"Starvation doesn't ask for permission. It just creeps in, steals your strength, and dares you to crawl another day."
The sun rose behind smoke-drenched clouds, casting a sickly orange hue across the ruined village.
He awoke to hunger gnawing at his stomach like a beast in chains. His throat was dry, his lips cracked. There was no firewood left, no clean water, no rice bowls, no warmth—just bloodstains and crows.
Even the maggots had more to eat.
But he was still alive.
Barely.
He stepped out of the shack, pipe-turned-sword in hand, moving slowly past the charred skeletons and scorched earth.
The smell of rot was everywhere.
Corpses twisted in unnatural poses—flesh ballooned, eyes hollow, mouths open mid-scream. He covered his nose, but it didn't help. The scent was deeper than just air. It was inside him now.
"This world's got a sense of humor. It lets you live… just to see what you'll do to keep living."
Survival Mode
The well was cracked, but not dry.
He drank the filthy water with trembling hands, ignoring the dead rat floating in the corner. The nausea came fast, but he forced it down. Dying of dysentery wasn't part of the plan.
Next: food.
He found a half-burned storehouse near the elder's house. Most sacks were ash. But near the back, buried under rubble, he found a small, mold-covered bag of dried barley and salted fish.
It stank.
It was perfect.
He ate with shaking hands. The fish made him gag, but he forced it down. When his stomach settled, he took the barley and spread it near the edge of the forest—a bait trap.
He would need to catch something.
Anything.
First Kill
By sundown, he got what he asked for.
A wild dog. Lean. Starving. Foaming at the mouth.
It lunged from the bushes, eyes bloodshot, teeth bared.
He didn't run.
He waited.
The pipe was steady in his hand.
CLANG!
The metal cracked against bone. The dog yelped, tumbled, scrambled to attack again.
He ducked. Rolled. Swung again.
This time, the pipe hit its jaw with a sickening crunch.
The animal whimpered, legs twitching.
He didn't hesitate.
CRACK.
Skull shattered.
Blood sprayed across his face.
He stood there panting. Heart racing. Arms shaking.
Then he smiled.
A sick, crooked smile.
"System. Tonight… we train harder."
Spiritual World – Night Two
The storm was fiercer.
The plains were wetter.
And Zoro?
Zoro was grinning.
"You're still alive. Not bad."
He tossed a heavier practice blade this time. No warning. The boy caught it midair.
"You killed something today."
"Yes."
"How'd it feel?"
"Warm."
Zoro's grin widened.
"Good. Then let's make you stronger. Real strength doesn't come from clean cuts. It comes from cutting even when your hands shake."
They clashed.
Harder.
Faster.
The boy bled. Fell. Rose again.
Muscles tore.
Bones screamed.
But each movement grew sharper.
Each stance, tighter.
Each breath, more controlled.
Zoro nodded.
"You're still weak. But now? You're dangerous."
Real World – Dawn
He woke up to stats in his head:
[Daily Training Complete]+1 Strength+1 Agility+2 Pain ResistanceZoro's Swordsmanship [8%]Oni Giri unlocks at 10%
He stood and looked at the pipe in his hand.
Still bent. Still dented. Still deadly.
Then he turned to the dog's corpse, skinned it, cooked it over a slow flame, and ate in silence.
"Step one: survive."
"Step two: learn to kill well."
"Step three: bury your weakness with the dead."