Chapter 6 Primal call
"Awaken..."
The man groaned as consciousness returned, his body aching from the brutal experiences he'd been through. When his eyes fluttered open, he was greeted by an unfamiliar sight: a vast, serene lake stretching out before him, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. For a moment, he thought he had died and woken up in some peaceful afterlife. But the lack of familiar faces, the absence of any comfort... told him otherwise.
He looked down at himself and chuckled bitterly. "Well, looks like the bird scorched my clothes this time..." He patted his bare skin with a sigh. "Guess it’s not like any humans is here to see my bare cheeks and jewels anyway."
He stood slowly, legs shaking with the effort, and took in the strange world around him. The air was thick with the scent of unfamiliar flora, and the sounds of distant animals echoed across the forest. The feeling of being truly alone, not just physically but also emotionally, settled like a weight on his chest. But that was nothing new, was it? He had always been alone. Even in his past life. So what was one more world where no one knew him?
He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away, and focused on the immediate task at hand. Water.
As he walked aimlessly to find a body of water, something caught his eye—a glint, a shimmer of light reflecting off the surface. "At long last... WATER!" His legs moved with urgency, desperation quickening his pace. But just as he reached the edge of the lake, something changed. The water—what had been a clear, crystal blue—shifted into a dark, unsettling purple, like a poisonous bruise in the landscape. His heart sank.
He stopped. "What did you expect? It was too good to be true…" he muttered, staring at the now-dark water. The lake still seemed real, but the strange color made it feel like a trap. His throat felt dry, his body craving hydration, but his instincts told him it wasn’t safe.
He collapsed on a rock nearby, his eyes fixed on the rippling surface. For a long moment, he just sat there, motionless, trying to reconcile his desire for survival with the reality of his situation. "Hah...what are you even doing? You're in another world, and you're still hoping for a miracle... Still thinking there's some easy way out."
He let out a hollow laugh, but it was empty. Bitter. "Not like it matters, right? You’re stuck here, and you might as well try to make something of it."
The silence stretched on, and his mind began to turn. "Okay... okay, calm down." He slapped himself hard across the face with a sharp PAP!
"DON’T LOSE YOURSELF! He breathed deeply. "This is another world, another chance. You’ve got regeneration! All that pain... the abuse, the suffering, the loneliness... it’s all behind you now. You’re free. So, look ahead! You can make this work. You’ve got this!"
But as the words left his mouth, his stomach let out a ferocious growl. "...But I’m still hungry and thirsty."
His eyes flickered back to the lake, the purple waters still shimmering in the fading light. "Maybe... Maybe I can handle it. I have to."
He had no other choice. His body was so desperately parched that it made his head spin. There was no way he could survive dehydration—not in this place, not with everything else that could kill him again and again. So, he knelt down and grabbed a long tree branch, dipping it carefully into the water. The branch didn’t dissolve or corrode. That was a good sign.
His breath hitched with anticipation as he cupped his hands and scooped some of the purple liquid into his palms. He paused, staring at the strange, viscous liquid, then hesitated. It was a risk, but then again, wasn’t everything a risk now?
He closed his eyes and took a cautious sip.
"...Hmm? What is this?"
The taste was... strange. Not exactly bad, but not good either. There was something familiar about it, though. Something deep in his memory, some fleeting echo. Had he tasted this before? His mind recoiled slightly at the thought. The taste felt foreign yet familiar at the same time, but his body was too desperate to care.
As he drank, a voice—soft, distant—whispered through the stillness of the evening.
"Devour..."
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. His wide eyes scanned the surroundings, but there was no one in sight. "Hello?" he called out softly, his voice shaky with confusion.
Silence.
He looked around again, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "What the hell...?" It had been a voice, clear as day, yet there was no one. Was he hearing things? Had the isolation already started messing with his head?
He shook his head sharply, trying to push the disquiet from his mind. "Forget it. Just focus."
His thirst was still not quenched, but there was little he could do now. The lake was his best option. "If I want to survive this time... I need to stay close to this water. Set up camp. Get to work."
As the last rays of sunlight dipped beneath the horizon, he turned to survey the area, looking for a safe place to rest. His eyes darted over the landscape until he spotted a potential shelter: a burrow beneath the root of a massive tree. It looked empty, uninhabited by whatever predators roamed these lands. He couldn’t help but smile in relief.
"YEA—umgm..." He almost shouted in excitement but quickly muffled himself, unwilling to attract attention. "Okay... calm down. Focus."
He set to work immediately, gathering fallen branches, vines, pebbles, and sharp rocks—anything he could use. His hands moved quickly, determined. He wasn't sure how long it took, but when he finally fashioned a rough, makeshift axe and shovel, he couldn't help but grin. "Yeah! I did it!" He whispered, raising the axe high in pride. "My first tools... good thing I watched Dr. Stone back in the day."
With his new tools in hand, he hurriedly gathered fallen leaves to cover the entrance to the burrow. The night was closing in, and he could feel the cold creeping in. Hunger gnawed at him, but there was a sense of satisfaction in the small victories.
