Nero looked at the corpse as if it were a mere object. The body lay limp, twisted in an unnatural way. Blood slowly trickled from the guard's slashed throat, forming a dark stain on the cold, stone floor. His hand still clutched the tool he had used to end the man's life. Yet, inside him, there was a strange emptiness. Whatever he was supposed to feel had been crushed by something stronger—indifference. Had he always been this way? Had he always been able to kill without emotion?
From the foggy recesses of his memory, a recollection from many years ago surfaced. He was only seven at the time. He sat on a kitchen chair while his mother glared at him in anger. On the floor, trapped, a small mouse struggled. "Finish it," she said, handing him a stick. He did it without hesitation. He struck once, hard, breaking the creature's spine. He remembered the sound of the bones snapping, its cold echo in his mind, but he felt nothing. Maybe a faint relief that it was over. His mother was satisfied. He didn't think much about it. From that moment on, the lives of others were to him like those of small rodents—meaningless. You could even say that the people around him began to resemble NPCs from video games more and more as time passed.
Now, in this dark cell, he felt as if something inside him had finally snapped. He felt neither fear, nor regret, nor relief. He was like an empty vessel, each step filling him more with cold, logical thinking. "It was necessary," he repeated in his mind, as if explaining his actions to himself. "He would have killed me or sold me into slavery if he woke up. It was the only option." But was it really? Was it truly the only way?
He paused for a moment, staring at his own hands—now stained with blood. He tried to find any sign of disgust, doubt, anything at all. Nothing. Just like with the mouse. Maybe even then, as a child, something inside him had formed—an inability to feel empathy for others. Or perhaps it had always been there, waiting for the moment to reveal itself. Now, for the first time, he allowed that part of himself to surface.
"This is what survival looks like," he thought. "Anyone who wants to live must be ready for anything." A new philosophy was beginning to form in his mind. It was no longer just about defending his own life; other people's lives had become mere tools to achieve his goals. As he looked at the dead guard, something inside him began to stir—not just indifference, but a strange, sadistic satisfaction. "He was just an obstacle," he continued his internal deliberations. "He didn't deserve anything more."
Slowly, he started to justify his actions in ways that became more and more convenient for his ego. "Maybe this is how it's supposed to be," he thought. "Maybe people who stand in my way don't have the right to live. If you're weak, your fate is sealed. After all, it's the law of nature—the strongest survive." His reasoning grew increasingly logical, cold, even ruthless.
"I'm not a monster," he repeated to himself. "I'm just someone who does what has to be done." Yet something in his mind was lying. He knew that feeling—that slight pleasure lurking behind the brutality of his actions, as if every move in the game of life and death was also a release. He struck the guard not just because he had to—but because he enjoyed it. And now that he fully realized it, he knew he could do it again. And again.
Staring at the lifeless body, he stopped seeing a person. He saw a tool he had used and no longer needed. Just as he once looked at the mouse, which was no longer a threat, only a useless, dead weight. It was time to move on.
His thoughts began to take on a new shape—there was no room for remorse, no space for compassion. There were only goals and the means to achieve them. And anyone who stood in his way could be reduced to an obstacle. It didn't matter who they were or what they meant. "This is the world," he whispered, though no one heard. "You either survive, or you die. And I... I'm not going to die."
He gripped his makeshift weapon tighter and took his first step toward the exit of the cell. There was no room for doubt in his mind anymore—now, it was only about him and his survival. Anyone who got in his way would just be another obstacle to remove.
Nero backed out of the cell, carefully scanning his surroundings. The cell where he had been imprisoned turned out to be nothing more than a makeshift shed made of wooden planks, set in an open space on the grounds of a long-ruined castle. Only the high, torn walls remained, encircling the area where the fortress once stood. Now, there was only an empty field, overgrown with dry grass, surrounded by silence and abandonment.
The square was vast and shrouded in darkness. A few flickering torches cast a pale, ominous light, creating long shadows that seemed to move with the breeze. He slowly scanned the area. In the center of the square stood a long-extinguished campfire—now just a dead pile of ash and embers, but the traces it left behind indicated it had recently served as a meeting place. Around the campfire, a group of orcs slept, snoring quietly. They were enormous, muscular, their bodies marked with numerous scars. They wore only leather loincloths, and their breaths were heavy, as if exhausted from a long battle.
Next to the campfire, on the ground, was a steel cage—a massive prison with its doors now ajar. Inside the cage, in eerie silence, lay the corpse of a dead elf. Her body was twisted in a grotesque pose, and her eyes, now empty and lifeless, seemed to stare off into the distance. The elf's skin was pale, almost translucent, and her body bore the marks of cruel treatment. Dark bruises encircled her neck, and her face—distorted by pain—was a mere shadow of its former beauty.
But that was not all. Nero looked further, and his eyes fell upon other bodies—dead elf corpses scattered on the filthy ground around the campfire. There were several of them, carelessly strewn about as if they were of no value. All had vacant, dead eyes, and their bodies were soiled, brutally used. Nero could see the signs of rape on their bodies. Pale skin, numerous bruises, torn clothing—everything testified to the cruelty they must have endured before their deaths. The torchlight flickered on their motionless faces, casting a sinister aura, as if the walls of the castle themselves were witnesses to their suffering.
Nero stood for a moment, observing this macabre scene, and his emotions began to churn. He felt no sympathy—according to him, the orcs were stronger. And the elves had failed him with their weakness. What he saw was just another proof of how the world operated. "The world is a place for the strong. The weak are merely meat for the slaughter," he thought. "These women were too weak to survive. They were used and discarded because they had no value." Of course, he knew this thinking was brutal, immoral. But he didn't care. The world he lived in had no room for morality. Only the harsh rules of survival mattered.
