Sometime later, a faint, searing pain in my throat dragged me back from the abyss. I awoke in the same ravaged house, the air thick with the stench of decay and something else… something organic and cloying. Rolling onto my side, I was immediately seized by a violent coughing attack, accompanied by globs of thick, warm blood that splattered onto the crumbling floor. Wiping my lips and dusting myself off, a wave of cautious dread washing over me, I slowly returned to the study. It was even more dilapidated than before. A significant portion of the roof had collapsed, along with many of the walls, exposing the skeletal remains of my home to the elements. Where my living room once stood, now lay a massive, grotesque nest, cradling four crimson-red eggs, each the size of a basketball, pulsating with an eerie, unholy glow.
Finally, in the study, I found that damned beast, lifeless at last, bleeding from its partially severed head, a testament to my desperate struggle. It was then, and only then, that the crushing weight of terror lifted, replaced by a profound sense of exhaustion and relief. I walked over, my legs heavy, to retrieve my sword.
"Oh?" I thought, a flicker of surprise cutting through my weary mind. "That's strange. It's as sharp as the night I left it." I held the blade, examining it with a keen, almost disbelieving eye. But that couldn't be right. As I tightened my grip, the handle, once solid and comforting, began to crumble in my hand, dissolving into dust.
Ting! The sound was a sharp, metallic chime, echoing in the silence, a final, unsettling note in this symphony of chaos and decay.
The sudden clang of the pommel ring hitting the crumbling floor jolted me, snapping my mind back to the dire reality of my situation. It was a single, piercing sound in a world otherwise eerily silent. My eyes fixated on the dismembered sword, the blade and the separated ring pommel lying starkly on the ground. A chilling realization struck me: they were crafted from the same mysterious, resilient material, unlike the wooden hilt, which had succumbed to the relentless march of time and the hungry maw of termites, much like my beloved piano, now a skeletal relic of a bygone era. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I shoved it down. I had to think, and think fast. Survival demanded it.
My mind raced through a list of immediate necessities. "Food," I mumbled to myself, the word a desperate prayer. "Four bird eggs in the nest, and the bird beast itself." The image of its immense size, as large as a man, loomed in my mind, a formidable adversary but also a potential lifeline. "I also need water. To do that, I have to go outside." The thought of venturing into the unknown, into a world where only the whispers of nature could be heard, sent a shiver down my spine. The world was silent, unnervingly so, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the life I remembered.
"Fixing the sword is primary," I decided, the broken weapon a symbol of my vulnerability. "Bird bone. Alright, what next? The nest." A flicker of hope ignited within me. Birds, I recalled, meticulously gathered materials from their surroundings to construct their homes. Considering the sheer size of this particular bird beast, its nest might hold something useful, something durable enough to aid in repairing my broken sword. "When everything is set, I need to figure out when I am and how I'm here." The existential questions were profound, but they had to wait.
There was no time for philosophical musings, no luxury to waste on unraveling the mysteries of my displacement. Survival was paramount, the most basic instinct guiding my every action. I started with the bird beast, a gruesome but necessary task. I tore into it, my hands, surprisingly steady, working with a primal efficiency. Beneath its thick plumage, I discovered a surprisingly resilient hide, a testament to the creature's formidable nature. I meticulously salvaged everything useful – the meat, the bones, the hide – discarding the rest without a second glance. The bird hide, surprisingly supple, became an impromptu cover for the raw meat, protecting it from whatever unseen elements might lurk in this desolate world. With a desperate ingenuity born of necessity, I jammed the broken sword into one of the bird's talons, a crude but immediate fix, a promise of future repair. Time was of the essence, ticking away with every beat of my hammering heart.
Leaving the apartment, I didn't bother with the skeletal remains of the staircase, long since devoured by time and the elements. Instead, I dropped from the second floor, a practiced movement born of a hidden agility I hadn't known I possessed. It was a mixed blessing, this utter desolation. While no one could simply stroll into my home, with its gaping doorways, shattered windows, and absent roof, the same applied to me. Of course, birds were the exception, these giant, monstrous birds that now ruled the skies.
Back on solid ground, the world revealed itself in its raw, unforgiving truth, and I knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that I was irrevocably fucked. Nature had relentlessly reclaimed its dominion, swallowing entire structures, turning once-vibrant landscapes into forgotten ruins. The apartment complex, once a bustling hub of human life, was now a desolate skeleton, its concrete bones picked clean. Scattered about were the macabre remains of both man and beast, stark reminders of a cataclysm that had swept through this land. A war, I concluded, a devastating conflict that had reduced everything to rubble.
Looking up at the sky, I felt a strange sense of awe. It was as if the world had undergone a profound reset. The air, despite the stench of death that permeated the ground, was remarkably fresh, clean, invigorating. The sky was an impossibly clear expanse of deep blue, and the stars, even in the encroaching dawn, shone with an intensity I had never witnessed before, a dazzling display that hinted at a pristine universe untainted by human light pollution.
"This has to be a parallel dimension or the future," I murmured, the words barely a whisper. "But how far out?" The questions swirled in my mind, a dizzying maelstrom of uncertainty, but I forcefully shook them away. I couldn't afford to get lost in such abstractions.
