Healing

As I descended deeper into the cave, the cold, damp air wrapped around me like a dark fog, filling my lungs. The stone walls of the tunnel, etched with claw marks and dried bloodstains, flickered in the torchlight, as if the cave itself were a living wound, breathing. Ahead, strange, hunched mounds rose from the ground. At first, I thought they were just piles of rock or eroded stone, shapeless shadows in the dim light. No time to waste, I told myself, ignoring the mounds and moving forward with agile steps, hopping over them.

Then I reached a larger mound. The moment I stepped on it, the ground gave way with an unexpected softness, and my foot sank into it. Something feather-like, warm, and twitching, brushed against my toes. My heart stopped for a moment. I tried to pull my foot back, but it was too late—a muffled howl rose from within the mound, long and bone-chilling, a war cry echoing off the cave's stone walls. I realized: these mounds weren't stone. They were wolf dens, traps, graves. The other mounds around me came alive, piles of earth and fur exploding open, and wolves—too many to count—poured out in droves. Their red eyes gleamed in the darkness of this massive chamber, the size of a shopping mall, surrounding me like a nightmare army. Shit, I thought, anxiety clawing at my stomach. My breath quickened, but instead of fear, I steeled myself. There was no time to think. I drew my sword from its sheath, the faint chime of steel cutting through the cave's hum, and the battle began.

The first wolf lunged at me from the front, a shadow, its teeth glinting in the dim light. My reflexes kicked in. I sidestepped and swung my sword in a diagonal arc. Steel tore through the wolf's chest, bone and fur scattering, its blood spraying onto the stone floor, hot and sticky. But I didn't stop—I couldn't. The wolves came at me like a tsunami, their growls and the screech of their claws on stone turning the cave into a symphony of death. With Dance, I weaved through the enemies, each swing turning into a corpse. My sword sliced through the air like a whirlwind, cutting throats, flanks, legs. I decapitated one, its blood fountaining into a red mist in the torchlight; I gutted another, its entrails spilling onto the stones, a foul stench filling the air. I spun in circles around the chamber, using No Spoiler to feint, confusing the wolves—one moment swinging my sword in the air, the next landing a true strike, relishing the crunch of bones as steel sank into flesh.

But there were too many. Minutes passed, maybe hours—time melted into blood and steel. My sword, despite my strength, began to feel heavy, as if lead, not blood, flowed through my arm. Each swing no longer guaranteed a kill; if I was lucky, a wolf fell, but often I only grazed them, scraping their fur, making their growls fiercer. The corpses of the wolves I'd killed carpeted the floor, my feet slipping on bloody fur and broken bones. I realized I had to reach the exit—this onslaught wouldn't end, and the cave would become my tomb. My eyes locked onto a narrow tunnel in the far corner of the chamber, where dim light filtered through. Wolves were everywhere, but I aimed for it, swinging my sword like a shield, leaping over bodies.

At that moment, a wolf sprang from the shadows, its teeth sinking into my neck. Pain shot through me like lightning, hot blood streaming down my chest. I'd relied on taking no damage, but this was real, this pain was real. The metallic scent of blood filled my nose, and the leather grip of my sword, soaked with my blood, grew slick. The wolf must have torn a tendon—my right arm went numb, lifting my sword impossible. I gritted my teeth, suppressing the pain, and switched the sword to my left hand. I'd never used a sword with my left, but there was no luxury to think. The wolf lunged again, growling, but I slid aside with Dance, swinging the sword with my left hand. Steel buried into its eye, and it collapsed with a scream, blood and fluid splattering the stones.

As I ran toward the exit, another wolf leaped at me, its claws tearing into my chest, shredding my shirt and reaching my flesh. Blood gushed, hot and sticky, stealing my breath. I tried to swing my sword inward, but it was too long, and my left arm couldn't close the distance. I tried my right, but my nerves rebelled, my arm a lifeless stone. Panic gripped my mind for a moment, but I had to find a solution. As a last resort, I threw the sword's sheath to the ground and grabbed the blade with my bare hand, gripping the steel. The sharp edge sliced my palm, blood dripping from my fingers, but I ignored the pain. Holding the sword backward shortened its reach—distance was no longer an issue. As the wolf kept clawing at my chest, growling, I drove the sword into its chest with all my strength, steel crushing its ribs, blood and fur fragments spraying. The wolf collapsed with a whimper, and I threw myself into the exit tunnel, my bloody hands scraping the stone walls.

