The silence lingered long after the Hero's footsteps faded.
Sora sagged against the roots, his form trembling, thin. His body threatened to collapse into a puddle, but his core throbbed stubbornly, keeping him intact. He could still feel the shadow of that blade above him, the cold certainty that his existence had almost ended.
Almost.
Why?
Why had the Hero spared him?
It was not mercy. Sora had seen it in their eyes—mercy had no place there. Their words echoed in his core, heavy as stone: I'll end you myself—when it matters.
The thought clawed at him. He was nothing, a fragile slime clinging to survival. Yet somehow, the Hero had decided he was worth killing… later.
The idea both terrified and anchored him.
For the first time since his awakening in this strange world, Sora felt tethered to something beyond survival. Not hope, not purpose, but a promise of conflict—sharp, unavoidable.
His body rippled faintly. A bitter thought surfaced: If I were stronger, she wouldn't have walked away. She would have finished it here.
The forest seemed to breathe again, leaves whispering as if mocking his weakness. Sora dragged himself forward, leaving behind the serpent's husk, its venom seeping into the earth like spilled malice. He could not stay. The Hero's scent, their shadow, lingered in the air.
He followed the cracks torn in the soil, the shattered trail of battle, as though drawn into their wake.
The world beyond the clearing stretched vast—towering trees, a sky fractured by green canopy, the faint roar of rivers deeper within. Somewhere ahead, the Hero carved their path through this world.
Sora's core pulsed, steady now, resonating with a strange rhythm.
He did not yet understand it.
But he knew this:
If the Hero had claimed his death for later—then he would not waste this borrowed time.
He would grow.
He would endure.
And when they met again, the Hero would no longer face a trembling, pitiful slime.
She would face something else.
Something that could reach her.