I had to focus, to ground myself in the immediate. Stepping carefully, each movement deliberate, I began to walk towards the north side of the apartment complex, which bordered another similar structure. While it seemed like a dead end, a futile path into more ruins, it was, paradoxically, the most logical direction. My complex and those surrounding it had once been situated in a place called Boar Creek. Before humans, with their insatiable hunger for progress, had settled and transformed the natural creeks and rivers into valuable real estate, driving off the indigenous boar. Now, without human intervention, I strained my ears, listening intently, hoping to hear the unmistakable sound of water. Had the creek reclaimed its old territory, surging back to its original path, a testament to nature's enduring power to reclaim what was once its own? The answer, I knew, might hold a crucial clue to my survival.
The gurgle of running water, a comforting sound in the eerie silence, guided my path. I moved cautiously, using the natural cover of a dead end to survey my surroundings. Every corner, every shadowed crevice, was laid bare before me, leaving no room for unexpected threats. I followed the water's gentle murmur until it led me to the main street, where the creek, a familiar friend, reclaimed its place. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, a silent acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, things were beginning to turn around.
The subsequent two days were a whirlwind of activity, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of order from the chaos that had become my life. My home, a shell of its former self, slowly transformed under my relentless efforts, becoming somewhat livable once more. I reasoned, if the universe intended to send me back to the past, it would do so when it was ready. But if this was my new reality, I had to be prepared. The worst-case scenario, a recurring journey through time, demanded that I be equipped with knowledge and skills from the past to navigate the treacherous landscape of the future.
My once simple life was a distant memory, a casualty of the unforeseen. I felt the familiar weight of my soldier's past settling upon me, the years of fighting for another's profit, earning mere scraps, remaining utterly dispensable. It was a dreadful, undesirable regression, yet one I knew I had to embrace.
My early days in this new reality were a stark lesson in survival. I awoke with the sun, my body a disciplined instrument, subjected to rigorous exercise. The few pounds of civilian comfort I had accumulated were shed with brutal precision, without remorse. My sword, a familiar extension of my will, was my sole companion, my only weapon. The two disciplines I had mastered, Korean Sword and Filipino Martial Arts, became my focus, my anchors in this disorienting world. I immersed myself in their fluid movements, reacquainting myself with their lethal elegance. Mid-day brought a new set of challenges – exploring old, abandoned stores, scavenging for supplies, and, most critically, observing and understanding the ways of the new apex predators. It was during these forays that I began to piece together a rough timeline, an estimation of the era, based on the subtle, yet undeniable, signs of decay.
Decay was a perplexing enigma. The meat of the beast bird, a creature I had come to know all too well, displayed an odd resilience. After two days, there was no discernible sign of decomposition. The implications were vast, yet the duration of this unnatural preservation remained a mystery. I decided to gamble a day, a calculated risk. If my hypothesis proved correct, I could secure a stable food and water supply, while simultaneously narrowing down the time period.
My most pressing concern, however, was the unknown. How much time did I have left in the past to prepare for the inevitable end? What cataclysm had brought about the demise of the world I once knew? With the cold steel of my sword in hand, I pushed through the overgrown remnants of what was once a modern, civilized wilderness. My target: the chain liquor store across the street, a beacon of hope in the desolation, a veritable treasure trove of supplies that held almost everything I desperately needed.
Pushing open the rusted sliding doors of what was once a bustling liquor store, a strange sight greeted me. Only a quarter of the vast space showed signs of ransacking; the rest had been gracefully reclaimed by nature, verdant vines and stubborn moss clinging to every surface. It suggested a sudden, devastating end, a cataclysm that left minimal survivors in its wake. As I walked down an aisle, I carefully sifted through the thick layers of plant life, discovering rows of wine bottles, their labels long disintegrated under the relentless weight of time. A pang of curiosity struck me—what secrets did their aged contents hold about a world long gone?
Venturing deeper into the decaying structure, I eventually found myself in the miscellaneous aisle, searching for a very specific treasure. My eyes scanned the shelves, my hands carefully testing plastic until I located what I was looking for: Ziploc bags in remarkably good condition. This discovery, simple as it seemed, offered a crucial clue. Intact plastic suggested I couldn't be more than 500 years into the future. With the current state of my apartment, overflowing with salvaged goods, serving as my starting point, every piece of information helped to ground me.
Next, I moved towards the back, my destination being the sealed storage room. This area, thankfully, had been protected from the ravages of the outside elements. Inside, stacked neatly, were crates of liquor, each bearing a branded date. The youngest crate I discovered was marked "2029"—a full two years after my own time period. I tucked this small piece of news away, a puzzle piece to be considered later, and continued my search. My objective was a generator, and I finally located one nestled in the furthest corner of the back room.
The thick concrete walls of the storage room had done an admirable job of preserving its contents over the years. My initial plan was to modify the generator to run on the store's abundant alcohol supply, then use it to power the refrigerators and preserve my dwindling food stores. However, to my immense surprise, the generators were designed for propane, and even better, a significant supply of eight one-hundred-pound tanks stood beside them.
I couldn't have asked for a more fortuitous discovery. Propane, in this desolate future, was one of the few truly sustainable energy sources, and its presence here was a stroke of incredible luck. This unexpected windfall invigorated me, filling me with a renewed sense of purpose and anticipation for all the challenges and discoveries that lay ahead.