After gazing at his hand for quite some time, he suddenly felt very hungry. 'Strange, I just ate some bread not too long ago and I'm hungry again... Hmm,' he thought. "I understand now. It's because of my ability that I became so hungry. So, there are downsides to this ability as well," He said, his gaze fixed on his now unblemished hand.
"Hunger isn't a big problem for now, but the pain is. It's too much to handle. I can't do anything about it, though," he said dejectedly. "If I'm going to survive here, I'll have to get used to it. But that's a problem for later. First, I need to eat some of these unappetizing loaves of bread to ease my hunger," he muttered, pulling out two loaves from his makeshift cloth bag.
After eating his fill of stale bread, he finally lay down, hoping to get some rest. Exhaustion overtook him quickly, and he fell into a deep sleep. But suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he found himself back on the same battlefield. The sights, sounds, and smells of war assaulted his senses, the terror and pain as vivid as before. "Why… why am I here again?" he whispered in horror. He ran through the mud and blood, screaming for it to stop, for someone to help him, but there was no escape. He slipped and fell, his body coated in muck.
The soldier appeared once more, looming over him with a sword raised to strike. Panic surged as he tried to run, but his legs refused to obey. His pupils dilated as the soldier reached him, an evil smirk visible beneath bloodthirsty eyes that gleamed from behind the helmet. The raised sword, suddenly came slashing down towards his neck.
"No!" With a strangled scream, he jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. He sat upright, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was dark, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. But then he heard the caw of a crow outside the window, and reality came crashing back. He was alive, and it had only been a dream.
But the fear didn't leave him. Wiping the sweat from his brow, and staring at the crow perched on the windowsill. Its dark eyes seemed to bore into his soul, as if it knew something he didn't. Then, with a flap of its wings, the crow took off into the sky, leaving him alone in the pre-dawn light.
Calming his ragged breathing, he rose from the bed, splashing cool water from a bucket onto his face. The sensation of the fresh, clean water was a welcome respite from the grime and horrors that had assaulted him in his nightmare. He gazed out the window, watching the sun slowly rise, a sense of calm began to take root within him.
He stepped outside, the cool morning breeze washing over him. The village was still and silent, the lingering stench of death faint but present. However, the rising sun cast a golden hue over the landscape, giving the scene an almost surreal sense of peace. He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs, and for a moment, he allowed himself to remember his previous life.
The memories came unbidden, slipping through the cracks in his resolve like water through a dam. He remembered the city he had lived in—gray, polluted, always bustling with noise and people. The air had been thick with smog, the streets crowded with cars and buses, the buildings towering and oppressive. Yet, amid the chaos, there had been a peculiar comfort, a sense of familiarity in the monotony of it all.
College had been a struggle. Socially awkward and often alone, he had buried himself in his studies, hoping to find some purpose in the endless lectures and assignments. But there had been little joy in it, only a persistent feeling of isolation, of being out of place in a world that never seemed to notice him.
"What would they think if they saw me now?" He wondered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Would they even know I'm gone? Would they care? Or would my absence go unnoticed, just another face lost in the sea of the world's indifference?"
He shook his head, forcing the memories back into the recesses of his mind. This wasn't the time to dwell on the past. He was here now, in this strange, grim world, and he had to find a way to survive. Dwelling on what had been would only distract him from what needed to be done.
After partaking in a sparse breakfast of those unappetizing stale bread and freshly boiled water, he began to prepare for his journey. He gathered what little he had, a few remaining loaves of bread, a leather bag filled of boiled water, and the sword he had found earlier. The leather scabbard he had picked up was old and worn, but it would serve its purpose for now. He wrapped his supplies in a makeshift bag made of simple cloth, tying it securely so he could carry it over his shoulder.
"I should bathe before I go," he thought, looking down at his mud-stained clothes and hands. But when he approached the village well, the sight of the bloated corpses floating in the water made his stomach turn. The thought of using that water for anything, let alone bathing, was quickly discarded. "I'll find water elsewhere," he decided, turning away from the well with a shudder.
With his supplies packed and his sword at his side, he made his way toward the northern path. The village, once a place of horror, now seemed eerily quiet as he walked through its empty streets. He paused at the edge of the village, glancing back one last time at the place that had marked his beginning in this world. The memories of what had happened here, the bloodshed, the fear, the pain, they would remain with him, a constant reminder of the world he now inhabited. Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the village and began his journey down the northern path.