Ethan felt sick. His entire body was filled with pain, as if someone were wringing it out like a wet rag. His muscles, bones—every part of him screamed in suffering. Still, he didn’t let it defeat him. Gritting his teeth, he held on, forcing his mind to stay sharp even as his body rebelled.

'I can still remember everything...!'

He couldn’t afford to let his previous effort, one that literally had cost him his life, go to waste. Though the pain assaulted him like a relentless storm, he moved. Grabbing a sharp stone from the ground, Ethan rushed to a relatively clean section of wall. His breathing came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t stop. He needed to record what he’d learned—every crucial detail about the Last Boss’s attack patterns.

His short-term memory was unreliable. No matter how focused he was, some memories would fade before they could root themselves in his mind. Knowing that, Ethan wrote as fast as he could, trying to force the information from his short-term memory into something permanent.

The stone's jagged edges tore into his palm, dripping blood down his fingers. But this pain was nothing compared to what he’d endured during his last death. He kept writing, his movements frantic, scrawling every vital observation onto the wall until there was no more space left.

"Ethan..." A soft voice broke through the haze of his concentration, trembling with concern.

He turned to see Mary standing behind him, her eyes wide with worry as she gazed at his bloodied hand. Without a word, she knelt beside him and gently grasped his trembling hand, her touch delicate yet firm. A soothing green light radiated from her, enveloping Ethan in a calming warmth.

"You should let me heal you," Mary whispered, her voice tinged with sadness.

Ethan relaxed slightly as the pain in his hand began to fade, replaced by that familiar, nostalgic warmth. “Thanks,” he murmured, letting go of the stone as the last of his wounds sealed up.

She smiled faintly. "Since I’ve patched you up, maybe you should rest a bit?"

Ethan chuckled weakly. "Rest? Who has time for that? I should be helping you with your work."

Mary laughed softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "No, Ethan. You're tired. You need rest more than I need help." She stood, offering him one last glance before turning away.

"Tired...?"

Ethan hadn’t realized how exhausted he truly was. The cycle of death and revival was beginning to take a toll, not just on his body but his psyche. His hands shook, his knees felt weak, and the constant gnawing fear of what was to come weighed on his soul. The smile he wore faded as he took a deep breath, trying to suppress the tremors in his hands.

"Yeah... I could use some rest."

But with only 24 hours until the Last Boss reappeared, he couldn’t afford that luxury. Rest was time wasted, and time was the one thing he couldn’t waste.

Ethan sat back, staring at the wall where his messy notes covered every inch. The writing was barely legible, a chaotic blend of curves and jagged lines, but to him, it was the key to survival. His gaze remained fixed on those notes, and as the hours passed, he pieced together everything he could remember. He didn’t move, not even when the night fell and the camp grew quiet. The only light came from the flickering flames of nearby lamps, but he remained in his spot, focused on the clues before him.

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Mary looked over at him several times, worry etched on her face. But she knew Ethan too well. If he didn’t want to stop, he wouldn’t. She trusted that he wouldn’t push himself beyond his limit—though she feared that limit was drawing near.

Morning arrived too soon, and with it came despair.

The ground trembled, announcing the arrival of the grotesque Last Boss, whose monstrous form loomed over the camp. Its four pairs of arms moved in an unnatural rhythm, and its three heads screeched in a cacophony of horror. It was a sight that drove fear into even the bravest of hearts.

Ethan’s heart raced, his chest tight with dread, but he couldn’t stand idle. He needed to act—now.

He turned to Mary, gripping her shoulders tightly. "Run to the south," he said, his voice urgent. "You’ll have a better chance of surviving there."

Mary’s wide, tear-filled eyes and Ethan's grim, resolute gaze met. Her hands trembled as they clutched his. "T-Then come with me, Ethan," she pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. "I’m not leaving without you!"

Ethan’s breath hitched. He wanted to follow her, to escape from this nightmare. But he couldn’t. "I have to stay here," he muttered, his resolve hardening. "I don’t have a choice."

"T-Then me too!" Mary’s voice was a choked sob. "I’ll stay with you!"

"No!"

The word came out harsher than Ethan intended; his voice was filled with raw, unfiltered emotion. His facade crumbled as he looked at her, his own fear threatening to overwhelm him.

"Please, Mary... I don’t want to see you die again."

They shouted at each other for a while, but in the end, Mary’s resolve broke. She ran, her figure fading into the distance, tears trailing in her wake. Ethan watched her go, a hollow ache settling in his chest.

'This is for the best,' he told himself.

Then, he turned toward the Last Boss, the grotesque monstrosity already within the camp zone. Despite the terror clawing at him, he moved. His legs trembled, and his body screamed for him to stop, but he pushed forward, edging closer to the beast.

Ethan kept his eyes locked on the battle, watching the heroes charge in vain against the monster. It crushed them with ease—each death sending a wave of nausea through him. But he didn’t stop. He studied the beast’s movements—every strike, every twitch.

And then, in a moment of desperation, he moved into the Last Boss’s blind spot, a position he had calculated after endless hours of study. His breath hitched as he slipped under its protruding stomach, clinging to its foot, hidden from sight.

"I... I did it!" Ethan gasped, his chest heaving with disbelief.

But then, reality hit. He had no means to attack. His fists were useless; his teeth couldn’t even scratch the thick skin.

*GRRRRRR!*

Just like how one would notice an ant coming up their leg, the beast noticed him. With a casual stomp, its massive foot came down, crushing Ethan beneath its weight.

Death. Agonizing, excruciating death.

"ARGH!"

But moments later, he awoke, the pain from his crushed body still fresh in his mind, assaulting his senses. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed another stone, facing the same wall as before, and scribbling down his observations.

This time, there was hope. He had found a blind spot. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

And so the cycle continued—death, revival, recording, planning. Days turned to weeks. One death became ten, then a hundred, then a thousand. Each time, Ethan got closer. But the pain never lessened. His fear of death grew with every revival, yet his determination to stop the Last Boss never wavered.

He had memorized the monster’s patterns and learned to dodge multiple attacks, but the decisive blow still eluded him.

Until one day, after what felt like a lifetime of suffering, a glimmer of hope appeared.

"The Sword Hero’s weapon... Arthur’s sword!"