What was apparently making Faust repeat this loop was his death at the end of it—each time bringing him back to his bed, forcing it all to begin again.
If death was what caused the loop, then there might be a simple solution... either die earlier, or kill himself.
Both options could work—at least in theory. But Faust's mind was already crumbling into the spiral of madness. Even though he kept moving, every death brought real pain—at least, real to him.
Once more, he appeared on his bed. This time, he didn't leave his room until it was day. Though it was "day," the crimson moon still hovered high in the sky. Yet its light wasn't red, just… normal.
When the light changed, Faust exited his room and quickly searched for a knife. It wasn't hard to find.
"Alright... there we go…"
As he moved the blade closer to his neck, his breathing grew heavy and irregular. Though he wouldn't stop now—now that he knew it was an illusion—he still hesitated. His mind was still human. Suicide is unnatural. To live is instinctive; to die is not. Those who choose death either believe life is worse—or death, easier.
Faust closed his eyes. With a swift movement, he stabbed himself. The pain was intense, but he gritted his teeth and slashed his own neck.
The knife clattered to the ground, followed by the dull thud of his body hitting the floor and soaking the wood red. He gurgled on his own blood, and only a few seconds later, he died.
Then—he was in his bed again, bathed in red moonlight.
Outside his room, his parents' voices echoed with laughter.
He instinctively curled up on the bed, both hands clutching the area he'd just cut. He was sweating, his wide eyes spiraling into confusion once again.
"What... what... it didn't work? How? Then what else... no... maybe it's just wrong…"
Faust jumped out of bed, ran into the dining room, and leapt onto the table. His parents looked up in confusion as he seized a knife and slashed his own neck before they could react.
They tried to stop the bleeding—but it was already too late.
He died.
"Hahahaha… heh…"
That was all he was able to do: laugh. Again and again... he either died by his own hands or was beaten to death.
He tried again. For another three loops, he killed himself. He drowned. He bashed his head against a wall until it cracked open. He stuffed dirt into his mouth and suffocated.
Each time—he reappeared in his bed.
His eyes were now hollow. The vermillion glow that once lit them had vanished. He just sat there, motionless. While he stayed in his room, no one entered—it was as if he didn't exist.
At the end of every loop, he would reappear in the center of the village and be beaten to death.
Six loops.
Killed. Then killed again.
His mind was unstable—already slowed for some reason—but now, it was barely functional. This place—this illusion—was a prison crafted from his own traumas. And he couldn't even leave by choice.
Trapped in his own mind.
How pitiful.
How weak.
Yet despite his empty gaze, he hadn't given up. He was just conserving energy—thinking.
That was all he could do.
To survive. To trample. To breathe. To live. To survive.
To survive is the righteousness of the strong.
To trample is the righteousness of survival.
To breathe is the righteousness of life.
To live is the righteousness of survival.
To laugh is the righteousness of joy.
To joy is the righteousness of survival.
To survive is the righteousness of the strong.
A jagged, unnatural grin split his face as he chanted these thoughts, clinging to what little sanity remained.
If killing himself didn't work, there was one more option he hadn't tried:
Kill everything else.
He plotted in silence. For two loops, he remained still. The pain in his shoulder had grown unbearable, to the point he couldn't move it without sweating... but he ignored it.
When the night gave way to the pale daylight, he acted.
He grabbed a knife. Left the house.
Outside, his father was splitting wood. His mother was nowhere to be seen.
A simple knife wouldn't be enough. He needed something better—the axe.
That was his goal.
Hiding the knife behind his back, Faust approached Rust. He tugged on his father's pants to draw him in.
"What is it, son?" Rust asked, leaning down. "Do you wan—?"
Before he was able to finish his sentence, Faust stabbed his father's neck with the knife. The figure bled and struggled briefly before the light faded from its eyes. As its body hit the ground, it dissolved into an ink-like substance, melting into the floor.
At that moment, Faust's body seemed to grow slightly taller and stronger, his thinking speed weakly improving. However, he didn't react—his eyes remained blank and detached.
After grabbing the axe, he stored the knife at his waist and headed toward the rest of the villagers.
First, he found an adult who, alarmed by the blood on Faust's clothes, leaned closer to ask what had happened. Before he could finish, his head was split open by the axe, his body melting into the ground.
Another person saw this and immediately turned aggressive, attacking him—and so did everyone else who saw. He tried to fight them off, but was killed.
He appeared back in his bed.
A jagged smile split across his face, disturbingly detached from his plump, childish features.
"Hehehe… so that's the answer…"
Once more, he waited until morning, grabbed a knife, and went outside. Using the same tactic, his father was killed.
He took the axe and killed another. Then another. But eventually, he was noticed—and killed.
He appeared in his bed. Stronger.
He repeated: killed one.
Then another, and another.
He died.
He appeared in his bed. Stronger.
He repeated: killed one.
Then another, another, another, another… and another.
He died.
He appeared in his bed. Stronger.
He repeated: killed one.
Then another, another, another, another, another… and another, and another, and another, and one more.
Then he died.
For one hundred and twenty-two loops, he killed freely. With each kill, his body grew stronger and taller, his thinking grew faster.
He rampaged through the village—killing his father, the children, the bookkeeper, the butcher, the hunters, the elders—anyone who stood in his way.
And so he continued, bathed in the blood of those he once knew. For him, it was no longer an illusion. But that no longer mattered. He died, reappeared, endured, moved forward. He killed, again and again and once more.
He killed for days, but eventually, the part of the loop meant for him to be killed arrived.
Only one person remained—the one he had never managed to find in any of his attempts, not even when he was beaten to death: his mother.
With a battered body, he stood there, at the center of the village. Holding the axe with one hand, drenched in blood. At this point, his body had almost returned to its normal state.
The crowd of attackers no longer existed. Only she remained.
She stood there, among the darkness bathed in the vermillion moonlight.
She wore a beautiful, long white dress. Her head was adorned with a crown of wildflowers that danced in stark contrast to her pale skin.
She was not aggressive. She simply approached him, slowly. Faust set down the axe and waited for her to come closer.
When they stood face to face, she looked him up and down, then smiled gently.
"My son… you grew up, didn't you?"
Faust nodded. With a soft chuckle, he replied, "It seems so."
His demeanor toward his mother was far calmer and more composed than it had been moments ago.
Stepping closer, Tiya continued, "Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes… I think I did."
She reached him and gently caressed his head, staining her hand with blood.
"You have to go once more, my baby. This time, freer than before. Live for yourself, and no one else," she said with a beautiful, motherly smile.
Faust smiled, too.
"I will, mom… thank you."
He stepped closer and hugged her.
Then, he drew the knife from his waist and stabbed her in the back.
She died gracefully, slipping from his arms and dissolving into the ink-like substance, merging with the ground.
At that moment, cracks split across the sky. Faust closed his eyes, his face detached, calm… and waited.
A sound like shattering glass echoed, as everything Faust just experienced became deeply ingrained in his heart and mind.
Then, in the next instant, he was back in the forest.
He looked around—Yuser was still alive, behind him. Faust's shoulder was gravely injured, his armor pierced by the monster's spike, blood pouring from the wound.
"So it's been an illusion since that point…"
In front of him stood the monster itself—still, unmoving, like an ugly ancient monolith.
But Faust ignored it, as he muttered softly,
"I survived…"
He raised his head, eyes reflecting the dark sky illuminated by the crimson moon that bathed all below.