Driven from the village, Lasron fled headlong into the gloomy surrounding forest. Horror, guilt over the deaths of the three villagers, and the bitter betrayal of the System threw his mind into a tangled mess. He couldn't comprehend why his kindness had led to death, why the System had set such a cruel task - turning him into an unwilling executioner. He had accidentally killed, and now he was hated and cast out like a harbinger of doom by the very people he had tried to help.
He found a dense, ancient tree, hiding himself in its shadows, trying to curl up as small as possible. His body trembled incessantly, not just from the cold but from fear, choked indignation, and exhaustion.
The wounds from the villagers' stones and blows began to throb painfully, but that physical pain was nothing compared to the torment tearing at his soul. He sat there, huddled, tears silently tracing paths down his grimy face. Why him? Why did he have to endure these horrific trials? From Zone 1 with its deadly traps, to Zone 2 with its bloody arena, and now this place, each trial seemed to push him deeper into hell, eroding what little humanity he had left.
Exhausted and desperate, Lasron drifted off into a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep. He dreamed of the dead villagers, their eyes looking at him reproachfully, whispering curses. He dreamed of the Red Viper, the Bloodbat, the Werewolf, tearing him limb from limb to the barbaric laughter of the villagers.
When Lasron was jolted awake by a strange noise and torchlight shining in his face, it was pitch dark. He felt his limbs heavy, unable to move. He opened his eyes wide in panic. Under the flickering torchlight, dozens of familiar village faces surrounded him, their eyes no longer holding gratitude or fear, but a cold hatred, the glee of impending revenge. He had been tightly bound with thick ropes, tied securely to the tree trunk, sometime while he was unconscious.
"He's awake!" a burly man, one who had lost his wife and child to that poisoned meat, shouted, his voice thick with fury. "Revenge! He must pay for his crimes! Blood for blood!"
"He's a demon! He brought disaster to our village!" a woman wailed tragically, pointing an accusing finger at Lasron.
Lasron tried to explain, his voice hoarse, "No... I didn't mean to... it was the System... the rules here..."
But his weak words were drowned out by angry curses and shouts. They didn't believe him, or didn't want to. In their eyes, he was the source of all their suffering, a demon in child's form who had stolen their loved ones.
"Avenge the dead!" the crowd chanted, their eyes blazing with hatred.
Then the real nightmare began, more horrific than anything Lasron had ever experienced. They didn't kill him outright. They wanted him to taste extreme agony. Several strong men held him down, pinning him to the ground, while others, armed with knives, axes - crude but sharp farming tools - approached with savage grins.
Lasron screamed in despair as the first blade hacked into his arm, the sound of bone breaking sickeningly dry. Excruciating, flesh-tearing pain shot through him, followed by relentless chops to his other arm, then both legs.
They savagely dismembered him, blood spraying everywhere, staining the ground crimson. His screams were lost amidst the crowd's gleeful laughter and curses. The pain, beyond endurance, caused him to pass out, only to be revived by kicks and slaps. They wanted him conscious to feel the full brunt of their vengeance.
After sating their anger, they left Lasron there, bleeding profusely, assuming he would die a slow, painful, lonely death. But they were mistaken. This village, despite being his prison and place of torture, was still a "safe zone" for Lasron according to the System's rules. From his horrific wounds, his flesh began to slowly regenerate. His severed limbs began to regrow.
The villagers, returning the next morning to check if the "demon" was dead, were horrified to find Lasron almost fully recovered. Their initial fear quickly morphed into an even more depraved and pragmatic thought in the minds of people tormented by starvation to the point of losing all reason.
They fed a small piece of flesh, cut from Lasron's regenerating arm (he fainted again from pain and disgust), to a scrawny, starving dog lingering nearby. They watched anxiously. The dog ate it, wagged its tail, and showed no signs of poisoning.
His flesh... was edible! Not poisonous!
And so, the next month became a true earthly hell for Lasron, a never-ending nightmare beyond description. He was dragged back to the village, chained with heavy iron shackles in the darkest, dampest, most fetid hut.
He became a living "meat farm" for the starving village. Every two days, when his limbs had almost fully regenerated thanks to the safe zone's mechanics, they would come. The hut door would creak open, weak outside light filtering in, and familiar figures would appear. They would bind him even tighter, four or five strong men pinning him to the cold earthen floor. Then, they would again use their knives and axes to hack off his healed limbs for meat.
Lasron no longer screamed. His screams had dried up in his throat long ago. He would only bite his lip until it bled, tears streaming down his face, his body convulsing in extreme agony. He heard the cold thud of blades cutting into his bones, felt his flesh being brutally torn.
He smelled the metallic tang of his own blood mingling with the sweat and breath of his tormentors. He saw their emotionless, or sometimes cruelly gleeful, expressions as they "harvested" their prize.
