Noctis awoke with a gasp—lungs tight, eyes wild in the pale slant of dawn. Pain crashed through him, molten and raw; each breath scraped his ribs, and every twitch of his arm or leg fired agony so sharp it stole the air from his lungs. His left arm lay twisted, swelling hideously against the muddy stones; his right leg stabbed with every faintest movement, broken where bone pressed wrong beneath bruised skin.
As he forced himself to roll onto his back, the pain made his vision shimmer. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with dirt and tears. For a moment, the old weakness threatened: dark memories telling him he was alone, abandoned, finished.
But inside, something refused to die.
Gritting his teeth through a scream, Noctis clawed at the bricks to drag himself upright. His broken limbs flared with new torture—he groaned, voice hoarse, chest tight as he whispered, "I want to live." It came out broken, almost silent—but true.
Shuddering, he searched for anything useful: splintered wood for a splint, dirty cloth to bind the ache. Each minute was a battle, each inch forward a war on despair. When he winced and nearly fainted from the pain, he whispered again, this time fierce and defiant: "I want to live." The words were a lifeline—he held onto them with every shred of battered will.
As agony sent him gasping, he repeated his desperate prayer. "I want to live. I want to survive, no matter what." The world bled—bitter, cold, indifferent—but Noctis's voice grew stronger. Whenever the white-hot pain threatened to steal him away, he muttered it over and over. "I want to live. I want to live. I want to live."
Each time he crawled, every movement that made him choke on tears and sweat, he said it:
"I want to live."
"I want to live."
"I want to live."
It became everything—a shield, a promise, a weapon against the loneliness and betrayal and the battered body that tried to fail him. Inch by painful inch, Noctis forged his suffering into stubborn, unbreakable resolve, voice ragged but clear:
"I'm not finished. Not yet. I want to live."
And as the light grew slowly stronger, so did he—every breath stitching together a new beginning, every whispered vow another step away from death and despair.
Noctis dragged himself through the brambles and broken fence, each painful crawl stringing together his stubborn mantra. "I want to live," he whispered again and again, teeth clenched, voice raw.
When the tiger appeared, monstrous and silent, Noctis froze—its golden eyes locked onto him, promising death. The sword weighed heavy in his shaking hand as blood oozed through his torn sleeve.
As the beast crept closer, Noctis stared it down, forcing strength into his battered voice. "You're hungry. I know that pain," he croaked, every word trembling with hurt. "But I won't die here. Not for you. Not after everything—"
The tiger prowled, muscles rippling, preparing to pounce.
Noctis braced the sword, even as agony flared through his body. "It's you or me, beast. I can't let it be me—not now. I want to live. I have to live. I'll do whatever it takes."
The tiger lunged, and Noctis swung wide. Steel bit fur—the air filled with a savage snarl and fresh blood. As the creature whirled and slashed at his leg, Noctis hissed through tears, "You don't get to take me. Too many already have."
He sprawled back, clutching the sword's hilt with wild, desperate fingers as the tiger's jaws descended. "This world tried to finish me," he muttered at the beast's face, "but now it's your turn to lose. I won't be the one that dies."
At the last instant, the sword caught between the tiger's jaws—driven deep by its own force. Noctis turned, blinded by the spray, but forced himself to look as the beast toppled, death trembling on its tongue.
Noctis pressed his forehead to the bloodied blade, panting. He looked into the empty golden eyes and, voice barely a whisper, muttered:
"I wanted to live. So you had to die."
The world was silent now, save for Noctis's rattling breath and the steady thump of his heart—stronger, colder, and unbroken.
Noctis's labored breathing. He lay half-conscious in the mud, the tiger's shadow still warm beside him. His heart drummed wild and uneven; pain roared through his broken body, each breath cutting like a blade. The sword lay a few feet away, slick with blood. Every nerve screamed that this was the end, that his body—mended by will alone—had reached its limit.
He tried to move his leg. Agony exploded behind his eyes. "No…" he gasped, coughing blood into his hand. "Not now… not after everything."
His voice broke, trembling with both defiance and despair. "I don't care what it takes… I want to live!"
Then, through the haze, he saw it—the strange stone he'd carried since that forgotten day by the smithy. It had tumbled from his pocket during the fight and now pulsed faintly in the mud, a heartbeat of light in the gloom. Noctis reached toward it, fingers trembling. The glow brightened, alive beneath the rain-slick ground.
At first, soft threads—thin and shivering—rose from the earth. Then they multiplied, weaving through the air in spirals of blinding beauty. White and black and gold threads danced together like living veins of light, each twisting around the other, breathing, pulsing, yearning.
Their glow spread out over the tiger's body and then over him, brushing along his skin. The wind grew heavy with static; the stench of iron and rain mixed with something ancient and electric. Each thread seemed to hum with its own rhythm—white for warmth, gold for power, black for fear and memory.
Noctis could barely breathe. The glowing filaments flowed through him now—curling around his arms and legs, seeping into his wounds, threading through his blood. The pain flared beyond human measure, until he thought he might tear apart under its weight.
He screamed, voice breaking, echoing off the forest walls. "It hurts—! But I won't stop! I won't!"