A searing jolt ripped through Kim Hyu-Gi’s core, not quite pain, but the ghost of it, a phantom echo of the arrow’s bite that had extinguished him moments before. He gasped, a ragged inhale of cold, acrid air, and his eyes snapped open. Above him, the same chaotic sky spun, painted with the grim hues of war – smoke-streaked grey, distant flashes of crimson, and the dizzying dance of tattered banners belonging to neither side. He was back. Again. Back. The word echoed hollowly in his mind, devoid of comfort. He pushed himself up, his muscles stiff, his uniform miraculously intact, the bloodstains from his previous demise vanished as if they had never been. A metallic taste coated his tongue, the lingering essence of fear and iron. [Simulation Death: 1] [Objective: Incomplete] [Current Progress: 0%] The familiar, unbidden interface flickered before him, its stark white text a cruel confirmation. One death. One agonizing, suffocating, utterly real death. The arrow had torn through his chest, collapsing his lung, his vision dimming as the world faded to black, the roar of the battle replaced by the frantic thump of his own dying heart. He remembered it all, every excruciating detail. The system hadn’t lied. Death here was absolute, a torment he had never imagined. And now he was… resurrected. His mind screamed in protest. How could this be? How could he feel the icy grip of death, the tearing of flesh, the fading light of consciousness, only to be yanked back into this waking nightmare? This wasn’t a dream; the lingering ache in his phantom wound confirmed it. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He scrambled to his feet, a soldier's crude sword still clutched in his hand, though he had no memory of picking it up before. Around him, the pandemonium continued unabated. Shouts, screams, the clash of steel, the guttural roars of men, the thud of bodies hitting the muddy ground with sickening finality. He was still in the thick of it, a nameless, faceless combatant in an endless, bloody tableau. A soldier, wearing the same rough, leather-trimmed tunic and leggings as himself, stumbled past, his eyes wide with terror, a gaping wound in his side. He didn't even notice Hyu-Gi. Nobody did. It was as if he was just another cog in this meat grinder, utterly insignificant. He tried to process it, to find a logic, a strategy. But his mind was a storm of fear. He was an F-Class Hunter, a man who had only ever faced weakened monsters in C-Class Gates under the protection of his guild members. He knew nothing of real combat, of the primal, visceral terror of men trying to kill him with raw, desperate intent. Every fiber of his being screamed to flee, to vanish from this horrifying scene. Run. The instinct was overwhelming, primal. He turned, his gaze scanning for an exit, a break in the fighting, any direction that wasn’t towards the charging enemy line. But there was none. Soldiers clashed everywhere, a swirling vortex of violence. He saw men fall, their lifeblood staining the churned earth. He heard the sickening crack of bones, the gurgle of choked last breaths, the wet squelch of a blade finding purchase. This wasn't a dungeon, where monsters had predictable patterns, where strategy and teamwork could prevail. This was pure, unadulterated chaos, a living hellscape where survival was a lottery he had no chance of winning. He dodged a wild swing from a passing enemy soldier, barely registering the glint of steel, the hatred in the man’s eyes. He stumbled, falling into the mud, his hands sinking into the viscous, crimson-soaked earth. The stench of iron and excrement filled his nostrils, thick and nauseating. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream until his lungs gave out. He just wanted it to stop. --- Before he could even fully push himself up, a heavy boot connected with his ribs, followed by another. A hulking warrior in the opposing army's colors stood over him, a crude, serrated axe raised high, its edge gleaming dully even in the overcast light. Hyu-Gi watched, helpless, his body paralyzed by terror, as the blade descended. A blinding flash of pain, a crunch that reverberated through his entire skull, a sensation of his world shattering, and then… darkness. Oblivion, brief and absolute. [Simulation Death: 2] [Objective: Incomplete] [Current Progress: 0%] He was back again. The jolt, the gasp, the cold air. His head throbbed, a phantom ache where the axe had split his skull, a lingering nausea twisting his gut. He gagged, spitting out bitter bile, the taste of fear in his mouth. Two deaths. Two utterly real deaths, each one a universe of pain. He was shaking, a profound tremor that rattled his bones, a fear so deep it felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. His mind raced, desperately searching for an answer, a way out. He tried to think of Kang Hwok, of his sneering face, of the 'sacrifice' he had made by giving him the Awakened Stone. He thought of his sister, Han-Yol, her firm words, her demand that he 'not surrender'. But what was he supposed to do here? How could he not surrender to this unending torment? --- He tried to run again. This time, he managed to scramble a few steps, stumbling over corpses, before an arrow whistled past his ear, then another, lodging itself with a sickening thud in the back of his leg. He screamed, a raw, primal sound ripped from his throat, collapsing into the mud, the pain immediate and searing. He crawled, dragging his useless limb, his vision blurring with tears and sweat. The ground vibrated. A cavalry charge, a wave of thunderous hooves, bore down on him, a terrifying tremor in the earth that heralded his doom. He saw the gleam of the horses' eyes, wild and untamed, the determined, savage faces of the riders, swords and lances held high. