Ren leaned heavily against the stone wall, his body trembling from the aftermath of the fight. His fingers brushed against the raw gashes in his sides, the places where the corpse had raked deep. His breath came in shallow, rasping gasps, the air feeling too thin for his lungs. He tilted his head back, eyes flickering to the crumbling ceiling above him.
Then—his body was repairing itself, bone and muscle knitting back together.
Ren exhaled sharply. "So...it's doing this again." His body burned with pain.
The gouges in his wrists. The gashes in his sides. Both were now completely gone.
When the healing process finished, he looked at the ruin around him, the broken walls, the fragments of something long lost.
"If this place wanted me dead. It would have done it already."
And that's when he remembered the words whispered to him.
"You'll end up just like it anyway..."
He remembered.
The corpse.
The one he had fought—the one he had torn apart. It had been relentless. It had been dead. Yet, it kept coming. It didn't stop, didn't hesitate, and its eyes…the emptiness in them.
Ren realized. "No...this place wants me to suffer." His voice cracked, the bitterness in it noticeable. "It wants me alive...To keep me moving, keep running...just long enough that my blood runs dry."
He straightened with a groan, pushing himself up from the wall. And as he looked at the shadows of the ruin around him, he whispered to himself.
"You're not getting rid of me. Not yet."
His fingers curled into fists. He couldn't keep doing this. Running, panicking, barely surviving—if he wanted to make it out of this place, he had to fight back.
"If I can keep healing...then no matter how much it hurts, I'll keep fighting. I don't care. I'll keep fighting...I've got nothing else, nothing to lose."
Ren went on a search. He needed to find something—anything—that would help him survive this. A weapon, supplies, shelter, something.
He passed through what looked like a collapsed structure, pieces of crumbled stone, and remnants of old furnishings half-buried under debris. His eyes flickered over every scrap of material that might be useful—shards of glass, bits of rusted metal—but nothing stood out.
He pressed through the structure, and that's when he found it. A narrow passageway hidden behind a fallen stone wall and overgrown with creeping vines.
Ren hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the entryway.
But he stepped forward, the thought of what might be waiting beyond keeping him going.
The room beyond was barely lit, but Ren's eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom.
It was a storage room, though barely recognizable under layers of dirt and neglect. Shelves that once held supplies were now shattered, what had once been useful scattered across the floor broken. Yet, among the wreckage, there was something useful.
His eyes locked onto a collection of rusted weapons and battered armor. Some of the weapons were broken beyond repair, their blades too chipped to be of any use. But one caught his eye—a dagger, its blade rusted but still had potential. It was missing its handle, the tang exposed and weathered by time.
He grabbed the dagger and tore at his cloak, ripping a strip of fabric free. With care, he wrapped it around the tang, binding it tightly to form a makeshift grip. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing.
"This'll have to do," Ren muttered, testing the weight of the blade in his hand.
He needed something to defend himself.
The corpse. The wolves.
He couldn't face them unarmed. Not again.
Ren's eyes shifted to a nearby pile of shattered armor—rusted and broken. Kneeling down, he ran his fingers through the wreckage, trying to find anything worth taking. Among the worn-down metal, he spotted a small piece of rusted chest plate that was only slightly cracked.
Ren sent a glance around the room to assure he was still alone. He wasn't about to risk an ambush while unarmed. Setting the dagger down, he tore another strip from his cloak and began to strap the broken chest plate onto his left shoulder. The metal was uneven, but it was solid enough to offer some protection.
But as he finished adjusting the armor, something shifted in the air—an ominous feeling.
He slowly turned his head toward the far corner of the room. A low groan filled the silence.
Another corpse was rising from the wreckage of shattered armor. Its bones groaned under the weight of the old, broken metal that clung to its decaying frame. Its movements were jerky, like a puppet with its strings pulled too tightly. With a sickening creak, it staggered to its feet, its hands reaching for the abandoned weapon at its side. The creature's skeletal fingers wrapped around a broken sword hilt—useless, but still a weapon in its dead hands.
Ren took a step back, tightening his grip as he picked his dagger up.
The corpse swayed for a moment, almost as if testing its new form
"Should I run?! Would it catch me like the last one?! No...I need to fight back." Ren's eyes narrowed on the corpse. "Right here, I need to fight!"
He had to act. He had to move first—before it got too close. His mind screamed for action, sending the command to his legs, to his arms, to his feet.
But nothing happened.
Ren's body refused to obey. He felt frozen, as if the cold of the ruin had seeped deep into his bones, locking him in place. His hand trembled around the dagger's handle, but it wouldn't rise. His feet wouldn't lift. His limbs were heavy.
His heart pounded. He had to move.
"Move, move!" The command rang through his mind, louder now, more desperate.
But his body still didn't respond.
Panic crept up his spine. He could see the corpse drawing closer, sending a hollow screech through the silence of the room.
"Do something! Move! Come on, move!"
The corpse raised its sword high.
"No..."
The weapon shot forward, the rusted blade driving straight through his chest.