Ren leaned heavily against the stone wall, his body trembling from the aftermath of the fight. His fingers brushed against the raw gashes in his sides, the place where the corpse had raked deep into his flesh. His breath came in shallow, rasping gasps, the air feeling too thin for his lungs. He tilted his head back, gaze flickering to the crumbling ceiling above him.
Then—his body began to repair itself, bone and muscle knitting back together.
He exhaled sharply, his body burned with pain.
"So...it's doing this again."
The gouges in his wrists.
The gashes in his sides.
Both were now completely gone.
When the burning finally subsided, Ren lowered his head and took in the ruins around him—broken walls, shattered stone, fragments of something ancient and long forgotten.
"If this place wanted me dead…" He said to himself, "Why hasn't it done it by now…"
And that's when he remembered the words whispered to him.
'Just let it take you.'
That grotesque corpse.
That thing he had fought off—the thing that tore him apart.
It was empty, broken and rotting away. Yet, it never stopped.
It didn't hesitate, nor did it retreat. Didn't feel fear or pain.
It just kept coming, hollow eyes locked on him until the very end.
Realization settled in his gut.
"No…" He whispered. "This place wants me to suffer."
His voice cracked, bitterness seeping through every word. "It wants me alive. Just enough to keep moving…to keep running…until there's nothing left of me but bone and exhaustion."
He pushed himself upright with a groan, peeling his back from the stone wall.
"You're not getting rid of me," Ren murmured. "Not yet."
His fingers curled into fists.
He couldn't keep doing this—running blind and panicked, barely surviving by luck alone. If he wanted to escape this place, he knew had to fight back.
"If I can keep healing…then no matter how much it hurts, I'll keep fighting," He muttered. His jaw tightened as he spoke. "I don't care. I've got nothing else. Nothing to lose."
He didn't know if he believed the words he spoke, but it was enough for now.
He started searching.
For something, anything that could help him survive. A weapon. Supplies. Shelter.
He passed through what looked like a collapsed structure, stone blocks and rotted furnishings half-buried beneath debris. His eyes scanned over every scrap of material that might be of use—shards of glass, bent nails, rusted metal—but nothing stood out.
Then he found it.
A narrow passageway, hidden behind a fallen stone slab and choked with creeping vines.
Ren hesitated, his hand hovering near the opening, but he stepped forward.
The room beyond was dim, but his eyes adjusted quickly. It had once been a storage chamber—though time had stripped it of nearly everything recognizable. Shelves were shattered, their contents scattered and broken across the floor. Still, something remained.
Rusted weapons. Battered armor. Most were useless—blades too chipped, hilts snapped clean through—but one caught his attention.
A dagger.
Its blade was rusted, but intact. The handle was gone, leaving only the exposed tang.
Ren grabbed it and tore a strip from his cloak, wrapping the fabric tightly around the metal to form a makeshift grip. He tested the weight, adjusting the bindings until it felt secure enough.
"This'll have to do," He muttered.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
His eyes veered to a nearby pile of shattered armor. Kneeling, he sifted through the wreckage until he found a small fragment of what was once a chest plate, cracked but still solid.
He glanced around the room, listening.
Nothing.
Setting the dagger down, he tore another strip from his cloak and strapped the metal piece over his left shoulder. It sat unevenly, biting into his skin—but it would offer protection.
When he tightened the final knot, a low groan crept through the silence.
From the far corner of the room, something shifted.
Another corpse pulled itself free from the wreckage, bones grinding beneath layers of broken armor fused to its decaying frame. Its movements were jerky, unnatural—like a puppet with its strings pulled too tight. With a sickening creak, it staggered upright. Its skeletal fingers closed around the hilt of a broken sword. The blade was useless—but in its hands, was still a weapon.
Ren snatched up his dagger, stepping back as his grip tightened.
The corpse swayed, testing its balance.
'Should I run?' The thought screamed through his mind. 'Would it catch me like the last one?'
No.
"I need to fight," He whispered. "Right here."
He had to make the first move.
His mind sent the command—NOW—to his legs, his arms, his feet.
But nothing happened. His body seemed to refuse.
Coldness seeped into his bones, locking him in place. His hand trembled around the dagger. His feet felt stuck to the stone. And his heart pounded with fight-or-flight.
"Move," He hissed at himself.
The corpse lurched closer, releasing a hollow screech that scraped at Ren's nerves.
"Move—move!" He begged.
The corpse raised its sword.
"No! Please!"
Then, the rusted blade drove forward, straight through his chest.