*(We didn't know where "safety" truly existed.
We were terrified, because the monsters never stopped hunting us.
We were exhausted, unable to rest even for a single breath.
We were starving—so hungry that even a leaf seemed edible.
And we were blind to this world—its creatures, its plants, its climate, even its rules of survival.
Here, we knew nothing… except that we had to stay alive.)*
"What should we do…? How are we supposed to keep living like this…?" Thành Dũng muttered to himself, letting out a weary, heavy breath.
His mental state was in complete disarray—fearful, trembling, collapsing from the inside.
But he wasn't the only one showing these signs. Anyone who had survived what they went through… how could anyone stay calm?
Thành Dũng panted heavily after facing one life-or-death ordeal after another. When they finally reached a moment of temporary safety, he dragged his body along as if carrying a whole mountain on his back. Every step throbbed with pain, yet he kept going, searching for a quiet place to rest his body.
Wanting nothing but silence, Thành Dũng picked a spot away from everyone else—a place with a tree to lean on, where chú Bách was also sitting. A place with just enough stray light to make him feel a little safer.
But even that light was scarce. The thick canopy overhead swallowed most of it, leaving only a dim glow in a darkness full of danger. Still, that faint light was like the fragile hope everyone here clung to.
He sank to the ground, leaning against the tree trunk.
He closed his eyes with a soft exhale, trying to recover what strength he had left. Using both hands, he kneaded his numb, aching legs—hoping they would recover quickly, because he knew they would have to run again the moment an emergency struck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thành Dũng noticed chú Bách curled up in a shadowed corner. His already thin frame looked even smaller as he pulled himself inward, pitifully frail.
His arms wrapped tightly around his knees, back hunched, head bowed low.
His eyes were dull, clouded with a sorrow too heavy to name.
Thành Dũng wanted to talk to him—ask why he had been like this all this time. But he didn't dare open his mouth, and the silence between them grew heavy and suffocating.
He pretended not to notice anything, deliberately ignoring the awkwardness—whether it belonged to both of them or only to himself. Deep down, he wished something—anything—would interrupt this uncomfortable weight pressing on his mind.
He didn't want to seem uncaring, but he knew he wasn't capable of comforting others.
Compared to chú Bách—a man of age, who had lived through war, who had seen the rise and fall of life countless times—he was just a boy, still immature, practically smelling of milk.
Fortunately—speak of the devil, and the devil appears.
"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you two!" Linh Nhi called out as she approached. Sweat drenched her clothes, and her breaths came fast and tired.
Linh Nhi was part of the observation team formed by the survivors. They took turns keeping watch, reporting any signs of danger. She had just finished her shift, which was why she could come find them now.
Thành Dũng politely asked,
"You must be exhausted… Are you okay? Why don't you sit down and rest, maybe eat something…?"
After speaking, he pulled his bag closer and rummaged through it.
Whatever he saw inside made his face stiffen for a moment—embarrassment flickering across his expression.
Inside were only two small loaves of bread, and a small box containing some strange, colorful fruits. Dũng took out only the two loaves and kept the box—he planned to eat those fruits later.
He handed one loaf to Linh Nhi, and the other he intended to give to chú Bách.
There was no real reason he needed to share his portion with a stranger.
"But who is she, really? The one who saved both of us… Someone I might never repay even with a lifetime…"
Linh Nhi accepted the bread and thanked him simply. She tore it into tiny pieces, eating slowly—like she feared that if she took a big bite, her hunger would come rushing back and her small portion wouldn't be enough.
Holding the remaining loaf, Thành Dũng walked over to chú Bách, who still sat with his head bowed. Dũng gently called out and politely offered the bread:
"Chú Bách, this is your share."
Chú Bách lifted his head. His eyes were still soaked with sorrow—yet there was something else in them, something faint and hard to decipher… or perhaps it was just an illusion.
He accepted the loaf with both trembling hands.
But he didn't eat it.
Instead, he held it close to his chest, his rough fingers gently brushing over the surface.
Tears welled up in his eyes and a few drops fell.
His lips quivered as he whispered something faint and broken:
"I should have…
I should have died from the beginning…
Isn't that right, Dũng…?"
Thành Dũng froze, his eyebrows tightening. He wasn't sure if he had heard correctly.
"Chú… what are you saying?" Dũng asked softly, his voice low and cautious, as if afraid that raising it even slightly might shatter the fragile old man before him.
But the answer he received was even more overwhelming.
Chú Bách suddenly broke into tears.
Not loud sobs—
but the suffocated, strangled kind of crying forged through years of buried pain.
His sobs scraped out of his throat like they had been rusted shut long ago.
"I've always been… nothing but a burden…" he stuttered, each word like a blow to himself.
"I'm a coward… I should've died long ago… Not just on the battlefield… but… far earlier than that."
His voice kept breaking. Every time he tried to continue, his throat tightened, refusing to let him speak the feelings he had held down for years.
"My life… only makes things harder for others. And yet… heaven… still lets me live until now… only to watch all of this—"
He couldn't finish.
The tears kept falling as he covered his face with one trembling hand—whether out of shame or simply to hold back the flood of tears, even he didn't seem to know.
Linh Nhi stopped eating.
The piece of bread froze in her hand as she heard chú Bách's voice crack under despair.
Her eyes softened with sympathy as she looked at both of them.
Because what she saw now was an old man curled up, crying quietly—
and a young man standing helplessly beside him, unable to do anything.
She felt sorrow for the pain chú Bách carried—
and empathy for Thành Dũng's powerlessness.