For the next five days after his failed escape, Lasron lay quietly in the dark, damp hut, his body in the final stages of recovery. The new wounds from the villagers' beatings when they recaptured him had healed. His limbs had also regenerated almost completely, only a slight weakness and numbness remaining, a reminder of the imprisonment and torture he was enduring. But his mind was not at rest, no longer mired in pure despair or agony. Instead, there was a terrifying stillness, an intense focus on a single goal, a plan gradually taking shape: revenge and survival.
The hatred no longer boiled like lava; it had settled, congealing into a cold, sharp block of ice in his chest. He had accepted the cruel truth of this Zone 3, accepted the System's malice, and accepted the inhumanity of these villagers. The System wanted him to kill. The villagers had turned him into an animal for slaughter. So, he would show them the consequences of cornering a wounded beast. He would complete the mission, not with disgust or guilt, but with a chilling ruthlessness. He would complete it his way.
The plan had been meticulously crafted in his mind during those five long days lying on the cold earthen floor, amidst the dull ache of regeneration. A dark and cruel plan, nurtured by the very physical pain and mental humiliation he had suffered. He remembered the Grey Wolf he had killed during his escape. Its blood, its entrails... surely they contained something harmful if introduced into the body unnaturally. The villagers had tested his flesh and found it non-toxic. But what if that flesh was contaminated by something from the wolf? A risky gamble, but the only one he could make now.
During the final days of recovery, as new skin was forming, Lasron secretly executed his plan. He took advantage of moments when no one was watching, using sharp bone fragments (perhaps his own from previous dismemberments, which he had managed to hide in cracks in the mud wall) to make small incisions on his regenerating limbs, trying to endure the stinging pain. Then he carefully retrieved the clotted blood and scraps of wolf entrails he had managed to hide in a dark, damp corner of the hut after being recaptured (the villagers, in their glee, hadn't noticed the wolf's carcass). He crushed them with a stone, then meticulously smeared the disgusting mixture into the fresh cuts on his healing flesh, forcing it deep inside before the wounds could fully close. He did this secretly, repulsed and in pain, but his face remained expressionless, his eyes only showing a cold focus. This was preparation for the next "harvest," a preparation for the final act of revenge. He wasn't sure if it would work, but looking back at what he had endured, he had nothing left to lose.
Then the day came. Two days after he had fully recovered. The hut door was again violently thrown open. The same calloused, emotionless faces, the same cold iron chains brought forth, the same sharp bone-chopping tools that had haunted him for the past month. This time, Lasron offered no resistance, even appearing unusually submissive, his eyes downcast, empty. This slightly surprised a few villagers; they exchanged glances, but quickly dismissed any fleeting suspicion. Perhaps this "demon" had finally been completely broken? To them, he was nothing more than a walking source of meat, and hunger waits for no one.
They bound him again, pinned him to the cold ground. The sickening thud of knives and axes echoed once more. His limbs were again severed from his body. But this time, as they carried those parts away, Lasron, though writhing in familiar physical agony, allowed a cold, almost invisible smile to touch his lips in the hut's darkness. The seeds of vengeance had been sown.
That night, the entire village had another hearty meat feast. They ate merrily, singing around a large bonfire in the village center, temporarily forgetting the lean months and even the vague fear of the "demon" they were keeping and exploiting. They had no idea that this meal would be the last for most of them, a death feast prepared by their own victim.
A few hours after the feast, as the bonfire began to die down, tragedy struck on a massive scale, far more horrific than the previous incident. One by one, people began to show strange symptoms. At first, it was just severe abdominal pain, incessant nausea. Then came full-body convulsions, eyes rolling back, mouths foaming with a mixture of saliva and fresh blood, skin turning a ghastly purplish hue. Screams of pain, desperate wails, and hopeless pleas echoed throughout the village, tearing apart the quiet night. Healthier individuals tried to run for help from others, only to collapse मार्ग (path/way), their bodies contorting in agony. The toxins from the wolf's blood and entrails, perhaps altered or amplified by Lasron's unique regenerative mechanics, or by the System's own malicious intervention, were taking effect with horrific, unstoppable force.
Lasron, chained in his hut, could hear all the chaos and suffering. The screams, the moans, the sound of things crashing, and then, gradually, everything faded into silence. A deathly, heavy silence enveloped the village. He didn't feel the satisfaction he thought he would. He didn't feel guilt or remorse either. Only a terrifying, cold emptiness remained within him. He had taken his revenge, and he was closer to completing his mission. Blood had been paid for with blood.
