The Greatest Showman #1109 - Survival Instinct

Calm. Calm. Calm.

But screw his cool.

His brain was a chaotic mess, a swirling storm of panic that rapidly devoured all reason.

This was supposed to be a personal experience, something he had arranged for himself. This was the effect he expected.

According to the plan, the emotions of the first stage had already been lived through during the "Buried Alive" period, so he didn't need to repeat it today. What he needed now was to adjust, to calmly transition into the second stage—the feelings of despair, of loss. That's where he needed to be.

But the plan couldn't keep up with the changes.

In the vast, suffocating silence, the loneliness began to occupy every cell in his body.

The bigger the universe seemed, the smaller he became; the greater the silence, the weaker he felt. The more immense the world was, the more insignificant he became. And what made it worse was that he couldn't find a single companion. Alone, he faced the grand, unfathomable expanse of the universe. The pressure began to mount, as if he alone were tasked with carrying the entire weight of the world. Struggling. Truly struggling.

The weight of loneliness started to churn something darker: terror.

He lifted his eyes, scanning every corner of his vision, searching for something, anything. But there was nothing. Just an endless, oppressive emptiness that made the loneliness surge.

In the coffin, the world had been so small. He could reach out and touch the edges of his confinement. Everything was cramped, urgent, suffocating.

That face-to-face confrontation was different, more immediate. He could fight it, resist. If he raised his fist, he could feel the opposition, feel the struggle. He could take action.

But now, everything was grand. No matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find any boundaries. The universe had expanded beyond comprehension. Even his fist, no matter how hard he clenched it, would never hit anything solid. His resistance was meaningless, an impotent gesture against something so vast. Before even trying to resist, hopelessness had already gnawed at him.

He wasn't giving up, but he wanted to fight. And yet, he was powerless. This wasn't a coffin. This wasn't a kidnapper or a nation he had to confront. This was the universe itself. God, how was he supposed to fight that? Before he could even summon the will to struggle, the hope of survival had already been obliterated.

His eyes blurred with a haze of helplessness. The suffocation began to feel like a fire, burning through his lungs, igniting his insides, every nerve consumed with the torment.

But then, something in him broke free—the survival instinct.

He should calm down. He should follow the plan. He should...

To hell with the plan.

Desperate, Renly began to fight, to slap at the air with his limbs, trying to regain control, to break free. But it didn't work.

The more he struggled, the more it hurt.

His muscles screamed with the energy to move, but his body remained locked in place. The pressure inside him mounted, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe. But no matter how wide he opened his mouth, there was no oxygen. It was as though his throat had been cut off entirely.

Pain shot through every part of him—his hands, feet, chest, abdomen, even his knees and elbows. Each part of him seemed to burn with fire, with the violent friction of his futile efforts. The sensation was torturous, like being consumed by an inferno. It felt like every inch of his skin was being scraped raw.

But still, he couldn't make a sound. His body couldn't respond. He was locked in place, like a stone, trapped in his own desperation.

A deep sense of powerlessness flooded him—not despair, not anger—just a crushing sense of helplessness. It was like an ant trying to shake a tree. He could try all he wanted, but nothing changed. Nothing at all.

His mind wandered, trying to make sense of it. He couldn't find any answers, nothing that made sense. He was alone, isolated in his own head, and the sensation was all-encompassing. His body was a cage, and his soul was locked inside it.

Then the pain reached a breaking point. The physical agony overwhelmed him, and he lost all sense of himself. Every instinct, every ounce of strength, was consumed by the need to break free. His body writhed, but he was a prisoner to his own struggle.

"Ah! Ah, ah, ah!" The cries were broken, fragmented, like a fish gasping for air. His mouth was wide open, but no words came out. No sound. No release.

It was a sucker punch to his soul.

He twisted and struggled. His body was drenched in sweat, mixed with tears and saliva, but he didn't care about the humiliation. All he cared about was the suffocating pressure that seemed to crush him from all sides.

It was so embarrassing... and yet, he didn't even care. The suffocation was too intense, too consuming. His brain felt like it was burning from the inside out. He couldn't scream, couldn't shout, couldn't even find his voice.

Think. Think!

He couldn't give up, not like this. He refused to surrender. He wouldn't accept defeat. This wasn't him. He was Renly Hall, not some helpless victim. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

His thoughts were a blur, negative emotions raging inside him, but even they felt like they were slipping through his fingers. No way to vent, no outlet. His body felt as though it were made of air. The universe was vast, and he couldn't find a way to fight it. So he froze, letting the storm of emotions destroy the last remnants of his resolve.

The immense powerlessness clawed at him, and he couldn't even feel the pain. His eyes widened as if to take in the fading light of his life—slowly, inevitably dimming, like ashes in the wind.

So grand, so tragic.

He was a coward. He hadn't even tried to resist. He had just given up, and that thought was almost too much to bear. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat, and he felt the heat of shame rising within him. He couldn't even hold onto the last shred of hope. The emptiness consumed him.

And then, in the distance, a shimmering light began to brighten, growing until it was blinding white. The world around him transformed, and he was suddenly aware of a stark, sterile feeling—like a hospital ward.

His body, once again, was paralyzed.

His feet, his hands, his entire body were locked in place. He could barely turn his head, could barely move his neck. He tried to raise his head to see his toes, but his body refused to obey. Panic flooded his senses, and the nightmare returned. The nightmare that had been worse than death.

He was back in Chu Jiashu's body. He was trapped in that paralyzed state again, just as he had been in that nightmare—helpless, his soul free to travel, but his body locked in a coffin of flesh. Unable to move. Trapped. Waiting for the inevitable end.

Why? Why was this happening?

He was Renly Hall. Not Chu Jiashu. He was no longer bound to that single life. He was preparing for "Gravity," not trapped in a hospital bed.

No. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Struggling, he fought with all his might, but his body refused to move. It was as though his very soul had been severed from his physical form. Panic swallowed him. He had to get out of this. He had to. He couldn't be trapped again.

The universe, vast and endless, had shrunk down to a prison. His panic broke his mind, and he could barely think.

"No. No. It shouldn't be like this. It's impossible." His voice was a growl, weak and desperate. He fought harder, but his body wouldn't respond. His teeth clenched, but there was nothing to do.

Suddenly, the taste of blood filled his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.