Pain hit before Aren fully woke.
Blood. The metallic stench burned his nostrils. Cold metal pressed against his cheek. The floor beneath him was slick and sticky. He forced a hand to move. Fingers slid through something dark. He lifted them.
Red.
Memories slammed back. A helicopter. Wind roaring in his ears. A leap into sunlight. Then… nothing.
He pushed up, vision spinning, and froze.
Bodies.
They were everywhere. Walls, once white, streaked with dark blood. Limbs twisted across the floor. Uniforms shredded, torn apart by something merciless.
His stomach churned. "Ugh… what a mess! What the hell happened…?"
A sharp blue light flashed before his eyes. A translucent screen appeared, hovering silently. Aren stared.
"What is this?" He stared at the blue interface. "Is this… a status window?"
________________________________________
NAME: Aren Donovan
AGE: 16
TITLES ACQUIRED: None
NYX RANK: Unknown
...
ELEMENTAL AFFINITY: [Unlimited Void
STIGMA: ■■■
________________________________________
His breath caught.
Wait—wasn't that the character from that novel? The Legend of Heroes.
Then it hit him.
He knew this name.
Aren Donovan.
The murderer, who was supposed to die in IMFA prison.
I have to survive… Aren's mind raced. No matter what. I can't die here—not yet.
He pressed his palm to his stomach, trying to stem the bleeding. Pain shot through him, but the thought was sharper than any wound: he had a chance now. A chance to turn the story around.
I need to find a way to clear Aren Donovan's name.
Aren's eyes swept the carnage. The bodies, the ruined uniforms, the shredded room—all proof of the chaos he had survived. And now, with the screen before him, the impossible was real.
He clenched his fists.
"Is that it? Just like those online novels?" he said with a sneer. "Taking possession of a character in a story… Oh, how nice!"
In the novel, Aren was Amy's older brother. Amy was a key member of the novel's protagonist, Damien's party.
If the story were still on track, Aren Donovan would soon be captured. And once he entered IMFA… he would never come out alive.
This isn't IMFA. He was certain of that.
"Why couldn't I wake up somewhere nice?" Irritation flared, sharp and sudden. "And why remember this only after killing so many people?"
He trudged through corpse-littered corridors. The elevators were dead; he turned to the stairs.
"Why does this never end?"
The staircase felt infinite. He was already gasping, vision swimming from blood loss. Nausea twisted in his gut. He slumped against the wall, fighting for breath.
"Just… a little farther." He choked out the words, forcing himself upright.
If I collapse here, it's over.
If his memories were correct, the Avalon Wardens or an Aegis squad were already closing in.
He reached the top of the stairs to find a terminal-like area. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he boarded the waiting freight train.
The cockpit smelled of damp diesel, burning his nostrils. The control panel was a mess—rusted buttons, cracked gauges, and an aging touchscreen.
"Just a diesel locomotive…" he muttered. "My [engineering] skill must be kicking in."
He uncoupled the freight cars, flipped the safety cover, and slammed the emergency start.
The engine growled before rumbling to life. The train shuddered beneath his feet.
"Good."
He released the brakes. Compressed air hissed as the system disengaged.
The locomotive crept forward.
Aren gripped the lever and pushed the throttle. The train rolled into the darkness like a waking beast.
Good. As long as it moves, I have a chance.
"Let's see… Sector C. I need to reach the terminal in Sector A."
He glanced at the wall map, confirming his destination.
The train sped through the darkness. He slowed it to a stop just shy of Sector A. Brakes screeched. Aren listened to the silence.
Nothing.
His heightened perception picked up no nearby movement. The area was as deserted as Sector C. He stepped off, hurrying along the tracks, guided by the locomotive's headlights.
He reached Sector A and climbed. White fluorescent lights illuminated the path to another staircase—a short one.
At the top, a wooden door stood waiting. He pushed it open to reveal a long hallway. Lit by soft yellow lamps, it looked more like an old manor than a research facility.
Inside, only the sound of rain lashing against the windows broke the quiet.
"They haven't reached this place yet," he murmured.
Lightning split the sky, rattling the windows with a thunderous crack. He winced, clutching his side.
"…I need to treat this wound before they arrive."
The hallway was a gauntlet of empty rooms until he finally found a bathroom. He didn't care that his blood smeared the white surfaces as he rummaged through the cabinets; his focus was singular. He spotted a first-aid kit on the top shelf and ripped it down.
Gauze, bandages, painkillers, peroxide, and sterile gloves—he grabbed everything he needed. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt, pressing a clean pad firmly against the abdominal gash.
He breathed through the pain, biting his lip to stifle a groan. He turned on the faucet, washed his hands, donned the gloves, and doused the wound with peroxide.
Stitches were necessary, but he had none. Sterile closure strips would have to suffice. With the wound sealed, he applied fresh gauze and wrapped the bandage tight enough to hold, yet loose enough to breathe.
He pushed the supplies aside and faced the mirror. A pale, haggard stranger stared back—a mask of calm.
Blood-red eyes caught the light, framed by messy, dark-teal hair that looked almost black. Crimson streaks stained the left side of his face.
"Haah… these eyes," he sighed.
The bright crimson irises held vertical pupils—sharp, unnatural, and wrong.
These don't look like human eyes.
"So I really have become Aren Donovan…"
The murderer was destined to die in IMFA prison.