In the morning, Stick still sat by the makeshift grave, his arms wrapped around his knees. They had buried Shadis at the foot of a hill’s slope, near the lone tree that stood watch over the barren land. Beyond the tree, the horizon was severed by the dense wall of the Whispering Woods. We came from the northeast into the Goblin Steppes. Half a day’s hike.

  That’s how he’d remember. When all of this was over, when he had the power to make things right, he would return. He would give his friend a proper burial. The sun hid behind an impenetrable sheet of gray, a thick, heavy sky pressing down on the world like a lid on a coffin. He was exhausted, but sleep refused him. Yet another sleepless night.

  They seemed to be piling up recently. It had been like this for days now—his body pleading for rest, his mind clawing through memories, replaying the same horrors over and over. He tried to count: One night of preparing the escape, two nights on the road, one night in the dungeon, one night in the officer’s house, and then… yesterday. Six nights. Seven days. Yes, this truly is the worst week of my life. Or at least the life I remember since arriving.

  A red glint caught his eye. Stick shifted stiffly, his joints aching, his limbs sluggish from the cold. A drop of blood darkened the ground beside him. Slowly, he turned his hand over, staring at his palm. His skin was cracked from the frigid air, thin lines of crimson pooling in the fissures before spilling over his fingers. He curled them, watching the blood smear across his skin. Oh, my Protection must be down.

  A slow breath escaped his lips, turning to mist in the cold air. He opened his Status. His [Life Points] had hit zero. But another number made his stomach twist. [LVL] 1. Still.

  After everything—the fighting, the blood, the loss—nothing had changed. This is what it amounted to?

  He glanced over to his [Class]. [Unbound]. What a joke.

  His gaze drifted back to Shadis’ grave. A thin layer of snow had already gathered on the stones they had placed. So many strong fighters had been left behind, people who could have escaped instead of him. People who could have actually fought back against Carnifex. And yet, it was him who had survived. A [LVL] 1 fool.

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  Footsteps crunched through the snow.

  “We’re ready to go.” Nakamura’s voice was softer than usual.

  Stick didn’t respond.

  “Hey. Didn’t you hear me?”

  Still, he didn’t move.

  A sigh. Then the sound of shifting fabric as Nakamura stepped closer.

  “I know you’re grieving,” he said carefully. “But we really have to go.”

  Stick’s fingers dug into his knees. His voice came out flat. “Don’t worry. He was just a bot.”

  Nakamura hesitated. Then he exhaled sharply and kicked at the snow. His next words were quieter. “Listen… I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I understand that he meant a lot to you.”

  For a long moment, Stick didn’t speak. He just breathed, watching the mist form and disappear in the cold air. Then, finally, he turned to Nakamura, looking him in the eyes. His next words tasted bitter. He struggled to fully accept them himself.

  “I can’t blame you for growing up inside Carnifex.”

  Nakamura took a minute to scan Stick. He was processing. Then, his shoulders loosened slightly. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended a hand. Stick hesitated himself before taking it, but let Nakamura pull him to his feet. As soon as he was up, Nakamura’s gaze snapped to Stick’s bloody hand.

  His brows pulled together in irritation. “What the hell are you doing?”

  A half-filled flask of red liquid appeared in Nakamura’s grip. He held it out. “You can’t sit around with zero LP. That’s way too dangerous. What if a goblin attacked you? Are you stupid?”

  Stick ignored the jab and took the flask, tilting it to his lips. The potion was sharp, metallic, and bitter. When he lowered it, he glanced at his hand again. The cracks in his skin remained, blood still seeping slowly. His stomach clenched. This is different from Reacher’s magic.

  A thought bloomed in his mind. He turned the flask over in his hand, his grip tightening.

  He looked at Nakamura. “Did you try giving this to Shadis?”

  “I did,” Nakamura said. “But I’m a Duelist. I can’t cast Heal Wounds.”

  Stick looked at him, puzzled.

  Nakamura’s expression darkened. “Potions aren’t magic. Only a Paladin or a Healer could have saved him.”

  Stick stared at him, then at the potion. His fingers clenched around the flask, his nails pressing into the glass. He exhaled sharply and looked back at the grave. So that was it. Another game rule he didn’t understand. Not yet.

  A gust of wind swept across the hill, sending a flurry of snow swirling between them. In the distance, the Whispering Woods loomed, their branches shifting like shadows. A realization settled in his chest like a stone dropping into water. A shift, deep inside him. Slowly, he turned back to Nakamura. His breath was steady despite the cold.

  “Nakamura,” he said, voice firm. “I’m not going west.”

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