Apocalypse Baby

Elsewhere.

A young man stood beside a freshly dug grave, gripping his scythe tightly.

The man-sized hole he had just covered up was still fresh, the dirt uneven.

Inside it—a body.

Dorion exhaled, his breath heavy with fatigue and frustration. His gaze stayed locked on the grave, his face shadowed with conflicted emotions.

He didn't understand.

Why?

Why had Ezekiel done it?

Why had he taken a sword meant for him?

It didn't make sense.

Dorion's mind raced as he replayed the moment.

He tried to piece it together, but no matter how many times he went over it, it just wouldn't add up.

Earlier...

He tore through the cocoon of the nightmare, breaking free from its suffocating grasp.

His wounds burned, but he ignored the pain, grabbing a healing potion and downing it in one gulp.

Then, without hesitation—he turned towards the forest.

Ezekiel was out there somewhere.

And Dorion was going to find him.

Dorion moved through the eerie graveyard of cocoons—their hollowed-out shells standing like twisted monuments to the dead.

Inside, only husks remained.

Bodies withered to the bone, shriveled and dry, as if something had sucked the life out of them. Their skeletal remains reminded him of the undead he had fought in the nightmare.

But among them—Ezekiel was nowhere to be found.

Dorion's jaw tightened.

Did he die in the nightmare?

Had he become one of these husks, his essence drained and discarded?

Or… was he never here to begin with?

Could Ezekiel have been from another tutorial entirely?

Dorion had no answers.

Only questions.

He let out a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Despite chugging one potion after another, the pain refused to fade. His chest still bled, the wound stubborn and raw.

His bones ached, throbbing with each movement like his body was protesting against him.

Then—A sound.

Soft. Weak.

A frail groan.

Dorion's mind raced.

That groan—there were only a few people it could be.

Alex. Freya. Ezekiel.

Or…

Onigi?

Dorion scowled at the thought.

If it was Onigi, he might as well just kill himself.

He pushed forward, his boots crunching against the dry husks scattered across the ground.

Then he saw him.

Ezekiel.

And he wasn't in good shape.

Dorion's breath hitched. The wound was fatal.

Ezekiel was barely holding on, his body trembling, skin pale. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth.

Dorion didn't waste time.

He dropped to his knees, pulling Ezekiel up and tilting his head back.

Taking out a healing potion.

He forced the liquid past Ezekiel's lips.

But there was nothing.

Another.

Still nothing.

It wasn't working.

Ezekiel's breath was shallow.

His eyelids fluttered.

Then, with the last bit of strength he had left, he whispered:

"You… you're not a monster."

Dorion's entire body stiffened.

Then—Ezekiel's hand went limp.

His chest stopped moving.

He was gone.

Dorion knelt there, frozen.

That…

Why would he say that?

How wasn't he a monster?

Dorion had killed more people than he could count. Their faces blurred together in his mind, their screams nothing more than background noise.

And yet… Ezekiel, even at the very end, had remained just as annoying as ever.

Dorion clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside.

His chest burned.

Blood poured from his wound, soaking into his already tattered clothes.

If he didn't get treatment soon, he'd be joining Ezekiel in the afterlife.

But he didn't leave. Not yet.

He should've.

He should've just walked away, left Ezekiel's corpse out in the open like all the others.

But…

The thought of his body being ripped apart by some random beast didn't sit right with him.

It was stupid. Pointless. Sentimental.

And yet—Dorion let out a frustrated breath, tightening his grip on his scythe.

Then, without another word, he drove it into the ground and began digging.

Each swing sent dirt flying, his muscles aching from the effort. His vision blurred from blood loss, but he didn't stop.

Not until the grave was deep enough.

Not until Ezekiel had been laid to rest.

Dorion scooped up the last handful of dirt and let it fall over the grave.

The body was fully covered now.

Ezekiel was gone.

Dorion stood there for a moment, staring at the burial site. The freshly turned soil looked out of place, almost wrong against the untouched forest floor.

Then, without thinking, he muttered under his breath—

"Thank you."

And left the scene.

Dorion frowned.

That was… new.

He had lost count of how many people had died around him, by his hand or otherwise, and he had never felt anything.

So why now?

Maybe because he felt sorry Ezekiel's sacrifice had been pointless.

Because he was dying too.

When he had torn free from the cocoon, he immediately downed a healing potion. Then another. Then another.

But his wounds didn't close. His body didn't heal.

He even funneled points into Vitality, trying to force his regeneration to kick in.

But it was no use.

He was still bleeding out.

There were only two reasons why neither healing potions nor stat boosts would work.

One—his injury was too fatal.

Two—he had been poisoned.

And judging by the way his body refused to heal, it was probably both.

But there was more to it.

Onigi's attack hadn't been normal. That bastard had used some kind of ice-based ability. Even now, frost still clung to Dorion's wound, creeping along his flesh like a parasite, eating away at what little strength he had left.

It was constant damage, making any attempt at recovery useless.

There was only one solution.

He needed a healer.

Without one, he was done for.

Dorion clicked his teeth in frustration.

His vision blurred for a second.

At this rate…

He might as well dig his own grave while he was at it, as the odds of finding a healer were low.

But Dorion kept moving.

Even if the chances were slim, it wouldn't hurt to put himself in a position where a coincidence might work in his favor.

After covering a significant distance, a notification appeared—an update on the major quest and the tutorial points ranking.

But he didn't care.

Not now.

His body was barely holding together, and his mind was just as wrecked.

He wasn't in the right condition to fight, strategize, or even think properly.

Still, he changed direction.

Heading toward the quest location.

Who knows?

Maybe he'd run into a party with a healer. Or maybe he'd get killed.

Strangely enough, the quest location was in the exact same place where his cocoon had been.

Now that… that was odd.

And frustrating--because he had to turn back.

But Dorion barely made it halfway before his weakened, battered, and bloodied body finally gave out.

His knees buckled. His vision blurred.

His body refused to move.

Then—he felt it.

A weight. A presence.

An overwhelming pressure crashed down on him like an unseen force.

One second, he was stumbling through the forest, leaving a trail of blood.

The next—everything changed.

The world twisted.

Reality itself bled.

The trees, the ground, the sky—all dripping the same crimson that leaked from his wounds.

Vines slithered, curling and writhing like living things.

The color drained away, leaving only black and white.

And then, he saw it.

A shadow-like figure, seated upon a throne. His form was undefined, shifting and twisting like a living shadow, yet unmistakably regal. His chin rested lazily on his fist, as if studying something mildly amusing.

The Blood Monarch.

Then, in a voice that echoed with power, he spoke:

"You're in terrible shape."