Hahahaha…
Am I actually dying?
What a fitting end for a monster like me. More than fitting.
If I end up in hell, I won't lodge a complaint—I'm one of their own anyway.
The only thing I regret is my weakness.
If I were the strongest, the best… would I be rotting in this position? Would I have to bow my head and calculate exactly when to move my lips? Would I have even committed those crimes? If I were truly a king, why would I steal? Why would I betray? Theft is a disgrace for someone in a position of authority.
Do I regret it? Yes… with every drop of bile in my veins.
I won't pretend to be tough. I'm hollowed out by regret, terrified of what's waiting for me in the dark.
Hahaha… look at me, the hypocrite.
Do I feel wronged? It's funny—a predator whining about injustice. What a failure.
Should I feel wronged by Amanda and the Instructor? Why feel wronged by a pile of weaklings? If they were as strong as they claim, would they need to resort to schemes? Their need to hide behind a mask of nobility just reeks of cowardice. They're so careful, so afraid of making a move.
If I survive today and claw out of this hole, I'll become a strong man.
I'll stop cursing the world; that's for losers. I'll live every day as if it's my last, and I'll make damn sure I never end up like this again.
Pathetic… was I about to blame a God I never believed in? Was I about to complain that He hurried my end?
Death strips a man naked, and today I finally saw my own soul.
I was nothing but a miserable wretch, a leader of scum and weaklings. I bullied people just to ignore my own pathetic reality, a cheap way to fill the void of my own inferiority.
If I live, I'll become truly powerful.
Evil is just a crutch for the weak. A strong man doesn't need to trample others to prove he exists.
Yes… I won't give up my darkness until I'm strong enough not to need it.
But I'm not great. I'm not strong. I'm weak, so I'll act like it.
I sound like a walking contradiction. I know. That's what makes me human.
I say: I won't do evil after today… I meant the unnecessary kind.
Wait! Do people actually keep their word?
How many have promised the world and then acted like they never said a damn thing?
Why should I be the only one to play fair?
Before I could finish my hypocrisy, a sudden wave of warmth flooded me, washing away the fog of death. I felt the loss of something I can't describe—like a piece of me was being surgically removed.
The boat that was splintering moments ago returned to its prime. My head cleared instantly; the confusion and terror vanished like smoke.
I looked around. The waves were still slamming into the hull, mocking my newborn hope as if time were trying to abort it.
The cycle repeated. The boat began the death rattle again, the wood cracking under my feet.
As the terror rushed back, my vow to live strong began to fade. The cold touch of the grave shook my hand once more.
Then, the warmth hit again. The boat reset.
Disaster, then rebirth. It happened twelve times.
Each time, an uncomfortable sensation clung to me like wet rot.
Finally, I noticed a change. The waves began to lose their teeth. The sea, which had been a sludge of black filth, started to look like just… a dark sea.
The loop continued: nearing the end, returning, falling back in.
It happened over twenty times.
A haunting thought began to nag at me: I wasn't surviving here; I was being hollowed out. Excised.
I felt as though I were being born again, stripped of the old filth.
A smile returned to my face. My resistance was hardening.
At first, I could only hold on for ten minutes. Now, I was standing firm for twenty-five.
By the thirty-third repetition...
I was fighting back with my own strength.
Light began to bleed into the darkness, like a flock of migrating birds cutting through a storm.
Wait. Thirty-three? What does that even mean? And when the hell did I start counting?
But hold on...
Who am I?
And where am I?