The Clock Never Ticked

Content Warning: This chapter contains violence, gore, and intense themes. Reader discretion is advised.
I've completely overhauled this chapter.
What you're reading now is a more intense version than the one before.
 

The sharp prick of teeth snaps me awake.
Pain lances up my arm, making me flinch and jerk backward instinctively. My head thuds against something hard—wooden and unforgiving—and for a moment, my vision swims. Blinking rapidly, I find myself staring into the wide, unblinking eyes of a horse. Its wet muzzle, dripping with saliva, hovers close to my face. Bits of hay cling to its lips as it sniffs at me curiously.
Another sharp pinch shoots through my arm. My stomach twists as I realize the damn thing has been trying to eat me.

I scramble away, pressing my back against the splintered wood of the barn wall. The horse whinnies softly, dipping its head to nose at the hay scattered around me.
What the hell? Where am I?

The barn is dimly lit, shafts of sunlight slicing through the gaps between the wooden slats. Dust motes float in the air, and the heavy smell of manure mingles with the damp earth beneath me. Uneven piles of hay dot the corners, a rake and some rusted tools leaning haphazardly against one wall.
This isn't Tokyo.

I run my hand over my arm, wincing as my fingers brush the spot where the horse bit me. It hadn't broken the skin, but the ache is sharp and insistent. My legs feel like jelly as I push myself upright, leaning against the wall for support.
Think. The last thing I remembered was the party—the neon lights, the laughter, the endless thrum of energy that made Tokyo what it was. And then… darkness.

My mind replays the fragments like a shattered reel of film: the cold that seeped into my bones, the feeling of falling—endlessly falling—into a void that swallowed everything.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
This isn't a dream.

The faint creak of a door breaks through my thoughts. My head snaps toward the sound.
Who's in there?!

The voice is rough, cutting through the relative quiet like a whip crack. My breath hitches, and I freeze. Heavy footsteps crunch against the dirt outside, growing louder with every second. A shadow stretches across the barn floor, and then the figure steps inside.

The man is broad and weathered, his skin bronzed from years under the sun. His graying hair sticks out beneath a battered straw hat, and his eyes—narrowed and suspicious—scan the barn until they land on me. He holds a rusted pitchfork in one hand, the tines glinting menacingly in the dappled light.
You stealing from me, boy? he growls, taking a step closer.

What?

My voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. I shake my head frantically. No, I—I don't even know how I got here!

Bullshit, he spits, his grip tightening on the pitchfork. Don't think I didn't notice my tools going missing last week. And now you're here, stinking up my barn like some damn vagrant? Think I'm stupid?

I raise my hands, palms out. I swear, I didn't take anything! Please, I just… I don't know what's going on!

Get the hell out of my barn before I gut you like a pig.

He doesn't wait for a response. With a guttural shout, he lunges forward, swinging the pitchfork in an arc that would have caught my ribs if I hadn't stumbled out of the way. My legs move before my brain can catch up, propelling me past him and out into the open air.

The sun hits me like a slap to the face, its brightness stinging my eyes. I don't stop running until the barn is a distant speck behind me, swallowed by the forest.

The woods are a tangled mess of gnarled roots and towering trees. The air here is thick, humid, and cloying, carrying the sharp tang of moss and rotting vegetation. Every step feels precarious, the uneven ground threatening to trip me up.

I finally collapse against the trunk of a massive tree, my chest heaving. Sweat drips from my forehead, mingling with the dirt that clings to my skin.
What the hell is going on?

Two days. That's how long it's been since I woke up in this twisted, medieval nightmare. The cobblestone streets, the strange villagers who spoke in a language I barely understood… and the utter lack of anything that felt like home.
No neon lights. No trains. No Tokyo.

I glance around warily, my eyes scanning the shadows that pool beneath the trees. The forest is eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. It feels like the trees themselves are watching me, their twisted branches reaching out like claws.
This place doesn't feel real. But the ache in my muscles, the sting of that damn horse bite… they're too vivid to be a dream.

A sharp crack echoes through the trees, jolting me from my thoughts. My breath catches in my throat as I turn toward the sound, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run.

A figure emerges from the undergrowth, its movements jerky and unnatural.
No. Not a figure.
A goblin.

