Nothingness. A moment of non-existence. Then the brutal return to consciousness, not as a gentle embrace, but as a reverse drowning, the soul torn from the abyss to be violently reinjected into a body.
A sound. A slow, heavy heartbeat. His own.
'Venom... Silk... Blackness... The weight... crushed...'
The fragments of his death swirled in his mind. He regained consciousness, not in acute agony, but in a dull, widespread pain. He had a body. A body that felt the biting cold of the rock, the torturous cramps of hunger, and the phantom pain of a venom that no longer existed but whose memory still burned in his spiritual veins.
He was curled into a ball on the cold, uneven floor of the cave. The Shroud covered him entirely, a cocoon of misery that, ironically, had brought him back to "life." After what felt like an eternity of stillness, he forced himself to move. He ran a trembling hand over his neck. Nothing. No mark from the fatal sting. The skin was smooth. He was intact. But he was broken.
Drops of cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The memory of death was not a thought, but a deep, invisible scar etched onto his soul. The paralysis, the suffocation, the helpless wait in the dark. He remained there, trembling, his mind in tatters, fighting not to sink into the madness that lapped at the edges of his consciousness.
Painfully, he stood up. He recognized the cave with a familiar terror. The starting point. The beginning of the loop.
His gaze shifted to the back of the cavern, an area he had ignored in his initial panic. There was something. A waterfall. No more than two meters high, the water flowed over the rock like a veil of liquid silver. It was perfectly silent. Not a murmur, not a splash. The water fell into a small puddle at its feet without disturbing the surface, giving off a strange, almost mystical aura.
Intrigued despite himself, he approached. In the reflection of the still water, he saw a pale face. His own. He struggled to recognize it. His features were drawn, the dark circles under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His gaze was that of a man who had seen hell and knew he would return. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the space of a single death.
Lost in contemplation of his own ruin, his eyes were drawn to a glow in the reflection. A screen. Similar to those of the Punishments and Burdens.
By reflex, he recoiled. A visceral fear, a Pavlovian reflex to the torture, seized him. 'Not again... Not again!' he thought, panicked. He stumbled on the rock, fell heavily backward. His head hit the ground violently. A dull, wet thud, followed by a brief, sharp cry of pain that was lost in the cave's silence.
He brought his hand to his temple. Warm, sticky blood flowed between his fingers. The dark ground was soaked in scarlet red.
On the water of the waterfall, the screen's message remained, unperturbed: [Waterfall of Night].
Zac collected himself, his brain hammered by the pain. He tore a piece from the bottom of his jacket, dipped it in the cold water of the puddle, and pressed it against his temple. He tried to focus, to see beyond the panic and pain. "Waterfall of Night." An intuition struck him, a connection forged in the hours spent fleeing his own life. Zagreus's Mirror of Night. He moved closer to the water, his gaze fixed on the glow. The message changed.
He was right. Improve? The word resonated like an impossible promise, a heresy in this world of suffering. A glimmer of mad hope lit up within him, the first in an eternity. He hurried to read the rest.
[Waterfall of Night]
[Coward's Stealth: 0/?]
[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]
[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]
[???]
[Tears of Regret: 1]
He deciphered the screen, his mind clinging to every word. The "Tears of Regret" must be the currency. The "1" was his balance, undoubtedly the price of his horrible death. The "?" were levels, undeniable proof of possible progression. He could really improve. He was on the verge of euphoria, a feeling so foreign it was painful.
But a doubt crept in, cold and sharp. He was wary. Coward's Stealth. Healing Stagnation. Forge of Brutality. These names did not breathe heroism. They sounded like traps, extensions of his own sins, burdens disguised as skills.
There was no other indication. He fumed. Nothing was simple. Everything was suffering.
His gaze fell again on the word "Healing." An idea. A spark in his mind, fogged by the pain of his wound. He stared at the [Healing Stagnation] line and projected his will onto it, his one and only "Tear of Regret."
The screen changed: [Healing Stagnation: 1/?]. His balance changed to [Tears of Regret: 0].
Instantly, a cold, mechanical knowledge implanted itself in his mind. He knew what to do. A smile, a bitter and determined grin, formed on his lips. He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and draped himself in his Shroud, focusing on the void, on surrender, as the skill dictated.
Unreally, defying all logic, the blood that had stopped flowing from his temple flowed back into his skull, slowly, drop by drop. The gaping wound regained its flesh color, leaving its deathly pallor. Then, the skin closed, as if knitted by invisible threads.
A few seconds later, Zac opened his eyes. He looked at himself in the waterfall. The horrible gash had disappeared.
It was the first positive thing since... he no longer knew when.
He stood up. His gaze, hardened by hell and lit by a new glimmer, fixed on the cave's exit. A cold determination, born of despair and a strange lucidity, drove him. The game had rules. And if he could learn the rules... then maybe he could survive.