Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as an electric shock straight to the soul. Aidan Cross's eyes flew open, the breath caught in his chest like a block of ice. He was surrounded by a near-absolute darkness, thick and cold. The air carried the damp smell of old earth, of moss, and something faintly acrid, like the scent of oblivion. He was lying on a surface as hard and cold as stone. A dull ache spread through his entire body, from his weary joints to every tired muscle fiber, as if he had just survived a horrific struggle that his mind no longer retained any memory of.
He sat up, a simple action that required a phenomenal effort. His mind was a blank, an intimidating void, a terrifying silence. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was he here? A thousand questions swirled in his mind, but not a single answer echoed back. There was only one thing, a single, tiny fragment of information sparkling like a lone star in an endless night sky, clinging to his consciousness: the name "Aidan Cross." It was the only anchor keeping him from being submerged in a sea of namelessness.
"Aidan Cross," he whispered, his voice hoarse and foreign in the silent space. The sound didn't seem to belong to him, but it was all he had.
As his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, the faint outlines of the world around him began to emerge. He wasn't in a room, but somewhere like a cave or a giant stone hollow. High above, jagged stalactites hung like the fangs of some ancient beast. There was no sunlight, only a strange, faint, ethereal blue light emanating from clusters of fungi and lichen clinging to the rock face, illuminating a scene both magnificent and terrifying. He looked down at his hands—long, slender fingers, calloused in places, silent proof of a life he could not recall. The clothes on his body, a set of dark brown roughspun cloth, were tattered and stained with mud.
A frigid wind snaked through a crevice somewhere, carrying the whisper of leaves and the ghastly shriek of an alien world. Instinct told him that staying here was not a wise choice. Fear, a primal and intense emotion, began to seep into every cell. He had to move, had to find answers, or at least find a place safer than this damp tomb.
Aidan braced himself against the rock wall and forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, but his will was surprisingly firm. He chose a direction that seemed to have a draft, hoping it would lead outside. The passage was narrow and rugged, the air growing colder. The steady drip of water from the stones above created a monotonous, ghostly rhythm. Each of his footsteps echoed in the space, amplifying his own solitude.
After what felt like an eternity, the faint blue light was replaced by the gray twilight of dusk. An exit appeared before him, a stone archway leading into a forest unlike any he could imagine, though his imagination at this point was a blank slate.
The trees here were towering, their trunks so massive it would take three people to encircle them, with rough, dark bark like forged iron. Their dense canopies intertwined into a vault that allowed almost no light to pass through, creating a sense of eternal, oppressive gloom. The ground was covered in a layer of dark green moss, soft and damp, swallowing the sound of his footsteps. There were no birds chirping, no insects buzzing, only a heavy silence, occasionally broken by the wind howling through the gnarled branches, sounding like the cries of lost souls.
This world was not friendly. Aidan felt it with every sense. Every tree, every rock seemed to be observing him with a silent hostility. He realized his own fragility. Human skin, with no scales, no hard shell, was too vulnerable to the claws and fangs hiding somewhere in the shadows. With no weapon, no knowledge, he was just prey.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, a strange sound cut through his reflections. It was a dry, rhythmic scrape, scrape, as if something sharp were being dragged across stone. The sound came from ahead, hidden behind a giant thorn bush with dark purple leaves. Aidan immediately hid behind an ancient tree trunk, his heart pounding in his chest. He held his breath, trying to meld into the darkness.
From behind the bush, a creature emerged. It was unlike any animal. Its long, low body was covered in an ash-gray carapace that looked as hard as flint. Its six legs were gaunt and angular, moving with a jerky gait, each step creating a horrid scraping sound on the ground. But the most terrifying features were the giant pincers at its front, long and sharp as two of the Grim Reaper's scythes, gleaming under the dim light. Its head was small, almost nonexistent, with only a pair of red compound eyes that scanned everything around with a soulless cruelty.
Aidan knew that in a direct confrontation, he stood no chance. That carapace could probably deflect a normal sword, let alone his bare hands. A single swipe from those pincers would be enough to tear him in two. This was the very embodiment of this world's harshness. To fight such a monster, a normal person would need an army, or at least a perfect, detailed plan exploiting some critical weakness he knew nothing about.
