He dragged himself through the scorching sand, his upper body almost fully regenerated, his hands clawing forward. Fear gnawed at him, a raw, primal terror sparked by the monstrous ants he'd just escaped. That perfect, practiced smile, usually so effortless, now strained against the genuine panic twisting his features. His eyes, wide and glassy, betrayed a profound sadness and terror.
He scanned his surroundings, a vast, desolate expanse of sand. It was a desert, endless and unforgiving. The most terrifying sight, however, was the orbs of absolute darkness scattered across the landscape. They pulsed erratically, like chaotic heartbeats, and whenever his gaze lingered too long, his vision blurred, his breath caught, and he felt as if he were plummeting into their inky depths. He tore his eyes away each time, his instincts screaming at him to escape this hell.
His arms, still half-formed, tore through the abrasive sand as he dragged his mangled body forward, his eyes darting back to those unsettling orbs. They pulsed with an unnerving, chaotic rhythm. Each prolonged glance blurred his vision, stole his breath, and plunged him into a terrifying sensation of freefall. He jerked his gaze away, every time.
Raw fear distorted his perfect smile, the one he'd worn his entire life. His lips curved upward, but his eyes were glassy, trembling. He had no idea where he was or what these things were, but every fiber of his being screamed to stay far away. The rough, dry sand abraded his skin with every agonizing inch he crawled.
"I just need to keep moving… I need to get away," he rasped, a desperate whisper to himself.
The relentless heat had leached every ounce of strength from him. Each inch he gained across the scorching sand felt like dragging himself through an inferno. His skin blistered, peeled, then miraculously regenerated, only to blister again. The hours blurred into an endless, agonizing cycle, yet he crawled on, fueled by a desperate, flickering hope.
Then, a sound escaped him. A single, small whimper of pain, barely audible, but it was enough. The ground behind him shifted. He twisted his head, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of them: massive ants, their mandibles twitching, drawn by his involuntary cry. Four of them, larger and more menacing than the ones before.
He froze, holding his breath, unblinking, unmoving.
It didn't work.
They saw him.
One snapped onto his arm, another clamped onto his leg. A third seized his other arm, and the last one went for his remaining leg. In one brutal, synchronized movement, they pulled. Tore. Ripped. His body cleaved apart like wet paper. A scream tore from his throat.
And in that scream, his smile shattered.
But nothing happened. He wasn't erased. The rules didn't come crashing down. And that, more than the agony, more than the sound of his bones cracking, more than the sight of his own limbs being devoured before his eyes, was what stunned him.
The realization that breaking the rule hadn't ended him.
He was still here.
Still suffering.
Still alive.
It was an endless torment. Each assault more savage than the last. They never rushed, instead tearing at him slowly, limb by limb, nerve by nerve, as if savoring his agony. And every time, he regenerated. Not instantly, not painlessly. Hours of excruciating pain just to form a new body, a body destined to be torn apart again.
Ten times. Maybe more. He'd lost count.
With each regeneration, his crawling grew slower, more broken. He meticulously avoided the dark orbs, avoided making a sound, avoided everything he could. But it was futile. They always found him.
He could no longer cry; the desert heat had stolen his tears. He could no longer scream; the relentless pain had worn down his voice. But inside, he was screaming,a silent, deafening roar of anguish.
As he crawled, a desperate thought flickered: perhaps his family, his real family, was here. And he had failed them. Perhaps he was the only sane one left, yet he had failed them too. He felt useless, like an utter loser.
And still, he crawled.
"I'm sorry, Mom… I'm sorry, Dad… I'm sorry, Sis… I'm sorry, Bro…" The words echoed relentlessly in his mind, though his ravaged throat and barely-there jaw couldn't form them. His mind wouldn't stop its mournful litany.
He dragged what little remained of his body, inch by agonizing inch, across the burning sand, whispering apologies to a family that might not even exist anymore,if they ever had. He believed he was the only one left, the only one awake, the only one who saw the truth of it all.
And he had failed them.
He couldn't protect them. Couldn't save them. Couldn't even cling to the fading memories of who they were: his sister's infectious laugh, his brother's kind eyes, his dad's quiet morning voice, his mom's comforting hand on his shoulder when he cried. All of it slipping away, devoured by time, swallowed by the crushing pain.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered again, a raw, silent plea into the desolate expanse.
As he lay there, face pressed into the scorching sand, uttering broken apologies, something dark began to rise in the distance. A familiar shape. A black, shifting mass, curling like solid smoke. At first, he dismissed it as another nightmare. But then he recognized the form: the fence. The same black fence from before.
He hadn't thought relief was possible in this hellish place, but the sight of it sent a jolt through him. He forced himself to gather his strength, pushing past the pain, and crawled faster. It felt like home, like something deeply ingrained in his memory. Maybe, just maybe, this time it would lead him out.
The fence grew taller with every agonizing inch he gained. It wasn't an illusion; it was real. He dragged his broken body toward it, clawed his way over the cold, slick bars, and tumbled onto the other side.
Then everything stopped.
He looked around, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This wasn't the place from before. There were no cliffs, no ocean crashing below, no ships, no wind.
This fence wasn't on a mountain.
So where in the hell was he?
The question hammered against his skull: where was he? This place felt both familiar and utterly foreign. The black fence stood behind him, a silent, unmoving wall. But beyond it, there was only sand and sky. No sound. No movement. Just oppressive heat and infinite emptiness.
His body was still half-formed, raw and ravaged from the last attack. He couldn't walk yet, couldn't even stand. So he lay there in the fence's meager shadow, breathing slowly, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the horizon for anything. Anything that made sense.
"I'll wait," he whispered to himself, his voice a dry rasp. "Just until I can move."
Then he would find out what this place truly was.
Aurex was astonished. Here, his body was regenerating at an accelerated rate. His arms were fully restored, his upper body solid once more, and now his legs were beginning to form. He sat in the dirt, breathing heavily, watching muscle and bone knit together like threads weaving a new tapestry.
He surveyed his surroundings. There were buildings nearby, small, silent homes, just like in the previous place. But something was distinctly off. The cliffside was gone. No ocean. Instead, this was flat land, an expansive, desolate playground of sand and cracked earth, stretching endlessly in every direction. It didn't feel like the same place. It couldn't be.
Then he noticed something. Far ahead, past the empty houses and flickering, indistinct lights, a lone figure was walking toward him. Slow steps. Steady. Alone.