It's no taller than my chest, its greenish skin glistening with a sickly sheen. Wiry muscles ripple beneath its mottled flesh, and its jagged teeth gleam as it sneers. Its eyes—small, dark, and filled with malice—lock onto me like a predator sizing up its prey.

In its clawed hand, it holds a crude dagger. The blade is chipped and uneven, but it shimmers with a dark, oily substance that makes my stomach churn.
Is that… poison?

The goblin hisses, crouching low like a coiled spring. My heart pounds so loudly it drowns out everything else.
Stay back. Please, just stay back.

I take a shaky step backward, my hands raised in a gesture of surrender. I don't want any trouble. Just… leave me alone.

The goblin responds with a guttural screech, the sound sharp enough to send a shiver down my spine. Then it lunges.

The dagger plunges into my stomach.

Pain erupts, blinding and searing, like a firework detonating inside me. My body convulses, every nerve screaming in protest. Blood oozes around the blade, hot and slick against my trembling hands.
This can't be real.

The thought claws its way through my mind as I try to push the goblin away. My arms feel weak, my fingers slipping uselessly on its slimy skin. Its jagged teeth gleam as it snarls, the sound guttural and cruel.

I can't think. The edges of my vision blur, the colors bleeding into each other. I gasp, desperate for air, but the sharp sting of iron fills my throat.
Am I dying?

The goblin twists the dagger, and the pain jolts me back into the present. I scream, my voice hoarse and raw, but it doesn't stop. Its claws rake across my arms, tearing through my skin with ease.
Run. Get away. Fight.

The thoughts come in bursts, incoherent and panicked. My body refuses to obey. I'm pinned, the weight of the goblin pressing me into the dirt.
I don't want to die.

The goblin yanks the dagger free with a wet, sucking sound. Blood pours from the wound, soaking my shirt and pooling beneath me. I try to press my hands against it, to stem the flow, but the goblin is relentless.

Its claws dig into my shoulders, and it slams me back down. My head hits the ground, stars bursting across my vision. The taste of copper fills my mouth as blood drips from my lips.
I don't want this.

The goblin's face looms closer, its breath foul and hot against my skin. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. I turn my head away, but it grabs my chin, forcing me to look into its beady, glinting eyes.
No. Please.

It snarls something in a language I can't understand, its voice sharp and guttural. Then its teeth sink into my throat.

The pain is a flash of white-hot agony. I gag, choking on the blood that fills my mouth. My body spasms, but I can't scream. My voice is gone, replaced by wet, gurgling sounds.
I'm going to die here.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut, more crushing than the pain itself. I'll die in this twisted, alien forest, surrounded by creatures that see me as nothing more than meat.
No one will even know.

Tears stream down my face, mingling with the blood and dirt. I think of Tokyo—the lights, the noise, the life I'd taken for granted. It feels so far away now, like a dream I'd woken from too soon.

The goblin releases me, its teeth slick with my blood. I cough, each breath a struggle, and try to crawl away. My hands slip on the slick, muddy ground, my fingers digging uselessly into the earth.
Move. Just move.

But it's too late.

Clawed hands grab my ankles, dragging me backward. My nails scrape against the dirt, leaving ragged trails. I twist, kicking wildly, but the goblin is stronger.
I'm not ready for this.

It pulls me into the shadows of the forest, my body scraping over roots and rocks. Each bump sends fresh waves of pain radiating through me. My mind reels, trying to grasp the reality of what's happening.
I don't want to die.

The clearing is worse than I could have imagined. Bones litter the ground, some gnawed clean, others still clothed in scraps of rotting flesh. The stench hits me like a wall, thick and suffocating.
This is it.

The goblins gather around, their beady eyes glinting with cruel amusement. They speak in their guttural tongue, their voices high-pitched and sharp. Laughter echoes among them, harsh and mocking.
I don't want to be here.

They throw me onto the ground like a broken toy. My body lands with a sickening thud, the impact sending another jolt of pain through me. My arms won't move, my legs feel like lead.
I can't fight them.

One goblin approaches, its claws gleaming in the dim light. It crouches over me, its face inches from mine. I can see every jagged tooth, every wrinkle in its slimy skin.
Why is this happening?