The monster, which he would later learn was called a Grave Scuttler, seemed to be sniffing the air. It turned its small head in his direction. Its red compound eyes seemed to see right through the tree bark. Aidan froze. He'd been spotted.
In the moment of facing imminent death, a strange sensation rose from deep within Aidan. It wasn't physical strength, but a connection, a faint echo in his mind. He felt as if the air around him was vibrating, the shadows in the forest seeming to deepen, to thicken. He suddenly had a powerful urge, a flashing thought: he was not alone.
He unconsciously reached out his hand, not to attack, but as if to grasp something invisible. He felt a cold energy flow into his body, an ancient and wild power. He looked at the Grave Scuttler, and for a moment, he didn't just see a monster. He saw its hunger, its instinctual aggression, and… a weakness. Just below the joint connecting its head and torso, where the carapace was thinner, was a small gap, revealing a patch of soft, green flesh. Its vital point.
How did he know that? The thought came as naturally as breathing.
The monster let out a piercing shriek and charged at him. Its speed was terrifying. The giant pincers were raised, ready to strike. Time seemed to slow. Aidan had no time to think. He just acted on his newfound instinct.
He didn't retreat, but lunged to the side, rolling across the damp moss. The scythe of death sliced past where he had just been standing, cutting a deep gash in the ancient tree, sending splinters flying. As soon as the monster was off-balance, Aidan was beside it. He had no weapon, but he saw a sharp-edged rock on the ground. He grabbed it, feeling the rough, cold stone in his palm.
In a moment of madness, he charged in, aiming straight for the opening he had "seen." The monster turned, and one of its legs kicked his side, a searing pain so intense it nearly made him pass out. But he didn't stop. With a scream torn from his throat, he poured all his strength into a single, desperate thrust, driving the sharp rock into its vital point.
An earth-shattering shriek rang out, the sound of ultimate agony. A hot, foul-smelling green liquid spewed out, splashing onto Aidan's hand and face. The monster convulsed violently, its pincers flailing wildly in the air before it crashed to the ground, motionless.
Aidan staggered back, throwing the flesh-and-blood-covered rock to the ground. He panted, his side screaming in pain. He looked at the monster's corpse, then at his own hands. He had done it. He had survived. But the victory brought no sense of elation, only horror and exhaustion. He had killed. He had to kill to survive.
He collapsed to the ground, his back against the tree. The pain, the fatigue, and the shock hit him all at once. He looked up at the gray sky through the gaps in the leaves. A cruel world, an unforgiving struggle for survival. And he, an amnesiac, suddenly possessed a strange ability, an empathy with other creatures, a combat instinct he never knew he had.
Everyone who comes to this world will have a special ability. The thought flickered through his mind, its origin unknown, like his name, a lone fragment of truth in a sea of chaos. Could this be his ability? Not muscular strength, but something else, more subtle, more dangerous? A bond with wild creatures? He thought about the feeling of cold energy flowing into him. Was that what had shown him the monster's weakness?
As the questions swirled, another sound rang out. This time it wasn't the scraping of a monster. It was the sound of a dry twig snapping. A deliberate sound.
Aidan flinched, trying to stand but collapsing from the pain in his side. He looked towards the sound, his hand unconsciously searching for another weapon. Someone was coming.
From the darkness of the forest, a figure slowly emerged. Tall and thin, cloaked in a hooded robe that obscured their face. The person walked lightly, making little noise, and stopped a few meters from Aidan. They looked at the corpse of the Grave Scuttler, then at Aidan, who was in a weak defensive posture.
From under the hood, a low, hoarse voice spoke, carrying an unconcealed surprise.
"Alone... you took down a Grave Scuttler? Bare-handed?"
The stranger slowly pulled back their hood, revealing the rugged face of a middle-aged man with eyes as sharp as a knife and a long scar running down his left cheek. His gaze swept over Aidan, not with hostility, but with deep curiosity and assessment.
"Who... are you?"
Aidan Cross, lost in a strange world, a man who had just killed to stay alive, now faced a new unknown. A human. But in this world, was a human an ally, or an even more sophisticated danger than the most hideous of monsters? The answer, like his own past, remained shrouded in darkness.