Golden stopped running.
Not because the fear had faded—but because it had nowhere left to push him.
He found a narrow recess between two collapsed walls, where broken stone pressed close and the violet sky was reduced to a thin, suffocating strip above. The air here felt stale, untouched. If something came, he would hear it.
He slid down the wall and sat, back pressed to cold stone.
For several seconds, he did nothing but breathe.
Then he reached for his sleeve.
His fingers hesitated.
You already know it's there, he told himself.
Avoiding it won't change anything.
Golden pulled the fabric back.
The mark revealed itself fully.
It wasn't a tattoo.
It wasn't ink.
It looked grown—as if his body had been cut open and something else had taken root inside him.
A long silver line ran along his forearm, straight and sharp, unnaturally precise. It reminded him instantly of the Unicorn's horn—clean, luminous, almost sacred.
Wrapped around it were jagged obsidian-black veins, branching outward like fractures in glass. They looked coarse, almost fur-like in texture, disturbingly similar to the Cerberus's hide.
Where silver and black met, his skin was bruised deep purple, as though light and shadow were still fighting for control beneath his flesh.
The silver flickered faintly.
Not glowing.
Struggling.
Golden stared at it.
Fear came first.
Then anger followed close behind.
"So that's it," he muttered.
The world had nearly killed him—and decided to leave a reminder.
Golden clenched his fist. The mark shifted subtly with the movement, neither resisting nor yielding.
"If you're going to brand me," he said quietly, voice steady despite the tension in his chest, "then I'll use it."
He lowered his arm.
"I'm not dying here."
The ruins offered no reply.
Golden turned his attention to the satchel.
Opening it grounded him—something solid, something practical. Survival.
His fingers closed around cold metal.
A dagger.
Short. Rusted. Ugly. The blade was chipped, the handle worn smooth by long use. Not a hero's weapon.
But it was real.
Golden weighed it in his hand and slid it into his belt.
Next came a compass.
At first glance, it looked normal—until he noticed the needle.
It wasn't pointing north.
No matter how he turned the compass, the needle adjusted instantly, always pointing in the same direction—to the same direction cerberus came from
Golden frowned.
"That's new"Golden murmured
A compass that didn't care about direction.
Only destination.
Then his fingers brushed paper.
Golden froze.
He pulled it out slowly.
A folded note.
The moment he saw the handwriting, his breath caught.
He recognized it immediately.
Not from this world.
From before.
His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the paper.
The message was short.
Too short.
If you're reading this, it means you're alive.
Golden's stomach tightened.
Beneath it:
Trust the mark. Don't trust the world.
His mind raced.
This wasn't written here.
The ink was familiar. The phrasing was familiar. The handwriting—
"…This was before," he whispered.
Before the bell.
Before the sky turned violet.
Before monsters.
Which meant—
Someone had known.
Not guessed.
Knew.
Golden stared at the note, a cold realization sinking in.
This wasn't a message from another survivor.
It was a warning sent forward.
And somehow… it had reached him.
He folded the note carefully and put it back into the satchel, heart pounding.
Whatever had brought him here hadn't been random.
And the mark on his arm—
His jaw tightened.
A sound echoed through the ruins.
Golden froze.
It wasn't a roar.
Not heavy. Not divine.
Stone shifting under cautious weight.
A breath.
Then—
A cough.
Human.
Golden's hand slid to the dagger.
A shadow moved between the broken walls ahead, tall and roughly human-shaped.
"Hello?" a voice called out.
Golden didn't answer.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
Was it a classmate?
Or something wearing one's voice?
Golden stared at the shadow, fear coiling tight in his chest—but beneath it, something harder had formed.
Resolve.
If the world wanted to play games—
Then he would survive long enough to learn the rules.