradise—meadows, castles, maybe a cheerful village.

Instead, twisted trees clawed at perpetual twilight. Fog coiled between gnarled roots. The air tasted of rust and rot.

Then he looked at her

Please, don’t be… a hardcore RPG… I need to confirm

"You're... a cleric?" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

She glanced down at him, hands still glowing with golden light. "I am. Order of the Crescent Moon." Her fingers traced another pattern over his ribs, of a moon, then a soft silver light, and the pain dulled further.

Great, just great

The scenery gnawed at his memory. Those specific dry trees, the way the mist coiled, the oppressive atmosphere... and the name of that Order.

Wait… the name

Just like—The Last Days of Men.

The Dark Fantasy RPG that devoured his childhood weekends and spat them back out as pure frustration.

The roguelike that sent grown men crying to forums. The game—so brutally difficult, so catastrophically buggy—even he’d rage-quit halfway through.

The tutorial alone—marketed as "campaign mode"—played like a Souls game with a five-person party: player controlling the hero, AI commanding four classic NPCs through brutal encounters.

Campaign mode, set 11 years before the main MMO timeline, dropped players into endless conflicts with one ironclad rule: die, retry, die again.

Most sections chewed through 11 deaths per attempt—sometimes more if bugs decided to join the party.

After surviving that gauntlet of “tutorial hell,” players earned the right to show off the Tutorial Completed emote in online mode.

Most players skipped it—rushed to character creation… then, hours later, jumped straight into online mode.

Every choice carried weight. Pick the Remnants? Instant enemies across every major faction. Choose Undying? Half the world hunts you on sight. Any alliance between themselves could shatter. No safe zones. Constant invasions. Pure chaos.

Of all the games... He rolled his eyes

Couldn't isekai into a farming sim, with a tomato farm. A slice-of-life adventure. Something with, I don't know, survival rates above one percent?

Denial. Reality refused to sink in

The hero of that game—along with his entire party—died constantly. Overpowered enemies crushed them.

Buggy evasion triggered phantom deaths. Floors gave way without warning. Terrain traps swallowed characters whole in dungeons, leaving them to starve till death without hope.

The online mode's roguelike elements? Tolerable. Other players dragged you through the worst encounters.

But solo? In the tutorial?

He'd never finished it. Too young, too frustrated, too busy with life's demands, and then the problems came eventually pulling him away from gaming entirely.

If this really is The Last Days of Men... He touched his forehead

The fog thickened around him, and somewhere in the distance, something howled.

"Er... did you arrive with… the mercenary group?"

She broke the silence. Her brow tightened with concern.

He'd stared at nothing for the past minute, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open.

He blinked.

"What?"

When he looked at her again

Yeah—I'm not alone in this game. I need a party.

"Your clothes..." She pressed a finger to her lips, eyes distant. "They look nothing like... what the soldiers wore... the ones who entered the dungeon with us... before the teleport trap... activated."

Her gaze snapped back to him, sharpening. "I don't recall... seeing you among the combatants. Did you travel... with the separated group?"

She spoke slowly, those deliberate pauses fragmenting every sentence. Something in that rhythm tugged at his memory—familiar, maddeningly close—but the connection slipped away before he grasped it.

He'd heard this voice before. That exact manner of speaking.

This woman. Familiar—but I couldn’t remember exactly who

From what little he'd analyzed of the scenery, he stood in that game without a doubt—or something eerily similar.

The pain carving through him cut too real for any dream, and when you're awake, you know you're not dreaming. He knew this bone-deep.

She watched him, waiting for an answer.

I can’t just tell her I came from another world.

Guess I’ll cook something.

So, he answered—or tried to, when something emerged from behind the dry bushes with a human arm in its mouth.