Its claws tear into my stomach, sinking deep. The pain is distant now, dulled by the sheer intensity of it all. My vision blurs, the world tilting and spinning.

The goblin pulls something free—a glistening loop of intestines. It holds the gore up like a prize, its lips curling into a sneer.
This isn't real. It can't be real.

Another goblin grabs my arm, its claws digging into the flesh. It bites down, its teeth slicing through skin and muscle like paper.

My mind screams, but my body is silent.
I don't want to die.

Their hands rip and tear, peeling away pieces of me with sickening ease. Blood pools beneath me, soaking into the dirt. My body is breaking, piece by piece.
And still, I'm aware.
This is too much.

The forest blurs into darkness, the muted greens and browns fading into black. My breaths come in shallow gasps, each one more ragged than the last.
Please. Make it stop.

The last thing I see is a goblin's leering face, its bloodstained teeth gleaming as it rips into my chest. The pain overwhelms everything else, searing and raw, until even that begins to fade. My vision blurs, narrowing into a tunnel of darkness, and then, just like that, it's gone.

Everything goes black.

In the darkness, I'm falling.
It isn't like before when I'd felt the weight of my body tumbling downward. This time, it's deeper, heavier, as though I'm sinking into an ocean of shadows. The cold is biting, sharper than any winter wind, coiling around me like chains. My chest tightens with every breath, though the air seems thin, as if it doesn't want to be inhaled. Panic claws at me, rising in my throat like a scream that refuses to come out.

There's no up, no down, no sense of direction—just the endless, suffocating descent.
This isn't falling. This is being dragged.

A sound pierces the silence, so faint at first that I think I imagined it. A whisper. Soft and low, curling through the void like smoke.
How did you end up like that, my dear Natao?

The words press against me, not like a shout but with a weight that settles deep into my chest. The voice is familiar, but the familiarity only makes it worse. It feels as if I should know who it belongs to, as if the answer is right there on the edge of my mind, but trying to grasp it is like reaching for smoke.
This isn't the end, Natao. You know this. You felt it, didn't you? The break, the fracture, the change.

The question hangs in the air, twisting around me. The fall slows. The shadows feel thicker now, clinging to my skin like oil. The weight of the question presses harder, insistent, demanding an answer. Stronger? Was I stronger? What does that even mean anymore?

The memories claw their way back, unbidden and cruel. The party. The endless fall. The forest. The goblins. The pain. All of it feels so distant now, as though it happened to someone else.
But that isn't true. It was me. That thing on the ground, bleeding out, torn apart—that was me.

The whisper curls closer, brushing against my ears like a breath. The air feels alive, shifting, tightening. My whole body tenses as if something unseen is moving toward me, unseen but undeniable.
I don't understand. I don't understand any of this.

A laugh—low and cold, stripped of warmth. Not mocking, but knowing.
Don't play with me, Natao. You know. Deep down, you know.

I don't know. Or do I? There's something there, buried beneath the panic and confusion. A truth I don't want to look at. I shiver, my skin crawling as the darkness around me grows heavier, pressing against every inch of me. It isn't empty. It isn't still. It moves, shifting like it's alive, curling and twisting, touching me with an icy caress.

My breath catches as the pressure deepens, as though I'm sinking into the dark itself, merging with it.
Let me fix you.

The words jolt through me, sharp and electric. They don't feel like a question or a suggestion—they're a promise, a demand, wrapped in silk and steel. My lips move, but no sound comes out. I want to ask what that means, what it wants, but my voice feels trapped in my throat.

The air thickens, pulling tighter around me. It isn't just pressing against my skin anymore; it's inside me, wrapping around my lungs, my heart, my thoughts.
Let me pull you back together.

…

Status:

Name: Naoto Kurotsuki

Age: 22

Title: Unknown

Magic: Unknown

Abilities: Unknown

Species: Human

Location: Forest near Eldaroth

Condition: Severely wounded, Lost, Struggling with blood loss, and disoriented from trauma

Equipment: Modern casual clothes, bloodstained and torn from goblin bites

Mental State: Confused, Uneasy, Sensing a voided presence attempting to piece him together

Physical State: Exhausted, Bleeding from goblin bites and stab wounds, sore, weakened from blood loss, feeling something stir within