It really opened. Just like in those light novels. A status window that told me... Who and what I am.
Name: Makoto Tanaka
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 17
Class: Grunt (F Rank)
Level: 1
Stats: 'Mean fuck-all.'
'I don't even need to read the numbers to know I'm physically worthless.'
'Skill. That's what I care about right now.'
A thought then crossed my mind.
I look at V — or what's left of him — still sitting beside me like a loyal shadow.
Before, the thoughts chased me in circles.
"You're trash. You're trash. You're trash."
But after I said that I wanted to live... It stopped, somewhat.
No panic.
No begging.
Even the cold and the rotten air seem a bit more bearable.
I knew in my heart that I was still the same Makoto. The one who failed to stand up to Kazuya. The one who was, in fact, 'trash'.
Is it because I stopped fighting it, maybe? That I acknowledged that Makoto Tanaka is trash that deserved everything?
Is it because I wanted to live?
Or both?
Putting that aside, my eyes landed on my first skill.
Gear Maintenance (F) – Gear you wear or use very, very slowly repairs itself to its prime condition at all times.
'Hmm.'
My gaze drifted toward V — his broken helmet still hanging off the side of his skull, visor split and caved in.
'S-sorry, V. I'll need this for a moment.'
I said it softly, almost politely, as I eased the helmet from his bones. The metal lifted with no resistance.
'It's... light. Really light. Is medieval armor supposed to be light like this? I always assumed it's heavy.'
I turned it in my hands, examining the damage. A whole section of the visor looked torn out, only one screw clinging desperately to hold it in place. Deep claw marks raked across the edges, the kind that suggested something big and hungry had taken a swipe at him.
With a breath, I lowered it onto my head.
Immediately, the smell hit me — dry earth and old stone; blocking the rotten stench around this area.
Is this what a corpse smells like after enough time has passed?
'How... How I'd smell like when... I-if, I died?' I thought, blinking with a sniffle.
The frame around the visor narrowed my vision until it felt like I was inside a tiny room made just for me.
Safe.
Contained.
Held.
I could've stayed in that darkness forever.
After about an hour, I noticed it.
'Hmm...?'
Metal was crawling across the visor's torn edge. Very, very slowly. Deliberate. Like watching a wound knit itself shut, but weeks compressed into an hour. The jagged lines brushing my temple softened, straightened. After another hour, the visor slid back into place with tiny, precise clicks.
"Magic...!"
The word slipped out of me, my mouth parting slightly as I watched the process unfold in real time; not registering just how thirsty I was.
And then, after yet another hour...
Silence.
Darkness.
The last gaps sealed over my eyes, plunging me into a perfect black except for the thin threads of light slipping through tiny vents and visor slits — mushroom-blue and trembling.
The helmet had finished repairing itself.
V's helmet.
Mine now.
'I… Get why this is F-Rank. It's… Too slow.'
I swallowed, keeping the helmet on as I opened my Status window again.
The glowing panel filled my vision perfectly — as if the helmet itself adjusted the size, angle, and brightness so I could read it clearly. Like I was using a VR headset to read my status window.
'The king also mentioned a curse. What is it?'
I scrolled with my vision, below Gear Maintenance (F), and saw the following.
Skill: Curse (F)
Description: [UNAVAILABLE!]
[Note: Satisfy the hidden condition to reveal the nature of your curse.]
'D-damn it... Is this what that king meant?' Another thought brushed inside my skull.
In that moment, I rationalized the king's decision.
I rationalized him wanting me dead, and away from the kingdom.
There was nothing more than this description... Meaning... That curse could literally be anything.
'Am I really... Justifying my death sentence..?'
Thud.
A noise cut through the silence.
My head snapped up.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy. Slow.
Something big breathing in the dark... It breathed so much air so easily, I was almost jealous due to how suffocated I felt.
Then it stopped. The footsteps getting farther away.
'...I'll worry about it later. For now, I'll wear it all for my safety.'
