He tilted his head back, staring at the grey sky above the alley, blinking against the blur in his vision.
Still, he forced himself up.
His body screamed in protest, but he walked. One step. Then another.
He wandered through the outskirts of the village, away from the noise and crowds. A grassy hill rose behind the northern stables, and he climbed it slowly, lungs burning. At the top, the village spread out below—roofs like jagged teeth, smoke curling from chimneys. Children played in the fields, laughter riding the wind.
He sat there for a while, staring.
"I'm not giving up," he whispered.
He didn't know who he was talking to. The sky? The system? Himself?
Maybe all of them.
His hands, dirty and shaking, curled into fists.
He wouldn't survive this trial by strength. Or charm. Or cleverness.
But maybe… maybe by sheer stubbornness.
The wind picked up again. It smelled like rain this time.
Caius closed his eyes.
With no money in this world, no identity or papers, Caius had tried to find work. He offered to carry crates for shopkeepers, chop wood for innkeepers, even clean stalls for stablehands. But every request was met with smiles and polite rejections. "Sorry, lad, already hired someone," they'd say. Or worse: "You're not from around here, are you?"
The fruit vendor who had once smiled so warmly at the crowd now narrowed her eyes at him when he lingered too long near her stall. The illusion, it seemed, could reject him too.
By the third day, he was sleeping in alleyways.
The cobblestones grew colder each night. His cloak—thin and worn—offered little protection from the chill. He had found a spot behind a baker's shop, tucked beneath an old crate where the scent of yeast and burnt crust lingered in the air. It teased his senses, awakened a hunger that became all-consuming.
He tried to beg. Hands outstretched, he whispered for help, pleaded with passersby. But they walked past him, their faces too perfect, too calm. One man placed a coin in his palm—only for it to vanish seconds later, dissolving into mist.
He began to understand. The simulation didn't want him to succeed that way.
On the fourth day, Caius felt his strength start to slip.
His limbs ached with a weariness that sleep no longer cured. His stomach churned constantly, cramping and growling until it became a background noise. The world felt heavier, colors slightly duller, sounds distant. Each step took effort. The cobblestones seemed to stretch endlessly.
Worse, the other beggars—constructs or not—had begun to bully him. They jeered when he approached their spots. One of them, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and ragged breath, shoved him to the ground and kicked dirt at his face.
"New blood doesn't eat until we say so," he hissed.
Caius didn't retaliate. He didn't have the strength.
On the fifth day, he cried for the first time in years.
Crouched behind a closed bakery, he curled into himself, clutching his sides as hunger gnawed at him like a beast. His tears were hot and silent, falling onto stone that didn't care. His vision blurred. He called out to anyone—any god, any power, any presence that could end this.
But there was no answer.
That night, he begged. Not for coins. Not for shelter. Just for food.
He staggered into the marketplace near closing time. "Please," he rasped. "Just a bite. Anything."
A woman recoiled. A man turned away. The fruit vendor, in her perfect rhythm, offered him a pitying glance—and nothing more.
He collapsed near the fountain and slept with an empty belly.
Day six arrived with agony.
His ribs stood out beneath his skin. His fingers trembled constantly. His thoughts drifted like leaves on wind, unfocused and dull. He forgot where he was going halfway through walking. Words took longer to form. The sounds around him were muffled.
When he saw the trash bin behind the food stall, he didn't hesitate.
He dove for it, claws digging into rotten vegetables and scraps of meat. He tore into moldy bread, not caring about the taste or the smell. A slice of half-eaten cheese slid down his throat, and he cried again—not from shame, but relief.
For a few moments, his body rejoiced. It had something to burn.
But the moment passed quickly, replaced with nausea and cramps that twisted his gut. He vomited beside the alley wall and collapsed, shaking.
Still, it was better than nothing.
On the seventh and eighth days, he stopped trying to speak. Words cost too much energy. He shuffled along the streets, head down, hoping to remain invisible. Children pointed. Adults whispered. He might've once cared. Now, he simply endured.
Everything blurred into a haze of stone, hunger, and ache.
His dreams became vivid and terrifying. Memories of home, of battles, of his mother's stern gaze and Lilia's smile all mixed with hallucinations—whispers in the shadows, hands reaching from the stone, voices telling him to give up.
He screamed into the night and was met with silence.
On the ninth day, Caius woke and couldn't feel his legs.
They were there. But he couldn't stand. His limbs trembled violently when he tried to rise. His breath rattled in his chest. He dragged himself to the square, hoping… for something.
The world was still beautiful.
Children laughed near the fountain. A couple kissed by the bakery. Birds chirped atop flower-laden balconies.
Caius, lying in filth, watched them with empty eyes.
A final message blinked into view:
Alone.
Hungry.
Afraid.
then he died
[Trial Failed]
Cause: Starvation
Time of Death: Day 9
The world flickered—then reset.
And Caius awoke again.
Day 1.
But with the memory of death fresh in his mind.