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, for the crushing weight that would erase him. The world went black, punctuated by the shattering sound of his own bones. [Simulation Death: 3] [Objective: Incomplete] [Current Progress: 0%] He opened his eyes, already anticipating the familiar jolt, the acrid air, the phantom pain of a body turned to pulp. He was a broken record, a tragic, repeating loop, condemned to relive his own demise. He found himself standing, disoriented, by a tattered banner, near a line of archers. He had no bow, no arrows, just the crude sword in his hand, a mockery of a weapon. An enemy skirmisher, clad in light armor adorned with the crest of a snarling wolf, burst through their lines, a whirlwind of speed and steel. Hyu-Gi froze, unable to react, his F-Class instincts utterly useless in this brutal, skill-less melee. The skirmisher's short sword flashed, a blur of silver, a grim dance of death. A sharp, stinging sensation across his throat, then a warm gush of blood, bubbling and suffocating. He clutched his neck, gasping, gurgling, his hands slick with his own life, watching the world fade to a sickening crimson haze. Darkness. [Simulation Death: 4] [Objective: Incomplete] [Current Progress: 0%] This was hell. Not the metaphysical hell his name might imply, but a living, breathing, dying hell, a pit of suffering designed to break him. He died by spear, by sword, by mace, by arrow, by trampling hooves, by friendly fire, by his own clumsy tripping. He died alone, in groups, bravely, cowardly, with a whimper, with a scream. Each death was a unique symphony of agony, etched into his very being, a vivid memory seared into his soul. The details of the battlefield blurred, becoming a nightmare kaleidoscope of blood and mud and suffering. The faces of his enemies, the faces of his allies – all distorted by the relentless, crushing fear that permeated every single breath he took. He tried to watch others, to learn, but every moment he spent observing was a moment he wasn't actively trying to survive, and survival was a fleeting, impossible dream. He was simply a target, an F-Class Hunter with no skills, no power, nothing but a body destined for perpetual destruction. --- Hours, or perhaps days, passed in this relentless cycle. Time became meaningless, a river of blood and agony. Only the death count mattered, a morbid tally of his failures. [Simulation Death: 17] [Simulation Death: 23] [Simulation Death: 38] [Simulation Death: 51] The numbers flickered with brutal regularity, a cold, unfeeling reminder of his futility. His body was a puppet, animated only to experience death. Why? Why him? Why had Kang Hwok, his high school bully, chosen him to escape, to live, to suffer this? Was this a twisted punishment for his weakness, for being an F-Class Hunter who couldn't even awaken properly? Was this his true awakening – to die endlessly, to suffer an eternal torment while his guild members, perhaps, were already gone, dust in a collapsed dungeon? The guilt, which had momentarily subsided amidst the shock of the system's activation, now returned with a vengeance, thick and suffocating, a heavy shroud smothering his very will. He had promised Han-Yol he wouldn’t surrender. He had looked into her eyes, felt the sting of her slap, and vowed to seek strength. But how long could a human being endure this? How long until his mind snapped, until the sheer weight of death crushed his spirit irrevocably, turning him into a hollow shell? He was an insect, trapped in a jar, repeatedly smashed, only to reform and be smashed again. He was losing himself. The boundaries between one death and the next were blurring into a single, unending nightmare. He was no longer Kim Hyu-Gi, the failed F-Class Hunter. He was simply… the one who died, again and again and again. --- He tried to scream, but no sound came, only a dry, rasping gasp. His throat was raw from phantom gags and the memory of choked gurgles. He was on his knees, once more, near a fallen standard emblazoned with a faded lion, the roar of battle a deafening, inescapable drone that permeated his very being. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, stared blankly at the churned mud. A warrior, his face painted with stark tribal markings, his armor splattered with fresh gore, stalked towards him, a heavy two-handed sword dragging in the mud, its tip leaving a shallow furrow. Hyu-Gi closed his eyes, resigned, his shoulders slumping. This was the end again. There was no escape. There was no strategy for an F-Class like him, a mere civilian in a warrior’s body. There was only death. And then, rebirth, only to die again, and again, ad infinitum. The "True Objective" seemed an impossible, mocking joke, a cruel taunt from a sadistic system. How could he achieve anything when his very existence was a fleeting moment of pain before reset? He was nothing. Less than nothing. He was a ghost in a machine designed to make him suffer, a plaything for a system that promised growth through endless, agonizing demise.

Chapter 10: The Endless Torment