The roar never truly faded. It only fractured, then reassembled, a constant, crushing wave of sound that was both the soundtrack to his deaths and the prelude to his resurrections. Kim Hyu-Gi didn't wake anymore; he merely *was*, slammed back into existence, his consciousness an unwelcome guest in a body already screaming with phantom pains and fresh wounds. He opened his eyes, or perhaps his eyes were already open, staring up at a sky choked with ash and the distant, swirling smoke of a burning village. A horse’s hoof, caked with mud and blood, narrowly missed his head as he instinctively rolled, the impact shaking the ground where his skull had rested moments before. Survival was a reflex now, stripped of thought, devoid of hope. Just a twitch, a flinch, a desperate scramble. He scrambled to his feet, a soldier's tattered uniform clinging to him, heavy with grime and the lingering scent of old blood. Ahead, a tide of bodies surged, a chaotic symphony of steel clashing, guttural shouts, and the pained cries of the dying. He was Southern, he knew that much, though the identity felt as flimsy as the worn leather of his boots. He was always Southern, always caught in this endless, unwinnable war. Flee. That was the only thought his battered mind could still consistently generate. Flee. Retreat. Escape. But escape to where? Every direction was the same – another skirmish, another charge, another glint of an enemy blade, another arrow whistling through the air with his name on it. He’d tried hiding in the trenches, only to be impaled by a spearman clearing the ditch. He’d tried blending into retreating ranks, only to be cut down by friendly fire in the confusion. He’d tried running toward the enemy, a suicidal charge, but even that had ended in a quick, ignominious death, his chest pierced by a formation of pikes. His memory was a patchwork quilt of agony. The burning sensation of his throat closing from a severed windpipe. The blinding white-hot pain of an arrow in his eye. The gut-wrenching cold of a sword sliding between his ribs. The crushing weight of a warhorse trampling his spine. Each death was distinct, yet they merged into a single, unbearable continuum. He was a canvas for a thousand different ways to die, and the painter seemed inexhaustible. *This is it*, he thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stumbled away from the main clash, pushing past a dying comrade whose blood splattered his cheek. *This is my hell. This is what it means to be an F-Class Hunter, even in death.* Kang Hwok's face flashed in his mind, sneering and then resolute, pressing the Awakened Stone into his palm. *Awaken*, the Guild Leader had said. *Seek help.* What a joke. What help could he seek from the grave? The words of the Hell Simulation System echoed, a cold, indifferent mantra: *“Every sensation, injury, and death is 100% real. Success grants permanent growth in the real world, while death resets all progress within the simulation until he fulfills the true objective.”* *Resets all progress?* What progress? He was simply dying. Over and over. He wasn't learning, he was just experiencing trauma on repeat. His mind, once sharp, was now a dull, aching mess, unable to hold a coherent thought for more than a few moments before the next death claimed him. He watched a Southern soldier, no older than himself, bravely charge into a group of three Northern infantrymen, a crude iron sword held high. The soldier lasted perhaps two seconds. A Northern axe split his shield, then his skull. His body crumpled, lifeless. Kim Hyu-Gi felt nothing. No pity, no admiration, just a hollow emptiness. *Futile. All of it.* He continued to flee, but his legs felt heavier than lead. His vision blurred, not from smoke, but from an exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue, reaching into the very core of his soul. He was tired of running. He was tired of dying. He was just… tired. And then, a new thought, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, pierced through the fog of his despair. *If running always leads to death, what is the point of running?* He stumbled, his body reacting to a sudden, violent shove from a fleeing comrade. He fell hard, his cheek scraping against the muddy ground. His eyes, unfocused, landed on something metallic sticking out of the muck. A sword. Not a well-crafted blade, but a functional, ugly piece of iron, still partially sheathed in what looked like a leather scabbard fused with mud. He stared at it, a strange, almost alien curiosity overcoming the instinct to scramble away. He had never picked up a weapon here. He had always been too busy fleeing, too panicked. But now, as his mind wrestled with the futility of his existence in this endless cycle of pain, the glint of the metal seemed to offer an alternative, however slight. *Why?* The question surfaced, but it wasn't about the sword. It was about everything. Why was he here? Why had Kang Hwok saved him? Why couldn't he awaken? Why was he so weak? Kim Han-Yol’s stern gaze, her hand still stinging on his cheek, flashed. *Don’t give up, Hyu-Gi. Don't you dare.* He reached out a trembling hand, fingers closing around the mud-caked hilt. It was heavy, rough, and unfamiliar. He pulled, and with a sucking sound, the sword came free, dragging a clump of earth with it. It was surprisingly long, balanced poorly, but undeniably a weapon. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This was new. This was different. He didn't know what he was doing. He was F-Class, a weakling, a civilian among real Hunters. What could he, Kim Hyu-Gi, an unawakened F-Class Hunter from the Three Flowers Guild, do with a sword? "ROAR!" A Northern soldier, a brute with a scarred face and a heavy club, charged at him, screaming. Hyu-Gi froze, the sword hanging limply in his hand. Panic, familiar and suffocating, flared. Then, a flicker of something else. Not bravery, not skill, but a raw, animalistic defiance born from utter exhaustion. He was going to die anyway. He was always going to die. But this time… He brought the sword up, a clumsy, uncontrolled swing. The blade caught the Northern soldier's club, a jarring clang echoing in his ears. The impact vibrated up his arm, numbing his fingers. He stumbled back, off-balance. The Northern soldier, momentarily surprised by the unexpected resistance, recovered quickly. He swung his club again, a sweeping arc aimed at Hyu-Gi's head. Hyu-Gi tried to block, but his movement was slow, uncoordinated. The club connected with his temple, a sickening crack. White light exploded behind his eyes, followed by a dizzying rush of pain. He dropped the sword. His body collapsed. The world went dark. He was dead. Again. But this time, for a fraction of a second, he had held a sword. For a fraction of a second, he had tried to fight back. He opened his eyes. The sky was still choked with ash. The roar was still there. He was still alive, still trapped. But his fingers, instinctively flexing, felt the ghost of a hilt. The memory of the clumsy swing, the jarring clang, lingered. It wasn't victory. It was just… an attempt. A terrible, pathetic attempt. But an attempt nonetheless. He pushed himself up, his eyes scanning the chaotic ground. There, half-buried in the mud, was another discarded sword. He reached for it, his movements still clumsy, driven by a new, grim determination. He was still going to die. But perhaps, just perhaps, he wouldn't die running anymore.

Chapter 12: The Iron Taste of Defiance