The sound of footsteps stopped right outside the door. The handle turned with a soft click, and the wooden door creaked open.
Light from the hallway spilled in, blinding Johnny's eyes—eyes still adjusted to the eternal darkness of the Eclipse. In the doorway stood a middle-aged woman. Her Brown hair was tied back haphazardly, and she wore a pink dress with a white apron stained by gravy. Her face bore the etched fatigue typical of the Slums, but her eyes... her eyes radiated a warmth that felt utterly alien.
It was Marilla. (In game It was just Johnny's mother)
"Johnny?" the woman called again, her voice tinged with worry as she saw her son sitting frozen on the edge of the bed, his face pale and drenched in cold sweat. "Why haven't you changed yet? Your father needs help at the workshop."
As Guts stared at the woman's face, a dam inside his mind burst. It wasn't blood or pain that flooded him, but Memories.
Memories belonging to the real "Johnny" surged in, overlapping with Guts' consciousness. Johnny stealing cookies from the jar and breaking it. Johnny coming home with bloody knees after a scrap with the neighbor's kid. Johnny hiding behind this woman's skirt when chased by stray dogs. And this woman... who always scolded him while tending to his wounds. Who always saved the biggest piece of meat for him. Who was always there.
Guts' breath hitched.
In his past life, the word "Mother" was an abstract concept. He was born from a corpse hanging from a tree. He was taken in by Shisu, who died of the plague before he could even clearly remember her face. Aside from that, there was only Gambino—a "father" who sold him for silver coins and tried to kill him.
Guts' world was one where weakness meant death. Affection was a trap.
But here, in this cramped room smelling of iron and dust, the woman before him looked at him not as a tool of war, not as merchandise, and not as a sacrifice.
She looked at him as... a son.
"Hey... what's wrong?" Marilla set down the laundry basket and rushed inside. Her face twisted in panic as she saw Johnny's body begin to tremble violently. "Are you sick? Do you have a fever?"
Marilla's hand reached out, touching Johnny's forehead. Her palm was rough, calloused from years of scrubbing and cooking, but to Guts, that touch felt hotter than the fires of hell—in the most heartbreaking way possible.
The mental defenses Guts had built over the years—the steel walls he used to hold back pain, horror, and grief—crumbled instantly. The body of this thirteen-year-old boy could not withstand the weight of a warrior's soul that had witnessed the apocalypse.
The tears didn't just fall. They exploded out.