Ji-hoon dragged himself forward, using the trees for support. Each movement sent jolts of agony through his body. His left arm hung useless and bent at a sickening angle. His face was a mess of dried blood and dirt, a map of his suffering.
Whoever threw me into this hell, he thought, his mind sharp with a cold, focused rage, I will find them. And I will personally throw them from the highest peak I can find.
He stumbled onward, his world reduced to the next step, and the next. Soon, the hard ground beneath his feet began to soften, turning damp. "Water," he rasped, the word scraping his dry throat.
But hope was a fleeting thing. A searing pain exploded in his chest, stealing his breath. The stick he leaned on clattered away, and he fell hard, face-first into the dirt. The impact on his shattered arm was an agony so pure and white-hot that it tore a guttural scream from his lungs, a sound that ripped through the silent forest.
Yet, when he pushed himself up, his face was a mask of cold stone. The pain was still there, but it was now a distant fire, locked away behind a wall of sheer will. He moved again, drawn by the sound of rushing water.
When he finally reached the river, he collapsed at its edge and drank greedily, the cold water a blessing. For a single, quiet moment, a faint, exhausted smile touched his lips.
Water means a chance. Even a half-percent chance is enough.
His thoughts were shattered by a voice that was not his own, echoing directly in his mind.
"You will die here."
Pain lanced through Ji-hoon's skull. "Who's there?!" he snarled, clutching his head.
"Just die quickly," the voice hissed, dripping with disdain. "Free me from this pathetic vessel."
"Who are you? Get out of my head!"
"You are unworthy of my name. Yet, I shall grant you the knowledge. I am Layla. Your Guide, assigned by the Angel Queen herself."
"A Guide?" Ji-hoon spat. "Your hospitality is overwhelming. I don't need you."
"Arrogant child," Layla retorted, a psychic sneer in her tone. "You understand nothing. I am the conduit for your missions. Complete them, and you might earn rewards that will prolong your miserable existence."
"Your 'rewards' mean nothing. I don't need a nursemaid. Leave me."
"We are bound, you foolish boy," she said, a dark amusement coloring her words. "You cannot dismiss me. This world is not a game. There are Angels and their intricate schemes. Power lies in the dungeons beneath every village. Those who conquer them become 'Rankers.' But you... you are a Demonic Ranker. Cast out. Hunted. Any Angel who finds you will show no mercy. Perhaps only a Witch might offer you aid, should you be desperate enough to seek it."
"So, the Angels are my enemies, and I am branded 'Demonic'," Ji-hoon processed aloud, the pieces clicking into a grim picture. "Fine. First, I survive fifteen days."
He took stock of his body. It was a roadmap of pain. His clothes were mere rags. "They sent me here to die naked and broken," he muttered. "At least my legs work. Or I'd already be a feast."
He forded the river, the cold water a shock that cleared his head. "I need higher ground," he announced, "to see where I am."
But soon, the air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood. He entered a clearing and found it littered with the mangled corpses of large fish.
"A territorial dispute among beasts," Layla commented idly.
Ji-hoon ignored her. His eyes were fixed on another body—a fox, its fur pristine except for a single, unnaturally precise wound on its neck. No animal fight did this, he realized, a chill running down his spine. Is Layla lying to me? A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.
He fashioned a crude rope from vines and slung the fox carcass over his good shoulder. Shelter was his next priority. "A cave... anything defensible," he grunted, pushing deeper into the woods as fatigue threatened to overwhelm him.
He pushed through a final thicket, and the world simply fell away.
A wave of vertigo hit him. He wasn't on a hill; he was on the peak of a colossal mountain. Before him stretched an impossible vista—a vast, deep valley thousands of feet below, dotted with floating islands that hung among the clouds. Waterfalls cascaded from them in silent, majestic veils. The air was filled with the cries of giant, crane-like birds.
If there's someone else here... The thought was a fleeting spark before it died. Unlikely.
He retreated, returning to the riverside as dusk bled into night. He found a sharp, flint-like stone. The task ahead was gruesome, and with one broken arm, it should have been impossible.
He pinned the fox down with his knees, his good hand gripping the stone. But as he began to work, a strange clarity settled over him. His movements, while clumsy, found a rhythm he didn't know he possessed. The stone in his hand felt surer, its edge biting into the hide with an efficiency that surprised him. It was still hard, bloody work, taking him over an hour, but he managed to separate the pelt. A part of him, buried deep beneath the pain, wondered how.
Driven by a desperate need for more resources, he returned to the clearing. He located the heaviest wolf corpse and, with a strength that felt borrowed, dragged it back to the river. He repeated the process under the cold, judging gaze of the moon. The wolf's thicker hide should have been a greater challenge, but his hands moved with a determined purpose that defied his injuries.
By the end, the night was deep, and Ji-hoon stood amidst the gore, the two pelts his only trophies in the vast, echoing darkness. He was no hero; he was a survivor, carved from pain and will. And as he looked at his bloodied hands, a vague, unformed question lingered in the back of his mind—a question about the source of the strange, almost supernatural resolve that had filled him tonight.
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