The cold sensation of the blade against his neck, ending his life—it was all too vivid for Ethan to ignore. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the same place, surrounded by the same hopeless people.
It never changed.
"..."
As the pain of his latest death faded, he just lay there, staring at the cracked, broken ceiling, barely blinking. His body was motionless, lying on top of the barely flat ground of the half-destroyed shelter. Every corner of this place spoke of decay—the peeling walls, the damp rot creeping along the edges, the faint stench of mildew and despair.
But Ethan had learned his lesson. Trying to escape only led to a quicker death. No matter what he did, it was all just another ticket back to this hell.
Telling the others about the future? Pointless. The only thing that would change would be how they died. The end result was always the same: a gruesome death.
Saving someone else? Why bother? Sooner or later, they’d all die anyway. Apathy weighed down his chest like a stone, suffocating him.
Ethan lay motionless, watching shadows slowly shift across the room as the sun, obscured by the rust-colored clouds that perpetually hung in the sky, moved. The light outside had a sickly orange hue, casting long, eerie shadows over everything.
Night came, wrapping the world in a heavy darkness. Lamps flickered to life across the refugee camp, casting weak halos of light that did little to ward off the oppressive gloom. The murmur of quiet conversations and the occasional distant cough echoed through the air.
The smell of boiling porridge reached his nose, causing Ethan’s stomach to growl loudly. He hadn't eaten in over a day, and the empty gnawing sensation in his gut was becoming unbearable.
But he ignored it, curling up tighter, trying to shut out the world. He was tired. He didn't want to feel the pain of hunger, of fear, of death. He didn’t want to feel anything. All he craved was an escape—a long, dreamless sleep that would release him from this endless cycle of suffering.
"Here."
The familiar voice was soft but firm, followed by the metallic clatter of a bowl placed beside him.
Ethan opened his eyes. Crouching before him was Mary, the only person who paid him any attention in this camp. She still held a kindness in her eyes that Ethan found strange, even now after everything.
As usual, she had brought him his share of the tasteless, nutrient-deprived porridge—a meal made to keep them alive and nothing more. There were no spices or warmth in the food, just bare sustenance. Still, it was better than starving.
He stared at her face, his vision blurring slightly. After hours of lying still, the phantoms in his mind had faded. Now, all that remained was Mary’s gentle smile and her eternally worried eyes.
"You need to eat. Otherwise, you won't last long," she urged, her voice soft but insistent, a small smile tugging at her lips before she settled down beside him.
Mary carefully balanced a flat stone on her lap and placed the bowl on top of it. With her one remaining arm, she blew on a spoonful of porridge before swallowing it. A faint frown creased her lips, reflecting the blandness of the food. Yet, in this world, having food at all was a blessing. In the end times, where resources were as scarce as hope, food was no less than treasure.
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Watching her struggle to survive, Ethan felt a pang of guilt. He could still vividly recall what he had done earlier, and how it had ended. His gaze dropped to his hands, still seeing the image of the bloodstained rock clutched within his grasp. The memory of his crime twisted his insides like a knife.
"Sorry..." The word came out as a whisper, barely audible, but Mary heard it.
"Sorry? For what?" she asked, tilting her head with genuine curiosity. "If you feel guilty about something, help me tomorrow. That’s how you can make up for it."
Her words, delivered with a simple grace, struck something deep within him. Mary had once been a nun—she had told him that herself. Even in the ruins of this world, she carried herself with the quiet, unwavering compassion that her faith had instilled in her. Every day, she volunteered to care for others in the camp—cleaning, healing, and offering prayers. Anything to give even a flicker of hope to the hopeless.
Her kindness felt like a blade to Ethan's heart. The guilt he had buried deep within him overflowed, hot and suffocating. He bit his lip as warm tears started to fall, cutting streaks through the dirt on his cheeks.
"...Sorry," he repeated, voice cracking. It was all he could manage.
Embarrassed, he turned away from her, burying his face into the crook of his arm. Mary chuckled softly, patting his shoulder with her only hand before resuming her meal.
It was a rare moment of peace. But peace never lasted long.
---
Morning came, and with it, the all-too-familiar dread. The Last Boss descended, a looming shadow that blocked out the sky itself. The ground trembled beneath its weight, sending shockwaves of terror through the camp. Ethan saw the monstrous figure, and despair settled deep in his gut. His legs shook like a newborn foal’s, weak and unsteady.
"Let's go!"
The Sword Hero led the heroes' party as they advanced with predictable, tragic valor.
The same lines, the same actions—and the same result. Not even a minute had passed before they were wiped out. Nothing had changed. Fate showed no mercy, and death continued its relentless pursuit.
"Heh..."
Ethan stood motionless, watching as the Last Boss approached. He had given up hope. There was no point in running. He was going to die again.
"F*ck..." he muttered, his legs frozen in place. His breath came in ragged gasps as the massive foot hovered over him, ready to crush him. He braced himself for the inevitable—
"ETHAN, NO!"
Suddenly, a shadow darted toward him. Mary.
With strength that defied her small frame, she shoved him out of the way. Ethan tumbled across the jagged ground, dazed and disoriented.
His gaze snapped back to where he had been standing. Mary was there, her expression not one of terror, but of peace. A faint smile tugged at her lips, a tear glistening in her eye.
Then—
*THUD!*
The Last Boss's colossal foot came down, crushing her.
Ethan stared in horror, his mind unable to process what had just happened. Mary... Mary had sacrificed herself to save him. Him. The one person she had every right to hate for the loss of her arm.
"MARY!!!"
He screamed, his voice raw and broken. But he knew, deep down, that no amount of crying or praying could bring her back. Her death was final. He had experienced it once before.
"B*STARD! KILL ME!" He roared at the monster, spit flying from his mouth in a frenzy of rage.
But the Last Boss didn’t even glance his way. It lumbered toward the other refugees instead. Ethan didn’t care about them, but being ignored fueled his anger. Seething, he grabbed a stone from the ground and hurled it at the beast. His arm twisted painfully from the force, but the stone barely made an impact.
It didn’t even tickle the monster.
Ethan collapsed to his knees, powerless. Even with the ability to rewind time, what was he but a weak, fragile human? He couldn’t defeat this monster. He couldn't even scratch it.
"MARK MY WORDS!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and furious.
Something inside him had shifted. Seeing Mary—someone he had both respected and despised—find peace in saving him stirred something deep within.
"I’ll kill you, you b*stard," he snarled, each word heavy with venom. "Whatever it takes, I’ll be the one to f*cking end you!"
The Last Boss finished slaughtering the remaining refugees before finally turning its hideous gaze on him. But before Ethan could even react, darkness claimed him.
He died.