Being thrown back into reality felt like a painful electric shock. For a moment, Oldred could only lie in the cooling pool of his own blood, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the echo from the ocean of sin still ringing in his ears. Slowly, with a groan held between his teeth, he rose. His still-blurry vision swept around, trying to map his new prison. The darkness here was so thick it was almost tangible. The scent of death and neglect—a mixture of the stench of blood, mold, and the staleness of long-dead coal—was the only welcome he received.
He found a crowbar in a damp corner of the room, lying like a forgotten bone. The handle was cold and rough with rust. He gripped it, feeling the contrast between his trembling human palm and his sturdy, unfeeling bionic fingers. This object was now his new iron spine; a crutch to support his frail body, and at the same time, his first weapon in the world that had killed him. He stepped forward. The first step of a ghost learning to walk again.
Before him, a wooden staircase ascended into a deeper darkness. He began to climb. Each step groaned under his weight, whining a fragile, time-worn protest. "Creeak... creeak..." The sound was a chilling accompaniment, a symphony of dying wood. This staircase was an old man's nightmare.
Suddenly, a loud cracking sound shattered the silence. "Craaack!" One of the steps beneath his foot disintegrated into splinters, leaving a gaping dark hole. He felt a terrifying sensation of falling for a split second, a bite from the void. The rotten wood fell below with a loud "THUD!", hitting the floor with an echo of finality. Fortunately, Oldred was no frail old man. His machine and human reflexes worked in unison. He slammed his body against the wall, clinging to a protruding beam until his knuckles turned white. Catching his breath, he continued upward, more cautiously. Occasionally, he wiped his blood-wet palm on the cold wooden interior, leaving a faint, bloody trace. A ghost's signature.
Finally, he reached the top. A sturdy wooden door stood before him, a vertical tombstone blocking his path. From behind it, he could faintly hear something strange, something that shouldn't be there. The sound of people passing by.
The sound of hurried footsteps came from outside, "thump-thump-thump." Strange. Who would be moving with such vigor in the middle of a raging storm? Thunder still rumbled in the distance, and the rain fell like an endless gray curtain. That wasn't all. His trained ears picked up other sounds. "Clip-clop-clip-clop... screee..." The distinct sound of horseshoes on stone, and the creak of a wooden cart's wheels bearing a load. A spectral orchestra of a life that should not exist.
Oldred froze, hesitant. Should he go out? This could be a trap. He could be immediately captured by Luszha forces who might be waiting for him. But what choice did he have? His stomach was a tight, empty knot, his throat was as dry as a desert, and every muscle in his body screamed with exhaustion. If he stopped moving, he would rot to death in this dark room. He had to keep moving, to think of a plan as he went. This was not a choice between safety and danger, but between dying now or dying later.
He took a deep breath, gathering the last of his strength. He stepped back, turning his body into a battering ram.
"THWACK!"
His right shoulder slammed into the door with brutal force, sending a wave of pain through his entire body. The door shuddered but did not move. He growled, then did it again, and again, turning the pain into rage.
"BAM! BAM!"
The sound of the impacts was deafening. Finally, with an explosion of wood splinters and cold, wet air, the door gave way. Its rusty hinges tore from the frame, and the door fell forward with a heartbreaking sound. "CRAAASH!"
But outside... there was no one. No horses, no carts, no footsteps. Only a silent stone street, washed by a heavy rain that seemed to want to cleanse the entire city's sins. This wasn't the ruined Luszha city. This was...
Oldred: "This place... Luav Rez. How... how did I get here?"
His voice was hoarse, barely audible above the roar of the rain. This was his hometown. Yet, there was no warmth of nostalgia here. This place was the graveyard of his past, filled with stale nightmares that no longer had the power to hurt him. Only the bitter image of a boy forced to become a monster.
Oldred stepped over the threshold, letting the indifferent tears of the sky wash the remaining blood and filth from his mask. He walked through the dark, empty city, step by step, the crowbar in his hand tapping a lonely rhythm on the cobblestones, until his eyes caught something in the distance.
"Ting..."
A light. A single point of warm, steady light, like a golden needle piercing the dark shroud of night. In the midst of the darkness and the storm, in this dead city, one building was still in operation, glowing like a lighthouse calling to lost ships. A silent invitation.
It was here that he would begin his journey once more. From the point where everything had once ended. The point where the end and the beginning meet in a cruel circle of fate.