I scrambled toward V's body, working fast; despite the lack of the imminent threat. My hands didn't shake — that was strange — but I was clumsy. I didn't know how armor worked. I didn't know where half the straps even were.
The bones beneath the cuirass cracked as I pulled.
'Sorry, V,' I muttered as his ribcage collapsed under my grip.
The footsteps kept growing louder, somewhere deep in the black.
I tore at the armor now — literally tore — breaking latches, ripping belts, crushing rusted buckles between my fingers. I didn't care.
I knew I had Gear Maintenance.
Though it would take a while, it's going to fix everything.
First came the underlayer — stiff linen, moldy, half-fused to V's rib bones. I ripped it free and threw it over my school uniform.
Then the chainmail.
Cold rings spilled over my hands like dead water. Huge tears ran through it; whole sections were missing. I just shoved it onto myself like a tangled blanket.
V's half-crushed leggings soon after, placed right over my school pants and shoes.
The gauntlets covering my hands.
And finally:
the chestplate.
I didn't even try to wear it correctly. I just pressed it against my torso — crooked, diagonal, hanging by a corner.
And then—
click
The armor twitched.
And like with the helmet, I waited, hoping that thudding noise will pass. And as hours passed, the torn metal began sliding, shifting, reforming.
The chestplate pulled itself tight across my chest with small snapping sounds every few minutes or so as seams realigned and screws reappeared out of thin air. It was so slow, I didn't even notice it happening.
The chainmail beneath me writhed like a nest of metal snakes, each ring weaving into its neighbor, tightening around my shoulders, collarbones, and ribs.
The linen shifted, smoothing out, stitching itself clean.
Pieces locked into place one by one:
click
click
clack
crrrrk
I didn't move.
I just let it happen.
I think it's been more than 4 hours… since I started to feel both sleepy in addition to my growing thirst and hunger. The armor was hugging my body like it had always belonged to me — sealing itself around my shoulders, ribs, and spine, plates syncing together in perfect fit.
I wasn't wearing V's armor.
It was wearing me.
'Thank you, V.'
I look down at my hands in the dim glow, the metal catching the faint blue shimmer of the mushrooms.
Warm. Protected.
Stronger.
For the first time in my life, my hands feel like they belong to someone who could hit back.
Someone who could crush Kazuya's face even if he stood in front of me right now.
But even wrapped in armor, I can't move yet.
The darkness presses in from every direction, thick and absolute. Wandering in pitch darkness is a gamble at best, suicide otherwise.
All I can do is sit here... and think… As I get hungrier, thirstier, and sleepier.
That's when I noticed it.
One last piece of V's armor I hadn't taken.
His nameplate.
I reach out and lift it.
The metal is cold, lighter than I expect.
The old letters catch the mushroom glow. The smudged name slowly begins to repair itself as I hold it...
And soon enough, V's full name came to light.
VAN HELLIX
Royal Expeditionary Force
Final Abyss Descent
I trace the engraved name with my thumb.
'Van Hellix...'
'If I ever make it out of this dungeon... using my real name would be suicide... Right?'
Kazuya's threat echoing in my mind; him telling me he'd come here to kill me.
'The king would hunt me.'
'My classmate—... No, the 'heroes' would brand me cursed trash all over again.'
'I shouldn't exist as Makoto Tanaka anymore.'
'Alright...' I breathe out, looking at the skeleton beside me.
'I'm sorry. But I'm going to need your name too.'
A quiet pause hangs between us.
The mushrooms pulse once, as if acknowledging the choice.
'I'm Van Hellix now. Makoto... From this moment onward... Is dead.'
Once more, I felt as though I was just mimicking some edgy anime protagonist.
Even the Status Window felt like it was mocking my introspection, or choice of words.
[Name: Makoto Tanaka.] It still showed.
Shaking my head away from the thought, I set the nameplate against my chest, letting its weight settle there — right over the beating thing inside me that refuses to die just yet.