The narrow tunnel's stone walls gleamed with cold wetness where my bloody hands brushed, the torches' flickering light fading behind me like a faint hope. The wolves' growls, mixed with the shrill scrape of their claws on stone, formed a nightmare symphony in my ears. My blood's scent had swallowed my camouflage, marking me as prey. I had no choice but to flee—the wolf den was, for now, a threat that would break my teeth and grind my bones to dust. My legs pumped blood through my veins, each step straining my muscles to the point of bursting. The exit's dim light gleamed like a pinhole, and I threw myself toward it with all my strength, my chest heaving with breaths mixed with the foul stench of blood and sweat. Just as I thought I'd reached the cave's mouth, the ground beneath my feet vanished. I didn't feel it—just a moment of emptiness, then I looked down. Pitch-black darkness, a bottomless abyss, as if the world ended here, swallowed by the universe itself. FUCK! I screamed, my voice echoing off the stones as my heart pounded like a drum. I was falling, the air whipping my face as I accelerated, and in that moment, fear and exhilaration flooded my mind like poison. My vision darkened, consciousness snapping like a thread, and everything went silent.

When I came to, my eyes were filled with dust and sand, a stinging pain like needles, as if even my eyelashes were bleeding. The darkness was so thick I couldn't see my hand on my face. I tried to move my right arm—nothing. No movement, no feeling, just a dead weight. My throat burned like the first day of a new illness, each breath filling my lungs with dust and mold, coughs stabbing my chest like knives. I summoned my inventory, the hologram's faint blue light cutting through the darkness, but what I saw turned my fear into a scream. Beneath the cave, it was like another world—a grotesque landscape of jagged rocks, eroded by centuries of dripping water into karstic shapes. Strange, twisting columns rose like the cave's entrails, water pools glinting like mirrors on the stone. No life, just silence, but the silence was heavy, threatening. I scanned the area and noticed a path curving upward—an exit, a crumb of hope. Excited, I tried to stand, but a pain stabbed into my shoulder, so sharp, so savage, that my scream echoed back from the stone walls.

I looked at my shoulder, and my eyes widened in horror. My right shoulder… there was nothing below it. My arm was a pulpy mess of flesh and bone, shredded muscles, broken bones, torn tendons, all hanging in a bloody slurry. A red, sticky nightmare, chunks of flesh dripping onto the stones, blood pooling and spreading on the ground. Nausea rose in my throat, but I started screaming, uncontrollable, primal: LOG OUT! LOG OUT! FUCK, GET ME OUT OF THIS GAME! The system responded with a cold flicker: [You cannot log out during combat.]

What combat?! I roared, but my voice was weak even to my own ears. The pain drilled into my brain, radiating from my shoulder with every heartbeat. My legs trembled, as if my bones were melting, my flesh dissolving. I shut my eyes so tightly I wanted to lock out the world, erase this nightmare. Hours passed, or maybe minutes—I don't know; time melted in the grip of pain. I writhed on the ground, my body scraping against bloody stones, each movement bringing the sickening, wet sound of my shoulder's pulp. There was no logging out; the system was a cold, cruel warden, mocking me. Finally, the pain still burned like fire, but my mind cleared slightly, my ability to decide creeping back. I swore not to look at my shoulder—that sight could break my mind forever. But I had to do something. My arm was a pile of flesh, a grotesque, living nightmare.

An idea came, desperate but my only option. I propped my sword, bloody and slick, against a stone ledge, pushing a rock aside to make room for my shoulder's pulp. From my inventory, I pulled out a Quick Heal MK-2, the metal tube cold and heavy in my palm. The drug was meant to be used as a gas—its liquid form would collapse the immune system like poison, burning the body from within. But what did I have to lose? I considered dying and respawning, but the pain in my arm whispered that even death might not be an escape. I recalled forum posts where players talked about pain—some big names had quit guilds, cursing the game as they left. This is what they meant, I thought, fear gripping my stomach like a fist.

I broke the MK-2's cap, and the liquid poured onto my shoulder's fleshy mess. The world turned into hell. The pain leaped to an unimaginable level—as if my body were being twisted like dough, my bones melting, my skin burning from the inside out. My flesh turned a sickly white, like a corpse's, pale and lifeless. The lymph nodes in my throat swelled so much I couldn't breathe, speaking a fantasy—I could only manage guttural, animalistic groans. The pain seared every nerve, as if someone were stabbing red-hot skewers into my brain, filling my veins with acid. My eyes felt like they'd burst from their sockets, my mouth tasted of blood and dust, my ears rang with the echo of my own screams. Someone come, take the headset off, or let me die, let me respawn! I begged, but only silence answered, the cold, indifferent silence of the stones. I writhed on the ground, for minutes, maybe hours, my body scraping against the stones, each movement reviving the sickening, wet sound of my shoulder's pulp. The pain grew like a monster within me, swallowing my mind, reducing me to a heap of screams.

Finally, consciousness returned like a thread, but the pain was still there, refusing to fade like a stubborn flame. I could breathe, but each breath was a knife. I didn't look at my shoulder. There's a way out, I told myself, recalling the curving tunnel in the hologram's light.