He looked at the system panel. The numbers were dancing crazily before his eyes, like a macabre death waltz:
[Current Progress: 50/112]
[Current Progress: 78/112]
[Current Progress: 99/112]
...
[Current Progress: 111/112]
One hundred and eleven people. Only one remained. Lasron knew who it was. The old village chief, who, perhaps due to his advanced age and frailty, or some caution, had eaten very little at that death feast, and was now likely gasping his last somewhere in the village.
His body having recovered almost completely within a few hours - the regeneration process seeming much faster now, perhaps due to his Resistance being constantly triggered by all sorts of pain - Lasron used his enhanced strength (though he still hadn't allocated his 40 reserve points) to easily snap the iron chain that had imprisoned him. It clanged loudly as it hit the ground. He silently stepped out of the hut, taking a deep breath of the air, thick with the stench of death.
The village was now a veritable graveyard. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, on the paths, in ajar huts, beside the cold, dead bonfires. Their faces were still contorted in pain and horror from their final moments. The once peaceful scene was now only death and an eerie silence. Lasron walked among the corpses, his bare feet treading on the damp, cold earth, his face expressionless. He was no longer the naive child trying to do good. He was a survivor of hell, one who had to do the most terrible things to protect his own life, and perhaps, to avenge what he had suffered.
He walked straight to the village chief's hut at the end of the village, the only hut still showing the faint, flickering light of an oil lamp. The door was ajar. Inside, the old man lay gasping on a rickety bamboo bed, his breath weak and shallow, his skin a jaundiced yellow. He saw Lasron enter, but his old, clouded eyes held no fear or hatred, only extreme weariness, pain, and perhaps a little acceptance of his grim fate. He had witnessed it all, had seen the punishment fall upon his village.
Beside the bed, a pot of meat stew was still faintly steaming. It was the last portion "harvested" from Lasron, the portion that had brought death to nearly the entire village.
Lasron said nothing. He didn't look directly into the old man's eyes either. He silently ladled a full bowl of the stew, its broth likely also tainted, and slowly approached the bed. His eyes and the old man's met for a strangely silent moment amidst the carnage. No words were spoken. Lasron brought the bowl to the old man's lips. He didn't resist, weakly opening his mouth and slowly swallowing each spoonful, as if drinking a final elixir of release. It wasn't an overt poisoning, but more like a cold act of "mercy," an end to the suffering and sins they had both shared, in their different ways.
When the bowl was empty, the village chief's breathing also ceased. His eyes closed.
[Current Progress: 112/112]
[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE COMPLETED MISSION 3: THE VILLAGE OF LAST HOPE!]
[Reward: +20 basic stat points (stored) have been saved.]
[Special Hidden Reward Unlocked: Hidden Status - Berserk!]
[Berserk: Upon entering a combat state, every minute that passes, all your basic stats (STR, AGI, INT, STAMINA) will increase by 1%. This effect stacks, with a maximum possible increase of 100% for each stat (i.e., doubling your current base stats) after 100 minutes (1 hour and 40 minutes) of continuous combat. The status will end upon leaving combat.]
The mission was complete. Forty long days in this Zone 3 had finally ended. Lasron stood amidst the dead village, silently looking at the system notification. The "Berserk" status. A truly ironic reward, like an affirmation of the demon that had just been born from the hell he had endured. Power that increased with combat duration, based on rage... Perhaps it suited the person he was now.
He looked at the 40 reserve stat points he now possessed (20 from Zone 2, 20 from Zone 3). A considerable number, capable of making him much stronger. Yet he hesitated. What happened in this village had taught him a bitter lesson about the System's deceptions and traps. Caution, honed through suffering, made him decide to hold onto those points. He needed to know what the upcoming Zone 4 would be, what it would demand of him, before deciding on his power allocation. He couldn't make another mistake.
The light portal leading to Zone 4 appeared again at the end of the village, amidst the strewn corpses, like an invitation to a new round of torture, a new trial. Lasron took a deep breath, trying to suppress all the chaotic emotions, all the horrific memories he had just experienced. He had changed, changed irreversibly. He was no longer the weak, naive slave boy of before. He was a survivor of hell, bearing unhealable scars both physical and spiritual, and a latent berserk state, ready to erupt at any moment. He didn't know where the path ahead would lead, didn't know if he could retain any shred of humanity after all this. But he would keep walking. Because that was the only way to survive in this brutal S+ Gauntlet.
He turned his back on the dead village, the place where a part of his old self was buried, and walked towards the light portal with a cold, steely determination. The dawn of a demon had truly broken.