His gaze lingered on the bodies of the dead elves, but he felt no sorrow. Instead, he began to ponder what lay ahead. "If I want to survive, I must be ready to do whatever is necessary," he thought, clenching his fists. In his mind, a conviction formed that he could not afford any weakness. "I'm different," he thought. "I won't end up like them. I'm ready to do what it takes to survive." He began to see himself as a being who surpassed others—as someone who would not hesitate to do anything to achieve his goals.
"This is just another proof of how the world works. It's all a game—a game where only those ready for the worst win." His thoughts grew colder, indifferent to the suffering around him. He knew there was no room for sentimentality. These dead women were merely a warning to him—a reminder that only brutality grants power, and weakness leads to doom.
He lifted his gaze and looked at the castle walls. They were tattered, worn down by time, yet still stood on their foundations. It was a symbol of former greatness that had fallen, leaving only a shadow of its former glory. "So it will be with me," Nero thought. "If I am not strong enough, I will end up like this castle—shattered and forgotten."
He glanced around the square again. The orcs slept deeply, their snoring almost rhythmic, echoing between the walls. Nero had to act quickly. He wasn't ready to confront them yet. Not now. There were too many of them, and his sole aim was survival, not dying in a pointless fight. "Not yet," he thought, slowly moving towards the shadows, away from the fire and the sleeping orcs. Every step had to be deliberate, every movement precise. "I need to find an exit before they wake up."
His eyes searched the dark terrain, looking for a way out. On the horizon, he saw the outline of more walls, perhaps a way out of this cursed place. A few torches illuminated a narrow path leading towards one of the breaches in the walls. "This must be my chance," he thought. His mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation. He had to proceed carefully but with determination. In this game, there was no room for mistakes.
-
Nero stealthily moved along the wall, carefully placing each step. The darkness of the night was his ally, and the few flickering torches cast only weak light, which made visibility difficult but also helped him hide from the orcs' gaze. The torchlight did not reach everywhere, so Nero avoided it, moving through the darker parts of the ruins.
With every step, he kept a vigilant eye on his surroundings, alert to every rustle and sound. The orcs still snored by the fire, but Nero knew he had to be cautious. These powerful beasts could wake up at any moment, and he had no desire for a direct confrontation with them. There were too many of them, and he was too exhausted from the events that had led him to this point.
He reached the breach in the wall—a place that had once likely been the gate to the castle. Now, only stones and overgrown remnants of the structure remained. He knelt down, assessing the terrain before him. He needed to be sure there were no hidden guards or traps. Slowly, he drew in a breath, focusing on what he needed to do.
His thoughts briefly drifted to the city, to the place where his troubles had begun. He remembered the two bandits he had encountered there not long ago—one a half-man, half-rat, and the other with a bear-like presence. They were powerful, but most of all treacherous. Nero suspected they had betrayed him. "It must have been them," he thought bitterly. "They sold me to these orcs for a few coins, hoping for an easy profit."
But there was another possibility. Perhaps the orcs had ambushed the two, not the other way around? Maybe the bandits, like him, had been captured and killed? In the camp where he had been imprisoned, there were no signs of rat-like or bear-like half-men. Only the green-skinned orcs with their brutal strength and inhuman savagery. Nero sighed, still uncertain about who was behind it all. But regardless, he had to act; he couldn't let his emotions take over now.
He pressed closer to the wall, peering into the open space before him. The castle walls were now behind him, and he needed to leave the area of the ruined place as quickly as possible. Only the wasteland stretched out before him—dark, inhospitable, silent. For a moment, he stood still, listening for any suspicious sounds. Everything seemed quiet.
When he was sure no one had noticed him, he left the castle grounds. He moved quickly but quietly, trying not to attract attention. He emerged onto a wide field overgrown with tall, dry grass. As he began to traverse this terrain, he still scanned his surroundings nervously, looking for potential threats. He knew that now, outside the castle, he was not safe. There could be more orcs, bandits, or even wild beasts waiting for him to stumble.
His primary goal was to find the city. There, amidst the crowded streets, he could disappear, find a safe place, maybe even allies. He only needed to reach the city, which was a few hours away from his current location.
As he walked across the field, Nero's thoughts drifted back to the past. Were those two bandits really so foolish as to sell him to the orcs? It was possible—they both seemed willing to do anything for a few coins. But there was also the possibility that the orcs had ambushed their group, killed them, and taken Nero as a prisoner. "Maybe it's not that simple," he mused silently. "Maybe they fell victim to the beast themselves." Regardless, it no longer mattered. He was alone now and had to focus solely on himself.
He continued onward, each step taking him farther from the castle ruins. The night was dark, with only the flickering stars in the sky providing light. The torches from the castle had vanished over the horizon, leaving only impenetrable darkness before him. He stayed away from the main paths, knowing he might encounter others there—and at this moment, he preferred to avoid company.
Every step across the wild fields was a challenge. The ground was uneven, covered in tall grass, and hidden beneath it were stones and holes. Nero had to be careful not to stumble and reveal his presence. Every sound, rustle of the grass, creak of branches could be a sign of impending danger.
As he traversed the desolate field, his thoughts began to crystallize. He had to find the city, but once he arrived, what then? Trusting anyone seemed risky now. Bandits were untrustworthy, and the orcs were merciless. Nero had to become someone who operated independently, without sentiment and without trust in others.
The fields stretched on endlessly, and his legs were beginning to feel the fatigue, but he knew he couldn't stop. He could already feel the throbbing pain in his muscles, but with determination, he pressed on, allowing himself no rest. In his mind, one principle dominated: survive at any cost.
Eventually, after hours of marching, the dark fields seemed to lighten slightly, and dark outlines of mountains and forests appeared on the horizon. "Just a little longer," he thought, gritting his teeth. "I have to survive."