He crawled into the burrow and curled up on a bed of dead leaves. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was safe. He closed his eyes and sighed.
"Hah... looks like I survived the day."
His stomach grumbled again, but there was a small smile on his face. "Tomorrow... tomorrow, I’ll hunt for food."
He let out a long breath, the weight of the day lifting slightly. Despite the emptiness inside him, there was something... oddly comforting in the quiet of the night. "Tomorrow will be a new day. A new start."
And for the first time since he’d arrived in this world, he allowed himself to believe it.
-Break-
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As Mava’s vision flickered, her gaze drifting in and out of focus from the pain, a strange figure caught her eye—a man covered in bandages, standing motionless at the edge of the chaos. The figure was distant at first, barely more than a silhouette in the smoke and dust of the battlefield. But as her vision sharpened, the sense of wrongness in his presence hit her like a cold wave.
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“Griffith?” Mava blinked in disbelief, her breath catching. “What... is he doing here…?”
Then, as the fog of confusion cleared, a deeper, more unsettling realization crept in. “Wait… didn’t he die…? No, no, no… I… I see it now…”
Her blood ran cold as the truth settled over her like a heavy weight. “He’s one of them...”
Time seemed to slow, the noise of the battle dimming as Griffith’s presence twisted the air itself. The man—if he could still be called a man—was a shadow amongst shadows, standing impossibly still, his form blending with the darkening backdrop of the trees. He was too still, too silent, as if reality itself bent around him.
Suddenly, the air shifted. Without warning, Griffith moved.
His motion was so fast, so fluid, it was as if he had never been there to begin with. One moment, he was a distant figure watching from the cliff, and the next, he was behind one of the bandits, his hand an inescapable blur of death. There was no struggle, no hesitation. Griffith’s fingers wrapped around the man’s head and ripped it clean of his torso, and in the same breath, his body hit the ground, lifeless before it even fell.
The bandit’s body crumpled with a sickening thud and Griffith proceeded to lift his mask up and devour the man’s head in one impossible bite, and for a split second, the world was frozen.
Mava’s heart pounded. The bandits’ faces twisted into expressions of disbelief and fear as they turned toward the small cliff where Griffith had stood. But he was no longer there. Instead, he loomed atop it, watching them with cold, unblinking eyes—his form now seemingly woven from the very shadows themselves.
The bandits, frozen in place, couldn’t shake the feeling that they were prey under the gaze of something not entirely human.
Regras, glanced around, his heart racing with uncanny feeling of fear. “How did I not feel his presence?” He muttered, his grip tightening around his spear. It was as if the air had thickened the moment Griffith arrived, the weight of his presence pressing down on them like an invisible hand.
Regras forced himself to meet Griffith’s gaze, though his legs trembled beneath him. “Who are you?” His voice cracked as he spoke, though he tried to hold on to what little bravado he had. “You’re not with us!”
Griffith remained silent for a moment. His stillness was unnatural, almost suffocating. He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his lips curled up into a faint, unsettling smile—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The bandits felt it, that deep, gnawing feeling that they weren’t dealing with a man. Not anymore. Not someone who belonged to the world they knew.
Griffith stepped down from the cliff, the movement so fluid, so effortless, it was like he was gliding. He didn’t seem to make a sound as his boots hit the ground, nor did he disturb the air around him as he approached. It was as though he wasn’t even bound by the same rules of reality as the rest of them.
The bandits tried to steady themselves, but the fear crept in again, crawling under their skin. They had thought the worst of their enemies were men—they hadn’t considered that something else, something inhuman, might be standing before them.
“Who am I?” the man spoke in an eerie, shriveled voice with the moon behind him. He spread his arms wide as the other arm slowly regenerated, the air filled with tremendous pressure.
“I am… the honorable child, chosen by the law of c—OW!... UGH! Sonoma BUUUUGH!” Before he could finish, the young lady appeared and pummeled his genitals.
“What the hell are you doing!?” asked Paimon.
“I was… making an epic anime parody! You little… UGGGH! THAT REALLY HURTS!” the man squealed.
Paimon looked at him with disgust. “I don’t know what you’re saying!, quit acting like a clown and finish them already!” she commanded.
While this was happening, Regras glanced at the dead bandit beside him, waiting for its head to regenerate, but nothing happened. “What just happened? My men should be able to regenerate from that much damage. How could this be?... Whatever, all I know is this man is dangerous!” he concluded.
Mava stared at the man, reminded of the legends from her childhood about a mighty beast that once cleansed the world of the Witch of the End’s curse. “The Divine Beast…” she muttered. “I see Griffith is not his real name after all,” she realized then losing consciousness, her body dropping on the ground.
As Regras heard this, he sprang into action shifting his focus at the man leaping while the man was distracted talking to the girl. "HEAVY THRUST!" Regras’s spear pierced the man's chest.
"GUAGH!" The man coughed up blood that quickly turned black. The girl stepped back, vanishing into the darkness of the night.
"Hey… didn’t your mom ever tell you it’s rude to interrupt when someone’s talking?" the man asked politely.
