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Splashing water on my face, I squinted at my reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror. What stared back at me resembled a ragged beggar more than anything else.

Dark circles clung to my eyes like bruises, skin pale and sallow under the flickering light of this makeshift sanctuary. My hair, unkempt and streaked with dried blood, hung in limp strands across my forehead.

I grimaced, tilting my head slightly to catch another angle. Was that dried dirt or just my face? Hard to tell anymore.

"Great," I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse from disuse.

"Might as well start begging on the streets next. Could probably earn a decent living with this look."

“And that’s if I’m right and I’m really in a dungeon”

haaaaaa….

Shaking my head as I scooped another handful of the frigid water, splashing it hard enough that some trickled down my neck and soaked into my collar. The shock of the cold jolted me slightly more awake, though it did nothing to chase away the exhaustion etched deep into my bones.

Drooping eyes, shaky hands... The whole night had been spent in an endless churn of grim thoughts, the same dark script replaying over and over in my mind.

And that damn moon.

I glanced up at the blood-red orb hanging in the sky. Its eerie glow bathed everything in an unnatural crimson, making even the shadows seem alive. Chills crawled up my spine, though I wasn't sure if it was the cold or the effect of that haunting celestial gaze.

"Bloody moon, bloody thoughts, bloody everything," I muttered, shaking my head.

glanced at my reflection one more time, grimacing as I ran a finger over the patchy stubble that had taken up residence on my face. The itch was maddening, and I wasn't about to deal with it any longer. I tried my best with my knife as it carved away the bristles, the sound of metal scraping against skin almost soothing in its rhythm.

“If this keeps up,” I murmured to my reflection, “I’ll end up shaving with a shard of glass. Or a rock.”

A dark chuckle escaped my lips, bitter and dry. There wasn’t exactly a surplus of clean water in my life anymore, and most days I felt like I was just moving grime from one place to another.

Still, as the cool water ran over my face, some of the grime vanished, replaced by raw, reddened skin that at least felt cleaner.

The knife wasn’t done yet. I tilted my head, catching the straggling bangs that hung over my face. Another sharp slice, and they fell away, leaving my hair shorter, and more practical. No loose strands sticking to my sweat-soaked forehead when I fought, no distractions.

“No need to bother for looks,” I told myself. “ haaa…I just want to rest..,is it too much to wish for…”

The water didn’t answer, but the silence felt like agreement.

The blood, though—how much of it was mine? The thought lingered. Too much of it hadn’t been.

Sliding into the water, I let out a long, shuddering sigh as the coolness enveloped me. Muscles I hadn’t realized were locked in tension began to loosen, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel like I was carrying the weight of a thousand corpses on my shoulders.

The flow of the water tugged gently at me, like a quiet lullaby. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting myself sink deeper until the water covered my neck. A bead of tension still clung to my chest, though.

“This is fine. Normal. You deserve this, right?” I muttered, my voice half-drowned by the water.

The silence around me seemed to disagree.

I dipped my head below the surface, the muffled world beneath the water offering a momentary reprieve from everything above. Bubbles escaped my lips as I exhaled slowly, watching them rise lazily to the surface.

For a few precious seconds, there was nothing—no thoughts, no sounds, no blood-red moon.

When I came up for air, my eyes darted to the knife I’d left on the edge of the pool. The gleam of the blade caught the crimson light filtering in through the window, almost glowing. It reminded me of the blood I couldn’t wash off, no matter how hard I tried.

“You can clean yourself all you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing,” I whispered to no one in particular.

“I need to sleep,” I told myself, the words more of a command than a thought.

But my body didn’t feel like obeying.

Instead, I leaned back, resting my head on the edge of the pool. My hair clung to my face, damp and heavy, but I didn’t bother brushing it away. The events clawed at the edges of my mind, each memory sharper than the last.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

The faces of my family. The dying scream of Edward. The blood—always the blood.

I shifted my gaze to my left arm, the skin still freshly pink from the injury. The edges were healing, but slower than I liked—less angry than yesterday, yet still a far cry from the full restoration I needed. I flexed my fingers experimentally, testing for pain. The movement drew a faint ache, enough to remind me of how close I’d come to losing the arm entirely.

I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply, letting the breath roll out in a long, deliberate sigh. Sitting half-submerged in the water at the shore, I leaned back, letting the coolness settle into my muscles as I focused inward. I needed calm. I needed control.

“Alright,” I murmured to myself, “let’s see what’s going on this time.”

Settling into the meditative state, I began channeling Exira, the strange energy that had become both a lifeline and a mystery since it first awakened in me. The flow started subtly, a warmth sparking in my core and then radiating outward like a slow ripple in still water.

