"Preparing body enhancement," an automated voice echoed coldly through Damien's mind as unconsciousness took him.
Even in that half-dead haze, he could feel it—his body shredded and rebuilt molecule by molecule. The pain was unbearable. Flesh warped, muscles split and reformed, bones snapped into place and hardened anew.
Then, just as the agony reached its peak, the voice returned:
"Damien Veyne, welcome to the First Circle."
In the blink of an eye, Damien slammed face-first into hot, grainy sand.
He groaned, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself up with trembling hands, his fingers sinking into the shifting dunes. The heat was oppressive, far worse than the dome's smothering atmosphere. His black dress shirt clung to his skin, offering no shield from the merciless sun that scorched everything it touched.
He rose slowly, taking in the endless landscape of dunes stretching far in every direction. Above, the sky had shifted—no longer the blood-red shroud of the pre-circle, but a cloudless, crystalline blue.
To the west, a tiny village of tents flickered in the heat haze. To the east, the unmistakable shape of a white beacon blinked steadily in the sky, sharp as a dagger and impossible to judge in distance, though Damien guessed it lay many weeks away.
A harsh gust of wind howled across the dunes, whipping up a wave of sand that battered his face. He shielded his eyes, staggering slightly as his feet slid backward, the burning grains biting into his skin like acid.
But Damien's mind was already elsewhere—back in the dome with Jack.
'Why the hell did that fat bastard kill himself? He said he wanted to repent… so why sacrifice himself like that? And what is this extra life even supposed to mean?'
The very notion made his blood boil. He didn't understand. He hated not understanding.
Damien had spent his entire existence manipulating others, clawing his way forward through lies and betrayal. The idea of giving one's life for someone else was not just alien—it was offensive.
'Why does his death piss me off so much? I... I don't get it.'
He snapped his head, shaking away the thoughts, sending sand scattering from his dark hair.
'Focus. You're here now. First Circle. You can't afford to be careless even with an extra life.'
He turned back to the tent village in the west.
Evalyn had warned him: find others. Find weapons. Shelter. Supplies. Work together.
But Damien didn't trust people, and that distant, blinking beacon pulled at him with the gravity of inevitability. He had to choose: follow the silver knight's advice or gamble everything on a solo sprint toward salvation.
Before he could act, the sand behind him crunched with unnatural force.
The ground trembled.
Damien turned, and his heart seized.
A monstrous horde was charging from the east—dozens of sand-colored beasts tearing across the dunes, kicking up waves of dust. Their grotesque forms twisted with every stride—abominations of scorpions and lizards, melded into sin-made flesh. Their carapaces cracked like dry stone, etched with red scorch marks that glowed like molten veins.
They moved in perfect sync, not like beasts but like an army—one mind, one will. And that will was death.
Damien bolted west without hesitation.
'I get it now, Evalyn. I need people. I need help.'
His mind screamed for strategy, but there was no time.
No weapon. No magic. No backup.
He sprinted, every step crunching through blistering sand, the sun pounding down on him like a god's hammer. His black hair streamed behind him, sweat and grit clinging to every inch of his body.
The monsters were gaining fast. Their bodies were built for this—sand-gripping claws, agile limbs, perfect traction.
"Damn it! Fuck these monsters! And fuck Hell!" Damien roared.
His breath came in ragged bursts. The village grew closer, but not fast enough. If he stumbled, he'd be torn apart. He didn't even know if anyone inside would help—or if they'd just run like he would.
He didn't care.
Let them die if it gave him a window to escape.
A tent's flap rustled open at the village's edge, and a woman with vivid purple hair stepped out.
Her eyes locked onto him—then to the swarm behind him—and froze wide with terror.
Damien grinned through his panting, raising a hand. "Hey! Would you mind taking care of these?"
She stood paralyzed, trembling like prey caught in headlights.
'Perfect. You're going to be my escape goat.'
Just then, a glint caught his eye atop a nearby sand hill to the right.
Two figures: one in gray robes—unmistakably the monk—and beside him, a pale girl with braided black hair tied into a tight ponytail. She wore a cropped black top and waved furiously at him.
He squinted. She was pointing down toward the road ahead.
At the center of the narrow village path, a red "X" gleamed, painted in thick, smeared blood.
She mimed an explosion with her hands.
His eyes narrowed. 'A trap?'
His heart thundered. He didn't have time to think—only trust.
A monster's claw slashed his leg from behind—searing pain erupted, blood dripping down into the sand—but he didn't stop.
Damien surged forward and launched himself over the painted X.
The moment his feet left the ground, a deafening explosion detonated behind him.
The shockwave hurled him forward through the air.
Smoke and heat engulfed him. A scream pierced through the haze—it was the purple-haired woman's, shrill and hopeless as the monsters descended upon her.
Damien slammed into the sand, rolling violently before collapsing in a heap.
He coughed, choking on ash and blood.
The monsters were distracted—many had been eviscerated in the blast. The survivors were still tearing into the unfortunate woman.
Damien didn't look back.
He scrambled to his feet and veered behind the tents, sprinting until the sounds of carnage faded into the distance.
Only when he reached the far end of the camp did he stop.
The monk and the pale girl waved him over from atop a sand hill.
He climbed, sliding down the far side, where the dunes sheltered them from view. Collapsing into the searing sand, he finally caught his breath.
The girl beamed at him, her pale skin flushed with heat and triumph.
"Wow!" she laughed. "I've never seen anyone run that fast! You must've been terrified!"
Damien glared at her. "Yeah, no shit."
She rolled her eyes. "You know, a 'thank you' would suffice."
His head turned, eyes narrowing—not on her but the monk.
The older man's eyes were closed, hands clasped in prayer. Damien noticed blood staining his left sleeve, soaking through the fabric.
Ignoring the girl's teasing, Damien asked, "How did you set that trap?"
The girl puffed her chest proudly. "Baldy over here can see things—and I made the bomb! Also, still waiting on that thank you."
Damien let out a slow breath, finally steadying his heartbeat. "Thank you."
The second the words left his mouth, he felt it—his shackle constricting, twisting his soul like barbed wire around his spine.
Because inside, he wasn't grateful.
Not even close.