Chapter 65: Ghost of distant past.
'I don't remember what happened, but I feel so tired for some odd reason. Maybe because I'm sick... yeah, it could be that,' Ren thought, his consciousness drifting back to reality like a leaf on a slow-moving stream.
Ren opened his eyes, and the world slowly came into focus. The ceiling above him, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air, the sterile white walls—it all felt familiar, almost too familiar. There was a sense of déjà vu, as if this place was a fragment of a memory he couldn't quite piece together.
'Yes... maybe I did come here before...'
He got on his feet, the cold tiles beneath them sending a shiver up his spine. Ren pushed himself up, struggling to steady himself. The world around him was stable, yet his legs trembled as though he were standing on a tightrope. Every step felt precarious, and with each one, he feared he might fall, consumed by the crimson waters swirling beneath the surface of his thoughts.
The water was a disturbing mix of blood red and alcoholic red, an ocean that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions. The horizon was an indistinct blur where the sky bled into the sea, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the pungent odor of alcohol. It was a surreal landscape, a manifestation of his inner turmoil, a boundless ocean that mirrored the storm of emotions churning within him.
Ren stood at the edge of this ocean, his reflection in the water distorted, as if his very soul was warped by the weight of his memories. The waves lapped at his feet, each one leaving a stinging coldness that seeped into his bones. The water, though familiar, was unsettling—like a memory that should be forgotten but refused to stay buried.
As he gazed out across the vast expanse, images from a life he once lived began to surface, distorted and hazy, like reflections on the water's surface. They were memories of another version of himself—an adult, a man devoid of emotion, a mere tool in the hands of others. A puppet whose strings were pulled by unseen hands, manipulated by those who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end.
'Is this really what I became?' he wondered, the thought gnawing at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch. He saw himself as an older man, moving with a cold precision, carrying out orders with the detached efficiency of a machine. The man in those memories executed targets without hesitation, his hands stained with the blood of countless lives. Yet, despite the mask of calmness he wore, there was a void in his eyes, a hollowness that swallowed any trace of humanity.
This adult Ren had mastered the art of deception, mimicking the emotions of those around him, not out of empathy, but out of necessity. It was his survival mechanism in a world that demanded obedience and loyalty. He had become a perfect actor, wearing a mask that hid the emptiness inside. Each mission he completed stripped away another layer of his humanity, leaving him more and more disconnected from the person he once was.
Ren watched as this older version of himself navigated a series of missions, each one more grueling than the last. The faces of his victims blurred together, their screams and pleas reduced to a distant echo in the recesses of his mind. He had heard their desperate cries—the pleas of men, women, and even children—but they had all become meaningless noise. The words, once powerful and filled with emotion, had lost their impact, dulled by the countless times he had ignored them.
"Please don't kill me..."
"Spare me... I have children to take care of..."
"I don't want to die!!"
"Please don't kill my mommy!!"
"Please don't hurt daddy!!"
"Please spare my son!!"
"Don't touch my daughter!! Kill me if you want!!"
Each plea had been a cry for mercy, but Adult Ren had learned to suppress any flicker of guilt or remorse. He had buried those feelings deep within, locking them away in the darkest corners of his mind. But now, as he stood on the edge of this ocean of blood and alcohol, those voices echoed in his ears, louder than ever before.
"How did it come to this?" Ren wondered aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper, carried away by the wind. The weight of his past existence pressed down on him like a physical force, making it hard to breathe. He remembered the brutal training, the harsh lessons that had shaped him into the perfect instrument of destruction. They had taught him to view himself as expendable, as nothing more than an asset to be used and discarded. He had been molded into a tool for others to wield, and in the process, he had lost himself.
Ren saw the empty eyes of his older self—eyes that had seen too much, endured too much. The spark of life that had once defined him was gone, replaced by a hollow shell. He had been stripped of his identity, reduced to a mere functionary in a grand, uncaring machine. The person he had once been was buried beneath layers of pain, regret, and resignation.
But now, standing at the edge of this ocean, he felt something stirring within him. There was a flicker of hope, a glimmer of possibility. He had been given an opportunity—a chance to change the fate that awaited him. The fate that wasn't something he wanted to accept. The life of the man he saw before him was not the life he wanted to live. He had a choice now, a chance to leave that future behind as nothing more than a distant memory.
He looked down at his feet, the water still lapping at them. The mix of blood red and alcoholic red hadn't changed, but Ren felt that something was different. There was a shift in the air, a change in the energy around him. It was subtle, but it was there—a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, he could alter the course of his life.
And the reason was simple.
"Shimo... thanks," Ren murmured, the words escaping his lips unbidden. As he spoke, he felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. The chaotic storm of emotions within him began to subside, replaced by a quiet resolve.
But before he could fully enjoy the moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder, a grip so firm it felt as if his shoulder might break under the pressure. He turned around, his heart racing, and was met with a sight he hadn't expected.
Standing behind him was a man—a man who looked eerily familiar, yet completely foreign. His eyes were hollow, devoid of any emotion, and his face was set in a cold, impassive expression.
"What are you doing here...?" Ren asked, his voice trembling slightly as his eyes widened in shock. The man before him seemed like a ghost, a phantom from a life Ren had left behind. But there was no denying the familiarity of his presence.
The man looked at Ren, his hollow eyes boring into his soul. There was no warmth in his gaze, only an emptiness that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.
"Remember..." the man began to speak, his voice rough and hoarse, like the sound of a blade scraping against stone. His words were like a blanket filled with thorns, wrapping around Ren in a painful embrace. "Remember to not accept warmth. We have already been stabbed in the back. So make sure to not accept warmth. Never. You don't want to hurt yourself again."
As the man spoke, the ocean surged around Ren, the waters rising up to engulf him. The crimson waves wrapped around his body, pulling him down into the depths. The water was suffocating, its coldness piercing through him like needles. He tried to fight against it, to swim to the surface, but it was futile. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank.
The arms of those he had killed seemed to reach out from the depths, their cold, clammy hands dragging him further down. They pulled him into a world of redness, a place where the screams of both the innocent and the guilty filled the air. The cries of his victims echoed in his ears, their voices a haunting chorus of pain and despair.
Ren's vision blurred as the oxygen was snatched from his lungs. The world around him became a chaotic swirl of colors and sounds, a nightmarish landscape where reality and memory blended together in a terrifying amalgam.
But just as he felt himself slipping away, Ren woke up. His body jerked upright, covered in a cold sweat, his breathing ragged and shallow. He looked around, his heart pounding in his chest, and was met with the familiar sight of his bedroom walls. The soft light filtering through the curtains brought a sense of relief, grounding him in the present.
He let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The dream—no, the memory—had been so vivid, so real, that it left him shaken to his core.
But as the remnants of sleep faded away, he was left with a question that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
"...Who was that man?" Ren muttered to himself, trying to recall the face, the voice, the hollow eyes. But the memory was already slipping away, becoming distant and blurry, like a dream that faded with the morning light.
He couldn't remember who it was. He couldn't remember the details of their conversation or the meaning behind the man's words. But there was a lingering sense of unease, a feeling that the man was someone important, someone connected to him in a way he couldn't quite understand.
The memories from that life, that existence, were distant, yet so very close. They hovered at the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach,