Chapter 4:
Alan's hands began to tremble.
Rage twisted across his face, his eyes shaking violently as if they couldn't process what they were seeing. His breathing turned uneven, lips quivering as he stared at the headless body lying before him.
His throat tightened.
"…Mr. White…"
The name barely escaped him.
For a brief second, the world went silent.
The screams, the roars, the clash of steel—everything faded as if his ears had been sealed shut. His body felt numb, detached from the battlefield around him. Then, like a violent surge of light, memories flooded his mind. Mr. White's outstretched hand pulling him from death. His steady voice telling him not to blame himself. The way he stood in front of him, shielding him.
The way he fought.
The way he believed in him.
Every moment. Every word.
All of it—gone in an instant.
"Why him…? Tell me… why HIM?!"
Alan's voice tore through the battlefield as he looked up at the sky, his throat burning. "MICHAEL LEE! WHY HIM?!"
Not far away, the rapier wielder witnessed Mr. White's brutal death—but she couldn't afford to stop. Grief clawed at her chest, yet the dogs kept coming, snapping and lunging without mercy. She fought them off alone, her blade flashing as she carved a path through their relentless assault.
She tried to reach Alan, calling out to him, but it was useless. He was too far gone—consumed by rage, drowning in it—while she remained trapped in her own desperate battle for survival.
Consumed by rage, Alan snatched up his blades and surged forward, striking without hesitation. He cut the dogs down one after another, his swords flashing as they tore through their necks. "Ahhhhh!" he roared, his voice raw and broken as he kept swinging.
One lunged from behind and sank its fangs into him, but he didn't stop. Even as pain ripped through his body, Alan refused to falter. He continued hacking at them mercilessly, ignoring the blood, ignoring the wounds.
His eyes had gone empty—void of fear, void of reason. All that remained was a burning, uncontrollable hunger for revenge.
He remembered Mr. White's optimistic words: "It's called survival instinct. When your body tells you to fight, to do whatever it takes to live… you do it. You did what you had to do.'
Those words carved themselves deep into Alan's heart—a mark he knew would never fade. Not a curse, but a lesson. Something that could either break him… or make him stronger.
"Survival… instinct," he muttered under his breath. "Survival… instinct…"
He kept repeating it like a mantra, as if clinging to the meaning behind it. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face, yet his grip on his blades tightened.
Alan attacked and was attacked in return, blades flashing as he struck at the beasts' cores. Even though he had found their weak point, their claws and fangs still tore into him, ripping through his skin with relentless fury.
[ LP: 71 ]
A sharp scratch across his shoulder.
[ LP: 62 ]
A bite sank into his side, forcing a grunt from his lips—but he refused to fall back.
He kept stabbing and stabbing without pause, his movements growing more desperate, more savage.
[ LP: 57 ]
Blood dripped from his wounds, yet he continued forward, driven by nothing but rage and the echo of one word in his mind—"survival."
In the real world, Michael Lee sat alone in a darkened room, illuminated only by the glow of massive screens displaying the chaos of the virtual battlefield. Reclining in his office chair, he monitored every movement, every scream, every drop of blood spilled inside the game.
"Interesting." he muttered softly. "He identified the core faster than projected."
His eyes narrowed as Alan's figure appeared on the screen. "Not only did he uncover the core of the beasts I programmed for this phase… but he's fighting through the pain. Ignoring his injuries."
A faint smile curled across his lips as he adjusted the circular glasses resting on his nose.
"I'll make this more interesting."
He casually tapped a key on his keyboard.
At once, the sharp hum of speakers echoed across the sky of the virtual world, vibrating through the battlefield like a god announcing his presence. Every player instinctively looked up, their eyes searching the heavens for the source of the voice.
"How beautiful this is," Michael said smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement. "Such a wonderful sight… watching people struggle through blood and sweat just to survive. How… astonishing."
"BASTARD!" Alan roared at the sky, his voice breaking from fury.
"If I survive this… I won't just clear your game. I'll clear you... motherfucker!"
"I'd like to see you try," Michael replied through the speakers, his tone calm and amused.