As the energy spread through my body, I felt it probing, searching, slipping into places even I couldn’t consciously reach. It was a strange, intimate sensation, like being studied from the inside out. No matter how many times I did this, it never stopped being unsettling.

I focused on the sensations, trying to make sense of them. But this time… this time, something felt off.

Not wrong, exactly. Just different.

My body didn’t feel like it was physically changing—no sudden shifts in strength or speed, no new scars knitting together or bruises vanishing. But there was something intangible, a subtle current running beneath the surface that wasn’t there before. It felt like growth, like something deep within me was adapting or evolving, but in a way that defied explanation.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered, my voice low, almost drowned by the sound of the water around me.

The energy responded, but not with clarity. Instead, it was like a vague whisper in my mind, a thought hovering just out of reach. I could sense it there, full of potential, waiting to be understood.

But when I tried to grasp it, to focus on what it was, it slipped through my mental fingers like smoke.

It was irritating and frustrating as if the recent events weren’t enough.

“Come on,” I growled, frustration bubbling up as I pushed harder, trying to channel more Exira into my focus.

The feeling grew sharper, more defined. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might actually understand it—this new source of energy, this strange sensation of command and change. It was like a thought, something intangible yet so powerful that it could reshape reality itself.

And then the strain hit.

A sharp, twisting pain bloomed in my chest, and I gasped, breaking out of the meditative state with a jolt. The world snapped back into focus, too loud and too bright, and I doubled over, clutching my sides as the residual energy slowly dissipated.

“Damn it,” I spat, slamming my fist into the ground beside me. The water splashed, rippling outward, but the movement did nothing to quell my irritation.

The sensation was gone now, leaving only the faint hum of exhaustion in its wake. My body felt heavier than before, my muscles sluggish as I dragged myself out of the water and onto the shore.

“Not the time,” I muttered. “Not the time for this.”

Whatever the new energy was, it would have to wait. My body wasn’t in any condition to handle more experiments right now, and my head was already swimming with too many unanswered questions.

Rest. That was the priority. Rest and—

A low growl escaped my stomach, the sound loud enough to echo faintly off the walls.

“Food,” I said dryly. “The body demands tribute.”

Despite the frustration gnawing at my thoughts, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. Some things never changed. No matter how strange or dire the situation, the need for a decent meal always managed to cut through the noise.

The water clung to my skin as I climbed out, droplets streaking down onto the rocky shore. The faint sunlight broke through the cracks in the canopy above, casting mottled patches of light that felt almost alien after the red glow of the moon.

I reached for the spare clothes I’d stashed in my pack—rough, simple, but clean enough to feel like a luxury. The fabric clung to me awkwardly at first, damp skin making it hard to pull the shirt over my head, but eventually, I managed.

I pulled out my bone sword from the ring since nearly all the stuff I used for my escapes was nowhere to be found. What hurt the most was the loss of the shield I liked that the most…alas I was gone with my previous arm in the blast.

The bone sword's jagged edge glinted faintly in the dim light. It was a crude, brutal thing, more of a tool than a weapon, but it served its purpose. With it in hand, I headed toward the forest's edge, the familiar smell of earth and bark growing stronger with each step.

Gathering timber wasn’t hard; the forest was full of wood. I forced myself to focus, collecting enough wood to make a proper fire before heading back to the clearing.

Back at the shore, I set to work making the bonfire. I stacked the wood carefully, arranging it in a tight structure before striking a spark with the flint I always kept tucked in my pack.

The fire caught quickly, crackling to life and sending thin spirals of smoke curling upward.

As the flames grew steady, I pulled out the chunks of meat I had in the ring—still raw, but fresh enough. Skewering them onto a length of wood, I took my knife and made shallow cuts along the surface of the meat, letting the juices seep out. I retrieved a small stash of salt and spice—hard-won treasures that I rationed carefully—and rubbed them into the slices. The scent of the mixture was sharp and savory, promising something almost decent to eat for once.

Wrapping the meat in a broad, sturdy leaf, I placed it carefully above the fire, resting the skewer on two makeshift supports to let the heat do its work. The aroma began to waft upward, faint at first but steadily growing stronger as the meat started to cook.

I sat cross-legged beside the fire, the warmth seeping into me as I reached for my journal. The leather-bound book was worn, its corners frayed, but it was one of the few possessions I’d managed to hold onto through everything. Flipping it open, I scanned the pages, reviewing my inventory with a practiced eye.

My pen hovered over the page as I made notes anything that would take my mind off from the depressing thoughts.

"Meat supplies low," I muttered to myself, jotting it down. "Spices almost gone. Need more bandages—"

The fire crackled, and I glanced up, the smell of roasting meat making my stomach growl again.

The journal remained open on my lap as I turned back to it, the flickering firelight casting shadows across the page.

The act of writing, of organizing what little I had, gave me a strange sense of calm.

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