Three Days After The Incident
Jae-sung stumbled through the slums at 3 AM, vision blurred, every step agony.
He shouldn't be walking. Should be in medical. Should be dead.
But he had a son waiting.
The mission had gone wrong—they always did eventually.
What was supposed to be a simple Iron-tier dungeon clearance turned into a massacre when the space inside warped mid-raid.
Walls shifted. Gravity inverted.
Three hunters fell into suddenly-appearing chasms.
Then the trap activated.
Stone spikes erupted from floor and ceiling simultaneously—designed to crush anything between them.
Jae-sung had seen it coming—barely.
Dove left.
Felt the spike punch through his right shoulder instead of his chest.
He'd been pinned. Alone.
Bleeding out while his squad retreated—not from cowardice, from necessity. They couldn't reach him without triggering more traps.
"Leave me," he'd shouted. "Get out!"
They had.
He should've died there.
Would have, if he'd been thinking rationally.
But rational men don't tear their own bodies off of stone spikes.
Don't cauterize wounds with heated metal scraped from dungeon walls.
Don't crawl three kilometers through monster-infested ruins to reach the exit.
Rational men accept death when it comes.
Jae-sung refused.
I made a promise.
So he crawled. Bled. Fought two Fledgling beasts with one arm while the other hung useless.
Killed them through pure spite.
Made it to the exit portal.
Collapsed on the other side.
A medical team found him.
Assumed he'd die anyway. Stitched him up halfheartedly—resources were limited, prioritize hunters with better survival chances.
But Jae-sung's body refused to quit.
Hours passed. His breathing stabilized.
Bleeding stopped.
Heart kept beating out of sheer stubbornness.
By dawn, doctors were confused.
"He should be dead. The blood loss alone—"
But he wasn't.
Because he had someone depending on him.
Jae-sung signed himself out against medical advice.
Walked—limped—staggered back to the slums.
To his son.
Ji-hye's Tent
"You look like death," Ji-hye said, opening the tent flap.
"Feel worse." Jae-sung leaned against the frame. "My son?"
"Sleeping. Has been for three hours."
She studied his injuries. "You need medical attention. Real medical attention."
"Need to see him first."
Ji-hye stepped aside.
Yoo's crib was in the corner. Moonlight through the tent's gaps illuminated a tiny form—chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Alive. Safe.
Jae-sung's knees buckled. He caught himself on the crib's edge.
Made it. Kept the promise.
"How long do you have?" Ji-hye asked quietly.
"What?"
"Before you collapse. Hours? Minutes?"
Jae-sung didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
His body was running on adrenaline and desperation.
When those wore off, he'd crash hard.
"Stay here tonight," Ji-hye decided. "I'll watch you both. If you die, at least you'll die near your son."
"Thanks for the optimism."
"It's realism in this world."
She brought him water, basic medical supplies.
Jae-sung cleaned his wounds properly—they'd started festering already.
Applied antibiotic paste salvaged from pre-apocalypse stockpiles.
Wouldn't be enough. Infection had set in deep.
I've got maybe three days, he calculated. Then sepsis kills me.
He looked at his sleeping son.
Sorry, kid. Tried to keep that promise longer.
Inside Yoo's Mind
Yoo wasn't actually sleeping.
He was in Extras World—consciousness projected while his body rested.
Practicing.
Over the past three days, he'd visited eighteen times.
Each session, the pocket dimension grew slightly.
Now fifteen cubic meters.
Objects manifested faster. Control improved.
He'd recreated his entire apartment from his past life.
The desk, the chair, the bed he'd spent hundreds of nights in.
Even the bloodstain on the floor where he'd collapsed after being shot—he'd included that without meaning to.
Trauma bleeding into construction.
"Memory manifestation complete," Akasha reported. "Host has successfully reconstructed 847 distinct objects from previous life. Extras World expansion: 23% compared to initial discovery. Proficiency: acceptable."
What's next?
"Recommendation: test biological manifestation. Attempt to create living organisms."
Like what?
"Start simple. Plant life. Host has memories of houseplants from previous residence."
Yoo focused.
Remembered the succulent on his windowsill—the one he'd somehow kept alive for two years despite forgetting to water it for weeks at a time.
A pot appeared. Soil. Then—
The succulent. Tiny, green, perfect.
Holy shit.
"Success. However, note: plant is not truly alive. It is construct based on host memory. Will not grow, change, or require maintenance. Static manifestation."
So it's like a photograph? Not real life?
"Correct. Current hypothesis: Extras World cannot create genuine life. Only replicas based on host knowledge."
Disappointing, but made sense.
Creating actual life would be god-tier ability.
What about—
Yoo's consciousness jerked.
Something in external reality had changed.
A presence he recognized.
Dad's back.
"Confirmed. Host father has returned from mission. Vital signs: critical. Blood loss excessive. Infection markers elevated. Prognosis: 8% survival probability."
What?
Yoo's consciousness snapped back to his body—
—eyes opening in the crib.
Through infant vision—still blurry, still developing—he saw his father.
Jae-sung looked wrong.
Pale. Sweating. Shoulder wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
He's dying.
"Affirmative. Host father's condition is terminal without advanced medical intervention. Current slum facilities: insufficient."
Can I help?
"Negative. Host body lacks capacity for healing abilities. No skills manifested in medical domain."
Then what do I do?
"Survive. Regardless of host father's fate, host must continue development."
That's your answer? Just let him die?
"I am optimized for host survival. Host father's death, while emotionally significant, does not directly threaten host existence."
Rage flooded through Yoo.
Not the muted, distant emotion he'd been experiencing since rebirth.
Pure, burning fury.
He's my father. He saved me. He promised to protect me. And now he's dying because he kept that promise instead of staying in medical.
"Acknowledged. However—"
Shut up. I'm thinking.