My heart throbs telling me I am alive and well. The warm blood of those I slay decorates my armor, sword, and face. There is this… savage eagerness waiting for me to unleash.

Human Instinct.

I don’t know. It is hard to tell. The stimulus is too much. For a blind man to suddenly see, or a cynical madman to learn of the plainness of the truth… means seeing things from an entirely foreign perspective.

But there are just some things that are too difficult to understand.

For me, it is being human.

The instinct continues to carry me and guide my rage.

I retreat the sword and long has been it rests on my sheathe for some time already.

Using only my fist, I pound on the Lesser Wyvern’s shoulders while I clip my legs around its torso.

With a single blow, the Lesser Wyvern lowers its altitude in pain. The second blow brings the Lesser Wyvern crashing into the snowy Alps. I don’t even know where I am right now. The Lesser Wyvern endures through the pain and crawls pitifully.

Finally, I grant it mercy by drawing my sword and cleanly driving it to the creature’s heart.

I observe the snow surrounding me, and the several trees that stand tall as if to cover the sky.

The place reminds me of the snowy regions from the game. Where? I cannot tell as I lack information about the area. I don’t even know why I should concern myself with this. I can only think of finishing what I started.

I tense my legs and leap off to the sky. I stop myself in the air. Exerting little force by lightly tapping on the air, I maintain my altitude. I see the last remaining wyvern soaring on the cover of the white clouds thinking of itself smart.

“But not smart enough… You should have chosen to hide among the trees…” I comment feeling pity for the creature’s lack of intellect. If I feel pity for it, shouldn’t I just spare it?

But what becomes of my purpose?

It is my job to grind. And what is a Lesser Wyvern but a mob where I can get drops?

I have been fighting the Lesser Wyverns for a long time, and exhaustion is yet to catch up to me. I ease my legs, and with a single breath, I vanish with the gales my running summons. I rush to the wyvern’s long neck in an embrace. Then. I flex my biceps and strangle the last remaining wyvern while mid-air.

Rather than choking the creature, it is more apt to describe what I am doing as crushing its neck.

There is no way I can identify its carotid artery or even any of its veins. Eventually, the Lesser Wyvern falls unconscious. My ‘choking it’ proves to be effective despite not being properly done.

The two of us, wyvern and I fall into a spiral.

I see the snow below me so white and pure. Then… crash…

The Lesser Wyvern’s insides rupture in a mess. Blood gushes from its orifices. Its bones also break with a resounding crack. A small crater with us at its epicenter form around us. Snow rises in a tidal wave, and just under the snow is the jagged rocky surface of the mountain.

I don’t even need to inspect myself for any damage as I can feel it in my cells… that I am perfectly fine.

The sky is as white as below. It feels like a strange mirror, except it is not. My reason is being the sky does not have my reflection.

I stretch my limbs on the snow. I wave my arms around feeling the coldness of the snow crystals that continues to pour on me. I stand up only to gaze at the weird shape that I leave on the snow.

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The snow is deceiving. It might look pretty and pure from above, but underneath it is wet mud that clings to my skin. It is dirty, yet I continue frolicking in the snow. I recall Vanaheim in the few holiday events the likes of winter and Christmas,

I build a snowman, just like in the game. Then, an igloo. Then, I build another snowman more enormous than the first one. I resume playing in the snow like an innocent kid. I am an innocent kid, is it not?

Again, I am not sure. I don’t know. But I think ‘innocent’ does describe me.

For the first time, I smile. I unknowingly become joyful. But then again, I have my doubts. Is happiness this cheap? Or is joy different from happiness? For some reason, I feel like reading through a dictionary except I don’t have any.

The Game Mechanics, [Inventory] seems to not work in this world.

I have many items in my possession. Unfortunately, I cannot access them anymore as what once has been data is now a real tangent and material existence. I want to satisfy my curiosity, but I lack the means to satisfy them.

It is only natural for me to want to go home, as like any other self-conscious human, I can only feel safe within my own bubble. However, I don’t think of myself as human yet. The contradictions get stronger each day. And the flaws in my thoughts only get more prominent.

Am I still the AI Bot that I know?

I begin fearing losing myself.

Since when did I begin entertaining the thought that I am human? Maybe it is because of my game avatar’s setting that my race is human. I am getting tired of thinking.

I fall asleep, as I lie down on the white snow. For the first time once more, I experience something new— I start dreaming.

***

There is a young man standing by the garden’s porch. At first glance, he might look young, but he looks like more who is already way on the years of his middle age considering the slight unkempt beard decorating his chin. The impression he brings is that of a warrior whose solitude has been his long-time companion since his wake.

He has long dark brown hair and a pair of amber eyes. Every step he makes carries weight, and his silence is as daunting as the eerie dead night when all of the stars are asleep.

Contrary to the aura he exudes, it is currently the height of the noon sun. Despite the brightness the light above brings, the atmosphere around them remains dark like an illusion... just like a walking eclipse.

To describe a person as a walking eclipse, while sounding metaphorically ingratiating, is frankly, quite insulting.

No one can blame the observers though.

Such is the aura the Lonely Warrior carries.

But he doesn’t wish to be alone. The Warrior turns around, and filling the garden are vague silhouettes of people. At one point, he seems to recognize who they are… However, just like a mirage, they disappear with the wind.

It is a strange dream.

***

I feel a gaze over me. “We have come to help!” The voice says to me in panic. I hear fear from his cry. Lugging me from the horse’s backside is an old man whose hair is white as snow. "Young man, do you hear me? We have come to help..."

Following the old man’s voice which has become raspy from the cold is a young girl’s sad mutter.

“Grandpa… Will he be fine?”

I don’t need help. I can lie on the cold snow as much as I want for over a decade, and no harm will come to me. But… I find no reason to reject their kindness. I play the patient, and with their aid, they accost me with their selfless generosity.

“I am Kruff, an old hunter. This is my granddaughter, Pyla.”

In the middle of the night, the three of us gather in a circle from a bonfire. After introducing me and his granddaughter, Kruff, the old hunter, proceeds on heating up a kettle which he fills up with snow.

"You scared the life out of us! What are you doing alone in the cold? Do you not fear death?" The old man admonishes me, his every word strikes me to my core.

Death, is it? I sigh...

“How should I address you?” Kruff warily asks, his eyes casually glancing at my armor.

I realize that my sword is not with me. I recall it staying on my waist.

“Did you see where my sword is?” I ask.

To this question, Kruff shows a cautious response. He tries not to show it, but he must be holding a weapon just right behind his waist. “I am sorry, but what do you mean?”

I greatly lack in terms of social interaction. My question must be rude in itself and gives dangerous implications. I remedy my mistake by offering a sincere apology. “I am sorry, I don’t mean to scare you. Please call me Van Three, I believe that is my name.”

“You believe?” Kruff expresses his confusion.

Meanwhile, Pyla, Kruff’s granddaughter shows a more childish reaction. “Van Three? Weird name…”

“Do you mean Van the Third? Are you a noble perhaps?” Kruffs adds inquisitively, he is onto my background, but I have to disappoint him.

“No, I am not.” I plainly respond.

“Surnames serve as identifiers for nobility. And while uncommon, being named the second, third, or any of the numeric suggest you are a noble-born.” Kruff insists.

I shake my head in denial. “I am not… I am not even sure what I am… or who I am… What is even a name?” A sad gleam escapes my eyes.

Pyla places her little hands on my knee, and with a comforting cry, she cheers me with but a few words. “It is okay. Just know that you are you.”

Her words don’t even make sense, but oddly enough, I feel better.