Emerging from the woman's house, feeling a strange blend of resolve and dread settle within him. The horror he had witnessed and the gnawing hunger that had almost overwhelmed him had given rise to a new clarity. He needed to survive, but more than that, he needed to understand the world he had been thrust into.
As he looked up at the sky, the clouds had mostly receded, allowing him to see the village more clearly. The houses, now visible in the soft light, appeared even more forsaken. Their doors hung off hinges, walls were splattered with blood, and corpses littered the muddy streets. Driven by a gnawing hunger, he made his way toward another house, hoping to find something to eat.
Inside, he discovered a few stale, hard loaves of bread and a jug of water. His hunger immediately overtook him, and he pounced on the meager provisions. Biting into the dry, tasteless bread, he found it difficult to chew. Thinking quickly, he dipped the bread into the water, softening it enough to swallow.
After eating his fill, he ventured outside to explore the rest of the village. He clung to a faint hope that he might find someone still alive. However, as he moved from house to house, that hope slowly dwindled. Every house he entered revealed only the dead. The village was littered with corpses—both villagers and soldiers, men, women, and children—lying lifeless and abandoned.
Tired and disappointed, he sank to his knees but quickly pushed himself back up. "I have to keep moving. I can't survive here," he whispered, his voice barely more than a croak. "It looks like I need to leave this village. There's no one alive, and I can't find any answers here."
Finally, after what felt like hours of searching, Aldric came to a crossroads at the edge of the village. Two paths led out—one to the north, the other to the south. He studied both paths carefully, trying to determine which one might offer him the best chance of survival.
The southern path was littered with half-washed bloodstains, remnants of what must have been a massacre. Footsteps, half-erased by the rain, led to and from the village, mingling with the tracks of horses. The bodies scattered around were of both villagers and the soldiers.
In contrast, the northern path showed far fewer signs of recent violence. A sparse scattering of footprints suggested that some villagers may have fled in that direction. The path itself was little more than a footpath, overgrown and poorly maintained. "Perhaps some of the villagers escaped this way," Aldric reasoned. "If they did, then maybe I can use this path to leave the village as well."
But the sun was already setting, casting long shadows over the village. The light was fading, and with it, any hope of safely navigating the forest. He felt a strange sense of calm as he watched the sun sink below the horizon. The blood-red light bathed the village in an eerie glow, painting the world in shades of crimson and black. "Tomorrow," he decided. "I'll leave tomorrow. I need to rest first. I'll need to be ready for whatever comes next."
He returned to the house where he had found the bread, gathering what remained of the food and water. Then, he made his way to a house that seemed relatively intact. Inside, he found a bed—old and musty, but still a bed. It was more than he had hoped for.
While sitting on the bed, he started thinking about all the weird things that had happened since he arrived here, 'What if I am not in a different world, but actually in the past of earth' he thought, 'If I go by the appearances of the corpses and the village's architectural design, it resembles mediaeval Europe. I can't be sure right now as I haven't spoken to any of the natives. If this really is earth of the past, then how did I get these weird abilities?'
"I think I should confirm this ability first. What if it was just a one-time thing?" With that resolve, he went to the kitchen and found a knife that seemed sharp enough to cut flesh easily. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blade. His heart pounded in his chest, fear clawing at him as he imagined what he was about to do. "I have to know," he repeated, trying to convince himself. "I have to know if it was real, if it wasn't just some fluke."
He took a deep breath and brought the knife to his palm. But as the blade touched his skin, he hesitated. Fear surged through him, paralyzing his hand.
"What if it doesn't work?" The thought came unbidden. "What if I die here, bleeding out like an idiot because I was too curious for my own good?"
But he couldn't back down now. He needed to know. Steeling himself, he made a quick, shallow cut across his palm. Pain flared through his hand, sharp and immediate, followed by a steady flow of blood. His heart lurched as he saw the blood pooling in his palm, a wave of panic crashing over him as it spilled onto the floor.
"What have I done?" Panic seized him as the wound continued to bleed, the crimson flow showing no signs of stopping. "What if this is it? What if this time, I really do die?"
His mind raced, searching for a way to stop the bleeding, to save himself. But as he watched, something incredible happened. The wound—slowly at first, then more rapidly—began to close. The bleeding stopped, and the torn flesh knitted itself back together, leaving only a faint scar that quickly faded away.
He started at his hand in disbelief for a few seconds. "Hahahaha... This ability is truly astonishing." He muttered, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. As he gazed at his now unblemished hand, the last traces of the wound completely gone, a creeping dread settled in. "what kind of monster have I become?"