It had been a while since he found anything of note. The void stretched endlessly, a suffocating silence accompanying his every step.
Then, as he quietly explored, he stumbled upon a strange creature.
It was massive, towering over him, its shape resembling something out of myth—a werewolf. Its thick, matted fur glistened with fresh blood, and it crouched low, gnawing on something.
Curiosity gnawed at him, but so did fear. He squinted, focusing on what the beast was eating. His heart sank when he realized—it was another human.
A wave of nausea overtook him, or at least it should have. But his body, bound by its strange new nature, didn't respond. No bile rose in his throat, no shiver of revulsion coursed through him. It was a reminder of how far he had drifted from being human.
He stayed frozen, not daring to make a sound, hoping the werewolf would leave. This thing's too strong, he thought. I won't survive a fight.
One minute passed.
Two minutes.
He finally let out a breath, cautiously opening his eyes—only to see the werewolf standing right next to him.
The creature's snout moved, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air around him. Its glowing amber eyes gleamed with a primal intelligence, and he noticed something else: the beast was injured.
A sword was lodged deep in its abdomen, its blade stained with black ichor. But even as he watched, he could see the wound slowly closing, the werewolf's body regenerating before his eyes.
He had one chance.
Gripping a nearby rock, he hurled it into the darkness. The sharp clatter drew the creature's attention, and it turned swiftly toward the noise.
He wasted no time. Lunging forward, he wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword embedded in the werewolf's flesh and shoved it deeper.
The beast howled in rage and whipped its head around, snapping its jaws at him. Its fangs clamped down on his left arm, and he heard the sickening crunch of bone. Yet, once again, he felt nothing—no pain, no sensation at all.
Fueled by sheer desperation, he slammed his forehead against the werewolf's skull, again and again. Each impact reverberated through him, but he didn't stop. He pushed the sword deeper with every blow, forcing it to tear through muscle and bone.
The struggle felt endless, but finally, the beast collapsed with a guttural growl, its body going limp.
He staggered back, staring at the lifeless corpse. His arm hung uselessly by his side, mangled beyond recognition. His body was a mess, and his mind felt even worse.
Was it worth it? he wondered, exhaustion weighing on him. His family's words echoed in his mind: "Always strike first when there's a chance."
Before he could dwell on it further, the stone tablet he carried began to glow.
A message appeared:
"You have defeated an opponent far stronger than you.
You have gained Victory Medal x1."
He stared at the glowing tablet, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
"All of that... for one medal?" he muttered, shaking his head.
Suddenly, the book the old woman had given him began to glow as well. New writing etched itself across its blank pages:
"Do not use the reward until you have achieved 100 Victory Medals."
"What?" he exclaimed aloud. "But why?"
Questions flooded his mind. Should he trust the old woman? Was she using him as a pawn in some grand scheme? Or… was there more to this bond of Victory than he understood?
He shook his head. Thinking too much wouldn't change anything. It wasn't like he could use the medal for anything right now anyway.
Looking down, he noticed his mangled arm. It was regenerating, the flesh knitting itself back together as though time itself had reversed. The sight was both fascinating and unnerving.
"How?" he whispered. "How is this even possible?"
For a moment, he thought of his parents. Perhaps they had known something—something about what he was, about the stories they used to tell him. If only he had asked back then.
But there was no going back now.
He stood, staring into the endless darkness ahead, gripping the sword he had pulled from the werewolf's corpse.