Those first indeterminable nights adapting to the punishing weight and rhythm of the miner's ax, fragmented notions began materializing in Northern's mind amid the scant respites of rest and meager sustenance.
The first notion was that he wasn't alone— other wretched souls, perhaps human or bestial in nature, had surely suffered similar brutal captivity elsewhere in this subterranean prison camp, enslaved to mine these strange red crystals for purposes as unclear as their jailer's motives.
Speaking of those peculiar crystals, from the moment he woke up, Northern had sensed a disturbing kinship between their ruddy hue and the coagulated sea of blood painting the lethal wasteland.
Though he'd initially dismissed the notion as mere shock-addled delusion, as each swing of his ax drove deeper, it only reinforced the sickening twinges of recognition.
For the black-cored crystals appeared to resonate with a sort of...sanguine malevolence.
The further Northern hacked, the more the bloodlust solidified into an illusionary edge slicing his already flayed skin with every fatigued descent of the blade.
His brutish overseer, as usual, showed neither interest nor awareness of this disturbing phenomenon.
Northern struggled in vain to work around it— the relentless grind permitted no pauses until the hill had been thoroughly quarried.
The process unfolded in ruthless stages: the first was batting aside the crimson "shell" encasing the crystals with heavy, thunderous downswings (a feat the monster had achieved with negligent ease), before systematically excavating the destructive cores through exhausting, piecemeal shattering strikes.
Whether those scarlet slopes stemmed from prolonged seepage of the crystals' sinister energies, or not, remained an increasingly moot mystery in the face of his ceaseless toiling.
The more Northern contemplated the writhing auras permeating his grim yield, the more it consumed what tattered composure he retained, as the grimmest soul-peril facing this timid boy went beyond the back-breaking labor, scourging wounds, malnutrition, and sleep deprivation.
Rather, Northern's very sense of identity… of personhood… gradually began unraveling amid the numbing rhythm of deprivation, terror, and unrelenting exertion.
Naturally, at first, he had furiously resisted the creeping dissociation, determined to cling to his individuality with every tattered scrap of willpower.
This defiant spark revolutionized his fragmented notions towards a new, feverish hope that blazed in his chest like banked yet smoldering coals— unrealistic, born of vengeance yet undeniably alluring.
For with each agonizing cycle of wounds, starvation, and near-perpetual consciousness, the battered captive's seething resentment toward his jailer mutated into a powerful, visceral desire for revenge.
At first, it had merely been a bitter coping mechanism to reduce his suffering, then the yearning calcified into a solemn vow the first time Northern glimpsed the beast's aura flicker with plain murderous intent— a vampiric pall confirming that his keeper ranked among the apex predators, on par with the dreaded Night terror itself, if not mightier.
That first inkling that Northern might possess the capacity to oppose such an eldritch horror, however ridiculous, solidified his daydreams into almost religious zeal.
He silently swore vengeance, no matter the odds or insignificance of his thwarted existence.
The crucial instant materialized one fateful moment while he toiled through a haze of splitting blisters, seeping injuries, and excruciating muscle aches that threatened to immobilize his limbs at any moment.
The ax slipped from Northern's bloody grip, impacting the cavern floor with a dull clank that prompted an immediate reaction.
The looming sentinel turned toward the lapse with a menacing growl as it clenched its own blade with predatory intent.
Northern's eyes met its abyssal depths, recognizing yet again that unmistakable flicker promising a devastating consequence.
Enough. He was broken. Teetering on the edge of utter defeat after weathering relentless nights that eventually blurred into a kaleidoscope of torment.
Pain and despair welled up from deep within his core, mercilessly crushing his already fragile defenses.
The ax finally slipped completely from his grasp as he sank to his knees.
'I can't… continue this any longer. Death is… preferable...'
All the stubborn bluster, the relentless internal pep-talks insisting that this was merely temporary, a fleeting hardship before the agony miraculously ceased— those coping fictions shattered like spun glass.
In that sobering moment, Northern realized the cowering lies he'd told himself to endure a hell no human should suffer.
Either his prior resilience had been a valiant stance against despair… or this moment of feral resignation was the true cowardice, an excuse to surrender rather than persevere.
He could no longer tell the difference.
A turbulent torrent of madness, pain, and loss of identity consumed his consciousness.
If death was the only escape from this perpetual torment, then he was finally ready to embrace its void release.
The monster unleashed another guttural growl and raised its ax high, sensing a kill.
Northern didn't even try evading the lethal arc despite his father's meager combat tutelage screaming from some primal depth.
However, in the last minute, his body instinctively managed to muster a feeble sidestep, his legs threatening to buckle, as the brutal blade sheared through his tattered flesh in a blaze of searing agony.
Blood gushed from the wound as the beast wrenched its ax free.
Wailing, Northern collapsed as the harrowing reality washed over him.
'I'm...going to die...'
His vital reserves rapidly drained into the widening scarlet pool even as the sneering monster loomed above, the pitiless executioner fixing to deliver the coup de grace.
In those transcendent moments, Northern's two lives flashed before his eyes vividly— first, his illness-addled struggle, then his second awakening in Tra-el with the resolve to seize a vibrant existence by achieving something extraordinary, be it academic brilliance or martial supremacy.
Yet here he knelt in a gory pool of his own blood, clawing desperately at that discarded, quietly banked hope like it was a treacherous life raft, despite his steadfast convictions.
The harsh reality couldn't be clearer, or more wretched— and still, confronted by its monstrous harbinger, the abject truth remained that Northern lacked the stoic courage to fully embrace oblivion, to relinquish even that tenuous, self-deluded grasp on the dream of perseverance.
For he harbored too many insidious fears even as his lifeblood seeped away: the fear of experiencing death itself at the claws of this malign goliath.
The fear of never again glimpsing his loved ones… his parents, his unborn sister.
The fear of failure, mediocrity, of being just another face lost to the void.
But perhaps the most unpleasant was the fear of what unholy uncertainty awaited him beyond this visceral torment.
And those fears...those limitations...proved his undoing.
As the jagged furrow in his shoulder radiated with searing torment, a piercing scream of anguish and rage tore from Northern's throat, contorting his ashen features into a primal visage of mortal terror.
The monster merely sneered and brought its ax handle down in a brutal swing, smashing Northern's consciousness into blessed infinite darkness.