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⚠️ Content Warning:
This story contains realistic violence, trauma, and psychological intensity.
It is intended for mature readers who are comfortable with darker themes.
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They didn't call it the end of the world.
There wasn't time.
No countdown. No last broadcasts. No closing words.
Just light—wrong light—tearing through the sky like glass cracking from within.
Then came the monsters.
Not aliens. Not demons. Just—things.
Things that shouldn't exist.
Things that don't bleed the way we do.
Weapons failed. Cities collapsed. The earth opened.
And nobody understood why.
I was six when it happened.
No one came for us.
Only the screaming did.
I survived.
Not because I was strong—because I was too small to be seen.
Because my parents stood in the way.
I remember the heat of their blood more than their faces.
I remember crawling out of wreckage, hands torn open from clawing through steel and silence.
I remember the silence.
There were no nations after that.
No maps.
Just dead zones and bunkers.
And the sound of breathing in the dark, wondering what's still out there.
But the world didn't just fall apart.
It twisted. Shifted.
And then the dungeons came—towers and ruins that didn't obey our physics.
Inside, something waited.
Something structured. Cold.
A system.
Skills. Levels. Stats.
A language not meant for us, but left behind like an invitation—or a trap.
Eventually, we tried to make sense of it.
We built something—wristbands, to track what we couldn't understand.
Not magic. Not divine. Just tech.
A human attempt at clarity. A signal in the dark.
Numbers to measure growth. Progress. Survival.
Some said it was reverse-engineered from what little we could steal inside the dungeons.
Others claimed the system itself wanted to be understood.
No one really knew.
But we all wore them.
But numbers don't stop bleeding.
Only pain does.
I didn't become a hero.
I didn't join a team.
I didn't care about saving anyone.
I fought because it was all I had.
Because nothing else made sense.
I became something else.
A weapon without a sheath.
A curse that kept walking.
A Berserker.
And this is the way I live.
The Berserker Way.
Now, thirteen years later—I'm ready.
No banners. No prayers.
Just a body forged in blood,
and a purpose that never forgot its name.
I don't need redemption.
I need revenge.