Then came the waiting period in darkness, in absolute solitude. Feeling his limbs slowly regrow, an itchy, throbbing, dull ache - a sensation both miraculous and repulsive. He loathed his own body, loathed this monstrous regenerative ability that had turned him into something neither human nor beast. He cursed the System for granting him this ability only to thrust him into hell. He wondered if death would be a kinder release.
Time no longer held any meaning for him. Day or night was the same, just cycles of pain and recovery, one after another. He only counted the times his limbs were severed. Ten times, twenty times, thirty times...
He gradually became frighteningly inured to physical pain, but his soul was shattered, broken into a million pieces. The mental anguish was infinitely worse. The humiliation, the loss of humanity, the feeling of being treated worse than an animal being butchered. They threw him scraps of leftover food, sometimes even the bones remaining from their "meat feast," just enough to keep him from starving, just enough so his body could continue to regenerate their "meat source" Every bite he swallowed tasted of bitter shame.
In rare moments of lucidity between the pain and regeneration, Lasron began to think more. A seething hatred boiled within him like an erupting volcano. Hatred for the villagers for their cruel, inhuman actions.
Hatred for the System for pushing him into this situation. Hatred for himself for being too weak, too foolish to try and do good in a place like this. He had to escape! He couldn't die so shamefully! The will to survive, the very thing that had carried him through the previous two zones, once again surged, stronger and more ferocious than ever, fueled by bottomless pain and hatred.
One time, unable to bear it any longer, when his limbs were in the process of regenerating, only partially formed, still soft and not fully functional, Lasron did something crazy and reckless. He used all his strength, gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might shatter his jaw, and using what remained of his body - his teeth, his stumps - to tear off the still-attached, partially formed limbs. Blood gushed again, the pain immense, but this time, it came with a fragile sense of freedom.
With his incomplete limbs, mere stumps of raw flesh, he moved with extreme difficulty, dragging himself through the night, trying to escape into the forest. He was like a severely wounded animal, desperately seeking survival.
On his way, he stumbled upon a lone Level 5 Grey Wolf. The wolf, seeing his weakened state, prepared to attack. In a fit of desperation and madness, Lasron fought like a true beast. He used his teeth to tear at the wolf's throat, his stumps to strike, using all his hatred and will to survive to fight back. Eventually, he killed the wolf, but he himself was covered in blood, completely exhausted, collapsing beside the animal's corpse.
But the villagers quickly discovered his disappearance. Carrying torches and weapons, they easily followed his blood trail to where Lasron lay gasping.
Lasron saw them, his eyes no longer holding the fear of before, but an infinite weariness and something else... a warning. He spoke weakly, his voice hoarse but strangely calm:
"Please... stop... Do you really want to continue down this path? Are you sure?"
His words were like a final plea, yet also like a gentle warning, a last chance offered by one who already knew the catastrophic consequences awaiting them if they continued.
But the villagers' eyes remained cold, emotionless. They didn't understand, or didn't want to understand, the implication in his words. They only saw their prey, weak and helpless. They advanced again, bound him even tighter than before, and dragged him back to the dark prison hut. His brief, agonizing escape attempt had ended in miserable failure.
He was thrown back into darkness, his body aching from the futile escape attempt. The cold iron chains bit into his newly regenerating wrists and ankles, a chillingly familiar sensation. Each time the hut door creaked open, each footstep of the villagers approaching, his heart would constrict.
He would clench his eyes shut, bracing himself, trying to suppress the moans, trying to appear indifferent, but inside, an undercurrent of humiliation, agony, and furious resentment churned. 'Why must I endure this? Why can these people be so cruel?' He no longer pleaded, no longer wept, for he knew it was useless.
Instead, each time their cold blades touched his skin, each muscle fiber torn, the flame of hatred within him blazed hotter, engraving deeper his vow of vengeance. All hope for kindness had died; only the will to survive and a dark plan slowly taking shape remained.
This time, however, something was different. Lasron's eyes no longer held fear or pleas. Instead, there was a cold emptiness, a piercing gaze, as if he were looking through his tormentors to a more distant target.
Hidden deep within those eyes was a fiercely burning flame of hatred, a fire fed by his own blood, tears, and humiliation. 'You... all of you... and this damned System... will pay!' That unspoken vow echoed in his mind, more powerful than any scream. A cruel plan of revenge, a blood-soaked path of his own making, was beginning to form, detail by meticulous detail. He would not just survive; he would make them taste pain a hundred, a thousand times worse than what he had endured.
The Lasron of today was no longer the weak slave, no longer the naive boy trying to do good. The Lasron of today was a monster awaiting its release, and that day would be the doom of this village.