The phantom pain of a severed limb still pulsed through Kim Hyu-Gi's nonexistent nerves, a stark reminder of the grim toll each attempt to escort the Princess exacted. This cycle of death and rebirth, while agonizing, was beginning to etch patterns into his mind, not of despair, but of raw data. His latest demise had been particularly humiliating: trampled by a colossal demonic beast, its multi-jointed legs shattering his ribs before his head even registered the approaching hoof. He had been too focused on shielding a supply cart, a futile gesture given the beast’s momentum, a lapse he now mentally cataloged under ‘misallocation of resources’.
He blinked, the harsh light of the resurrected world stinging his eyes. The familiar, suffocating roar of the demon horde was already a low thrum against the city walls, a constant, insidious pressure that never truly receded. Around him, the other knights, five thousand strong, moved with a grim efficiency born of endless, brutal defense. Most, he knew, were simply bodies in the simulation, programmed for this endless war, but the pain and the fear were undeniably real for him. He was the only one truly dying, truly learning, truly carrying the weight of each failure.
His equipment was standard-issue, which meant ‘woefully inadequate’. A dull steel sword, heavy and prone to chipping, and a dented breastplate that offered little more than psychological comfort against the claws and spells of the demon army. “Move it, peasant!” a burly knight, Sir Kael, barked, shoving him forward. Kael was a recurring figure, always dismissive, always a stern reminder of Hyu-Gi’s low rank and perceived incompetence. Hyu-Gi merely nodded, his gaze already scanning the ramparts, the distant siege engines, the swirling mass of grotesque forms that made up the enemy.
The current attempt had them defending the East Gate, a section that had fallen countless times before. Their primary objective remained unchanged: escort the Princess, Lady Elara, through this inferno to the Royal Capital. Easier said than done when ‘this inferno’ comprised legions of hellish creatures, from agile gargoyles that swooped from the smoky sky to hulking fiends that battered the stone walls like living rams. The city itself was a patchwork of desperation, barricades made from collapsed buildings, streets choked with rubble, and the air thick with ash and the acrid scent of brimstone.
“Hold the line!” a captain’s voice boomed, though it was quickly swallowed by the cacophony. A new wave of lesser imps, fast and numerous, scaled the outer walls. Hyu-Gi gripped his sword, his muscles already protesting. He swung, parried, thrust, a dance he had performed countless times. Each block vibrated up his arm, each kill a fleeting moment of respite before another imp lunged. His body was an F-class vessel trying to perform E-class feats, and the strain was immense. He was slower than the veteran knights, his footwork less refined, his stamina finite. He watched as Sir Kael, a whirlwind of steel, cut down three imps in a single fluid motion, a stark contrast to Hyu-Gi’s own clumsy, desperate flailing.
He noticed a subtle shift in the imps’ attack pattern. Instead of a uniform surge, they were concentrating their numbers on weaker points, exploiting the breaches in the city’s improvised defenses. In his last life, he had been overwhelmed by a flanking maneuver he hadn’t anticipated. This time, he instinctively adjusted, subtly shifting his stance, angling his body to cover a crumbling section of the wall where the imps seemed to converge. He couldn’t shout orders; no one would listen. He could only adapt, minute by minute, death by death.
The demons’ relentless assaults continued without pause. Fiery projectiles rained down from catapults, each explosion tearing chunks from the battlements, sending showers of stone and screams into the air. A sudden tremor shook the ground, and a section of the wall to his left crumbled, revealing a gaping maw from which a hulking brute, a ‘Goretusk’, emerged. Its hide was thick, its tusks long and razor-sharp, its eyes glowing with malevolent intent. Panic threatened to seize him, a familiar cold knot in his stomach.
He remembered his previous life. He’d charged this very Goretusk, attempting to be heroic, only to be impaled and tossed aside like a ragdoll. This time, he didn't charge. He watched. He observed its clumsy, powerful gait, its predictable attack wind-ups. He saw other knights fall, their courage turning to foolishness in the face of its brute strength. He noted the Goretusk’s habit of swinging wide before a charge, a momentary vulnerability in its flank. It wasn't an opening he could exploit directly, not with his current strength, but it was information.
Another death. This time, a searing blast of demonic fire from a distant sorcerer incinerated him before he could even react. The sensation was immediate, all-consuming, and utterly terrifying. He felt his skin boil, his muscles char, his bones turn to ash, all within a fraction of a second. Then, darkness, followed by the familiar, jarring reset. The full 100% realism of the system was a cruel, persistent teacher, making each failure a searing lesson.
He opened his eyes again, gasping, though he didn't need to breathe in this limbo. His mind raced, replaying the last few seconds. The fire sorcerers. They were a consistent threat, often overlooked in the melee. He needed to track their positions, anticipate their targeting patterns. They weren't just random; there was a logic, however twisted, to their attacks. They seemed to prioritize concentrations of knights, or perhaps points of structural weakness. He began to form a mental map, overlaying the battlefield with the locations of archers, siege engines, and now, the insidious fire mages.
This wasn't about heroic charges. This wasn't about overwhelming strength. It was about survival through pattern recognition, about microscopic adjustments, about finding the infinitesimally small cracks in the demon’s strategy. Each death, each agonizing reset, was another data point, another piece of the puzzle. The Princess still felt like an unreachable goal, and the Royal Capital a myth, but his focus had narrowed. He was no longer just fighting to live; he was fighting to learn, to analyze, to understand the calculus of his demise. He would die a thousand times, a million, if that’s what it took to unearth the secret to victory. His panic had transformed into a cold, clinical determination, fueled by the memory of burning flesh and shattered bones.
“The East Gate is compromised! Reinforcements needed!” the cry echoed, pulling him back into the present. He clenched his jaw. Another attempt. Another chance to gather more data. Another opportunity to die, and in doing so, to become just a little bit smarter. He adjusted his grip on his sword, the dull steel feeling heavier than ever, but his eyes held a new, calculating glint. He wouldn’t be trampled by a Goretusk this time, nor caught unawares by a fire blast. He would learn. He had to.