"I see he drank the witch’s poison too," Regras muttered, pulling back his spear and preparing for another attack. "GATLING THRUST!" His spear created multiple holes throughout the man’s body splattering blood over Regras’s arm and leg. "GUOOOOGH!" the man groaned. Regras knew the witch's poison didn’t grant true immortality; dicing someone small enough would prevent them from regenerating. He tried to attack again but when he blinked, the man was standing without a scratch only torn clothes and bandages.
"H-HOW!? Even if you drank the witch’s poison, it would take a long time to regenerate from that much damage!" Regras screamed.
"I don’t… actually know myself… sorry," the man replied, ashamed. Regras’s anger boiled, remembering how he had traded everything and worked tirelessly for his strength while this fool seemed to take it all for granted.
"UOOOGH! FINE! I’ll find the answer myself. I'm going to injure you, chain you up, and drink your blood, whatever it takes!" he screamed, releasing the Witch’s power from within him.
"I DON’T KNOW WHAT KIND OF NASTY KINK YOU HAVE, BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE A PART OF IT!" the man screamed back, stepping away. "PAIMON, WHERE’S THE STICK?" he yelled.
"Stop calling me that! I thought we dropped the aliases!" the girl snapped, reappearing and throwing a spear-like object piercing his leg. "UGH… seriously?" the man said with disappointment.
"UOOOGH!" Regras and his crew pounced on the man.
"WAWAWAWAIT!" the man shouted, urgently trying to free the 'stick' from his leg.
"SOARING DRAGON!" Regras screamed thrusting his spear on the man, but the man blocked it and explosive force swept across the battlefield, breaking the ground beneath them as their weapon clashed. Seizing the moment , a bandit appeared behind the man, stabbing him from behind.
"BLURGH" the man cough and spit blood.
The man kicked Regras away and pulled the exposed blade in his chest, the blade dug deeper in the man’s chest together with the bandit’s arm locking it in place.
“WHA!” the bandit assassin screamed as he tried to free his hand.
Then the man stabbed himself in the belly, reaching the bandit's face behind him piercing it. He then twisted the spear to lock the bandit's skull, pulling the bandit’s head through his belly, then opened his maw wide, revealing a flower-like organ with six petals, and bit the man’s head off.
An arrow flew by, hitting the man’s head.
"Gotcha!" a bandit cheered. Regras saw his chance and sprang into action, but the man pointed his spear at the ground and whispered, "Explosion..."
BOOM!
A deafening blast rocked the earth, annihilating many bandits nearby. Regras and a few fortunate others managed to shield themselves.
“SHIT!” Regras cursed with frustration .“I thought he was a fighter why did he casted wide area magic!? And he casted it just beneath him is that man insane?” he pondered while stepping back.
The air hung heavy with smoke, the aftermath of the explosion lingering in a choking haze. Regras and his crew instinctively stepped back, the acrid taste of burnt flesh biting at their throats.
"Did that bastard just cast Explosion without chanting!?" one of the bandit mages muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief. His wide eyes darted toward the epicenter of the blast. "Who the hell is that guy!?"
The smoke began to shift, curling unnaturally as a strange, jagged sound emanated from within: "Krkrkrrr..." The sound was neither human nor beast—it was wrong in a way that made the skin crawl and the heart race.
Then, out of the haze, came a presence that seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. A chill ran through the gathered bandits, cutting deeper than the coldest wind. It wasn’t just fear—it was primal.
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier bravado evaporating. Their hands, so eager to wield weapons moments ago, now trembled with hesitation. A creeping sense of dread gripped them, as if their very instincts screamed to flee. This wasn’t the fear of death or pain; it was older, deeper—etched into their very being.
It was the terror of facing something that should not exist.
Regras swallowed hard, his grip tightening around his spear. He had faced countless enemies, braved horrors on and off the battlefield. But this? This was different.
The smoke began to part, revealing the outline of the man—or whatever he was—standing at the center of the devastation. His figure was eerily intact, the remnants of the explosion etched into the ground around him but leaving his body untouched, save for the faint glow of fissures running along his exposed skin.
His head tilted at an unnatural angle, the movement too deliberate, too precise. And his eyes—or rather, the voids where his eyes should have been—gleamed with an unnatural crimson light, flickering like dying embers.
One of the younger bandits stumbled backward, his voice breaking as he gasped, "W-what is he...?"
Regras didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
The man stepped forward, the sound of his boots on the scorched ground unnervingly soft, like a predator stalking prey. His lips curled into a jagged grin, exposing teeth too sharp and too many for any mortal.
"I told you to wait," he said, his voice low, guttural, and laced with an unsettling amusement that sent fresh waves of terror through the group. "But you didn’t listen."
As the bandits braced themselves, weapons raised in futile defiance, the man extended a hand. The fissures across his body flared brighter, casting ominous shadows that danced across the clearing.
And then, with a single step, he vanished—only for the air behind Regras to explode with movement.
Regras spun around, his breath catching in his throat as he came face-to-face with the monstrous grin of the man.
The last thing the bandits heard was his whisper, dripping with malice: "Shall we start again?"
The smoke surged once more, enveloping them all, as an unearthly roar split the night.