He rose from his office chair and walked toward the woman who had been standing silently behind him the entire time. The glow from the massive screens reflected off his glasses as he stopped in front of her.
"Adjust the program," he ordered coldly. "Have the beasts focus primarily on that kid. Understood?"
She lowered her head immediately. "Understood, sir."
Without another word, Michael walked past her, opened the door, and shut it slowly behind him.
Back in the virtual world, Alan continued fighting relentlessly, cutting down beast after beast while enduring countless bites and scratches. Each exchange drained more of his Life Points, but he refused to fall back.
Soon, his vision blurred as the translucent warning flashed before him—
[ LP: 26 ]
He had reached a critical level.
As he continued his savage onslaught, tears streamed down Alan's face, blurring the battlefield before him. In the middle of blood and chaos, his mind drifted back to a quiet moment from the past — a conversation he once had with his mother about gaming tactics.
'Gaming is a lot like real life,' she had told him gently. 'The difference is that in real life, humans have choices. But in a game world, NPCs are programmed to act according to the creator's design. So if you ever find it difficult to clear a game, remember this — only the creator can truly change the fate and outcome of that world.'
Her words echoed in his heart, louder than the screams around him.
The deeper his thoughts drifted into the past, the slower his movements became. His focus shattered, and in that single lapse, more dogs began charging straight toward him, their snarls growing louder with each step.
"I'm sorry, Mum..." Alan muttered weakly, his vision trembling as the beasts closed in. "It's just like you said... I think I'm going to..."
[ LP: 5 ]
With nothing left inside him, Alan staggered forward toward the nearest dog. His eyes were hollow, unfocused. Blood streamed down from his forehead, ran along his fingers, and dripped from the blades he barely managed to hold upright.
His grip had grown weak… his movements sluggish.
"This is it…" he thought faintly, staring at the beast rushing toward him. "I'm not going to make it…"
A sudden hand seized him from behind, and in the same instant a silver flash cut through the air. The dog's head was severed cleanly from its body.
Before Alan could react, a sharp sting exploded across his cheek.
Smack!
The sound of the rapier wielder's slap rang loudly even amidst the chaos of battle. Her hand gripped his collar tightly, forcing him to focus.
"What do you think you're doing, running straight to your death?!" she shouted, her eyes blazing as she shook him hard.
His eyes slowly refocused, rolling back to their normal position as tears began to stream down his blood-stained face.
"He… he's dead. Mr. White… is dead…" he sobbed, his voice breaking apart.
"And isn't that enough reason to keep fighting?" she shot back fiercely. "He supported you in every way possible. Are you going to let his death mean nothing?"
Alan turned his face away, guilt twisting inside him. "But… but what can I possibly do now? I killed people just to save my own skin… and Mr. White died because of my stupid idea…"
His words annoyed her to the core. she tightened her hand on his collar.
"Do you think you're special or something, huh?" she snapped, her grip tightening around his collar. "Look around, dammit! Everyone here is fighting for their lives. Some came with their families, some with their friends… and you? You just met a total stranger, and this is how you act?"
Her eyes burned with fury as she shoved him back slightly.
"You're pathetic!"
Tears streamed down her face as her voice trembled. "I lost my dad in the first phase… he—he fell into that pit just to make sure I survived. So don't you dare think you're the only one carrying pain."
Before Alan could respond, a dog lunged toward him from the side. She released his collar instantly, spun on her heel, and drove her rapier clean through the beast's neck. It dissolved into a glowing cube that drifted upward.
She glanced back at him, her eyes fierce despite the tears. "Fight—not just to avoid death… but to survive."
Then she extended her hand toward him.
"Be my brain, genius. I'll be our sword and shield."
A faint smile curved across her lips—bright and warm, almost dazzling in the middle of that blood-soaked battlefield. It was the kind of smile no one could easily refuse.
But beneath that beautiful face and radiant smile, Alan sensed something else lurking in her eyes. Behind the warmth, behind the encouraging words, there was calculation—sharp, deliberate, almost cold.
He could see it clearly now. Her kindness wasn't just compassion… it was manipulation.