Pain throbbed behind his eyes as consciousness slowly returned.
He lay twisted on the cold floor, his skull pounding as if someone had driven a hammer into it.
Nausea churned in his gut, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. A dull roar filled his ears, making his head spin.
A sharp, rust-like scent filled his nose. He touched his head. His fingers came away wet and sticky. Blood.
Despite the fog clouding his mind, he forced himself upright. His vision swam as he braced against the floor, struggling to keep his balance.
Broken fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The room resembled a research facility, but violent streaks of gore smeared the white walls.
His stomach lurched. Bodies littered the floor—twisted limbs, torn uniforms, and dark pools of blood spreading across the tiles.
He gagged, but only bile rose.
What the hell!
"Ugh… what a mess." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and hauled himself to his feet.
Deep gashes carved into the walls left no room for doubt—something horrific had happened here. Just moments ago, he had jumped out of the helicopter.
A fragmented memory flashed through his mind. Wind roaring in his ears. A helicopter door. A jump into the sunlight.
His wide, bloodshot eyes scanned the room with unsettling detachment. He staggered forward, weaving between the corpses.
Flames erupted from machinery to his right, setting off fire alarms. Sprinklers roared to life, mixing water with blood and spreading it like ink in a pool.
A blue screen suddenly flickered into existence before his eyes. He frowned in surprise.
"What is this?" He stared at the blue interface. "Is this… a status window?"
Of course… a status window.
________________________________________
NAME: Aren Donovan
AGE: 16
TITLES ACQUIRED: None
NYX RANK: Unknown
GENERAL STATS: [Endurance SV 5], [Strength SV 6], [Ether SV 10], [Intelligence SV 15], [Agility SV 6], [Perception SV 8], [Mana SV 0]
SPECIAL ABILITIES: [Unlimited Void
PERSONAL SKILLS: [Close Combat
ELEMENTAL AFFINITY: ■■■
STIGMA: ■■■
________________________________________
"Aren Donovan… Aren Donovan…"
He muttered the name, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut. He strained to place the name. When he pressed his palm against his abdominal gash to stem the blood, a sudden memory made his eyes snap open.
Wait—wasn't that the character from that novel? The Legend of Heroes.
He clicked his tongue, scoffing.
"Is this it? Just like those web novels?" he whispered. "Possessing a character from the story… Fantastic."
In the novel, Aren was Amy's older brother. Amy was a key member of the novel's protagonist, Damien's party.
A minor character… who committed a massacre and ended up in IMFA prison.
If the story were still on track, Aren Donovan would soon be captured. And once he entered IMFA… he would never come out alive.
This isn't IMFA. He was certain of that.
"Why couldn't I wake up somewhere nice?" Irritation flared, sharp and sudden. "And why remember this only after killing so many people?"
He trudged through corpse-littered corridors. The elevators were dead; he turned to the stairs.
"Why does this never end?"
The staircase felt infinite. He was already gasping, vision swimming from blood loss. Nausea twisted in his gut. He slumped against the wall, fighting for breath.
"Just… a little farther." He choked out the words, forcing himself upright.
If I collapse here, it's over.
If his memories were correct, the Avalon Wardens or an Aegis squad were already closing in.
He reached the top of the stairs to find a terminal-like area. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he boarded the waiting freight train.
The cockpit smelled of damp diesel, burning his nostrils. The control panel was a mess—rusted buttons, cracked gauges, and an aging touchscreen.
"Just a diesel locomotive…" he muttered. "My [engineering] skill must be kicking in."
He uncoupled the freight cars, flipped the safety cover, and slammed the emergency start.
The engine growled before rumbling to life. The train shuddered beneath his feet.
"Good."
He released the brakes. Compressed air hissed as the system disengaged.
The locomotive crept forward.
Aren gripped the lever and pushed the throttle. The train rolled into the darkness like a waking beast.
Good. As long as it moves, I have a chance.
"Let's see… Sector C. I need to reach the terminal in Sector A."
He glanced at the wall map, confirming his destination.
The train sped through the darkness. He slowed it to a stop just shy of Sector A. Brakes screeched. Aren listened to the silence.
Nothing.
His heightened perception picked up no nearby movement. The area was as deserted as Sector C. He stepped off, hurrying along the tracks, guided by the locomotive's headlights.
He reached Sector A and climbed. White fluorescent lights illuminated the path to another staircase—a short one.
At the top, a wooden door stood waiting. He pushed it open to reveal a long hallway. Lit by soft yellow lamps, it looked more like an old manor than a research facility.
Inside, only the sound of rain lashing against the windows broke the quiet.
"They haven't reached this place yet," he murmured.
Lightning split the sky, rattling the windows with a thunderous crack. He winced, clutching his side.
"…I need to treat this wound before they arrive."
The hallway was a gauntlet of empty rooms until he finally found a bathroom. He didn't care that his blood smeared the white surfaces as he rummaged through the cabinets; his focus was singular. He spotted a first-aid kit on the top shelf and ripped it down.
Gauze, bandages, painkillers, peroxide, and sterile gloves—he grabbed everything he needed. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt, pressing a clean pad firmly against the abdominal gash.
He breathed through the pain, biting his lip to stifle a groan. He turned on the faucet, washed his hands, donned the gloves, and doused the wound with peroxide.
Stitches were necessary, but he had none. Sterile closure strips would have to suffice. With the wound sealed, he applied fresh gauze and wrapped the bandage tight enough to hold, yet loose enough to breathe.
He pushed the supplies aside and faced the mirror. A pale, haggard stranger stared back—a mask of calm.
Blood-red eyes caught the light, framed by messy, dark-teal hair that looked almost black. Crimson streaks stained the left side of his face.
"Haah… these eyes," he sighed.
The bright crimson irises held vertical pupils—sharp, unnatural, and wrong.
These don't look like human eyes.
"So I really have become Aren Donovan…"
The murderer who was destined to die in IMFA prison.