The wind screamed.
The sky split open.
And the dragon fell upon him.
Orien tried to move — but he never had the chance.
A shadow blurred.
A flash of black.
Then pain.
Something hit him.
No — pierced him.
He looked down.
A massive claw, glistening red, had impaled him clean through the abdomen.
The shock stole his breath.
Sound vanished.
Only his heartbeat remained — loud, frantic, dying.
Warmth spread down his stomach.
He felt it — hot, slick, flowing fast.
His blood.
He wanted to scream, but all that came out was a strangled gasp.
The dragon's claw lifted him effortlessly, like a broken doll.
The world spun.
Then the beast let go.
He hit the ground hard.
Stone shattered beneath him.
Bones cracked.
For an instant, he felt everything — the tearing, the collapse, the fading light behind his eyes.
Then there was nothing.
The world ended.
---
And then… he opened his eyes.
Air rushed back into his lungs.
He lay on cold rock, trembling, gasping.
The same shadows.
The same dripping sound.
The cave.
He was back.
"No…" His voice broke. "No, no, no…"
He pressed a hand to his stomach.
No wound.
No blood.
Nothing.
But the pain — the memory of it — lingered, sharp as a blade.
He stumbled to his feet.
The same darkness surrounded him, thick and absolute.
He walked toward the exit, one hand trailing along the cold stone.
The wind outside greeted him like an old enemy.
The same black sea.
The same sky of dead light.
He moved without thinking.
Along the beach.
Up the slope.
Through the mist.
The same path.
He passed the same field.
The same half-buried skeletons.
The same chitinous monster — lying dead where he had killed it.
Everything was the same.
Perfectly the same.
A tremor of panic shook him.
This wasn't déjà vu.
It was repetition.
"This isn't possible…" he whispered.
But the world didn't answer.
He climbed higher.
The ruined castle came into view again — the black stone, melted and twisted.
The air burned faintly, just as before.
And above it, cutting through the clouds—
The dragon.
Majestic.
Unreal.
Unchanged.
Orien stopped breathing.
His fingers tightened around his blade.
The same heat spread up his arm.
The same whisper returned, cold and merciless.
> Slay the Dragon… awaken… escape the memory.
He looked up — and the dragon looked back.
Its enormous head turned, its amber eyes burning with intelligence.
A heartbeat.
Then a roar.
The sky ignited.
A torrent of fire descended, swallowing the ruins, the stones, the air.
Heat struck him before the sound did.
He didn't even have time to think.
The flames consumed everything.
His skin split.
His vision went white.
His own scream was lost in the roar.
Then silence.
And death.
---
He woke again.
The cave.
Always the cave.
The same cold floor.
The same damp air.
The same heartbeat echoing faintly in the dark.
He lay there, eyes wide, shaking.
His hands were clean.
His body whole.
But he could feel the burns still crawling under his skin, phantom pain, as if his nerves hadn't yet realized he was alive again.
His breathing quickened.
He touched his face — his hands came away wet.
Tears.
"…It's not real," he whispered.
But the words rang hollow.
Because everything about it felt real.
Too real.
The heat, the pain, the blood — each time, it came back sharper, stronger.
And no matter how hard he tried, the nightmare always brought him back here.
He sat up, clutching his knees to his chest.
The cave was utterly silent.
The kind of silence that pressed against your skull until you heard your own heartbeat screaming.
He wanted to move.
He couldn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again — the dragon, the claw, the fire.
The light swallowing everything.
A sob caught in his throat.
His voice broke into the emptiness.
"How many times…?" he whispered.
"How many times do I have to die?"
The sound of his voice vanished into the stone.
No answer came.
Only the steady dripping of water, somewhere deep in the dark —
and the weight of the nightmare,
waiting for him to stand up,
and start it all again.
***
Cold brought him back.
Not biting — just absolute.
Orien opened his eyes.
The same stone ceiling.
The same cracks, the same still air thick with dust and damp.
He exhaled softly.
No strength left to shout.
No reason to panic.
For a long while, he simply lay there, staring upward, listening to the cave breathe around him.
Then, slowly, he sat up.
His palms were dirty.
His throat burned.
But he was alive.
Again.
The fear was gone.
It had drained out of him, leaving something else behind — a heavy calm, the kind that comes after too many deaths.
And beneath that calm, a memory stirred.
The face of a woman.
He remembered her — from the Umbra.
The brown hair.
The pale light that seemed to belong only to her.
Her smile before the darkness had taken her away.
She had said something before she vanished.
He couldn't remember the words.
But the tone still lived inside him — soft, solemn, inevitable.
---
He stood.
His body ached, but his steps were steady.
Instead of heading for the exit, he turned to the left.
There, half-hidden in shadow, a crack split the wall — narrow, breathing faint warmth.
He hesitated, then stepped inside.
The passage was tight.
The stone brushed against his shoulders.
Every breath came with the taste of ash and something faintly sweet — like flowers dried long ago.
He moved slowly, one hand on the wall, the sound of his steps echoing somewhere deep beneath the earth.
The air changed.
He could feel it — denser, almost alive.
Then, suddenly, the tunnel widened.
---
Light met him.
Not the false light of this nightmare sun — something older, softer.
Golden.
The chamber was circular, buried under centuries of dust.
Roots hung from the ceiling like black veins.
A single ray of light spilled through a crack above, cutting through the gloom and falling on a broken altar.
And behind it — a statue.
Orien froze.
It was a woman.
Her figure was carved from pale stone, eroded but perfect.
Not cold, not distant.
Her face carried something painfully human — calm, patient, infinite.
He knew that face.
Or at least… he believed he did.
His heart tightened.
The memory came back in fragments — the woman in the Umbra, the warmth in her eyes, that final smile before she vanished.
It couldn't be her.
And yet… it was.
---
He took a step closer.
Then another.
The light traced her features, and for the first time, he noticed it — something gleaming in her chest.
A golden arrow.
It was embedded deep in the stone, yet untouched by time.
The air around it shimmered faintly, as if holding its breath.
Orien's hand rose on its own.
The warmth that radiated from the arrow wasn't heat — it was life.
Something about it felt familiar.
His fingers brushed the metal.
A pulse ran through him.
The air trembled.
Dust lifted into a slow spiral, and for an instant, the golden light swallowed the darkness.
Then, in the stillness —
> "You have obtained the Arrow of Atlanta."
"Artifact, Rank Six."
"The last arrow ever fired by the Eternal Hunt."
Silence returned.
The light of the arrow dimmed to a faint glow, beating gently in his palm.
It felt light, almost weightless, yet the power inside it pressed against his skin.
Alive.
Awake.
---
He looked up.
The statue's face seemed different now.
In the glow, it looked almost alive.
For a fleeting second, he thought he saw her lips move —
a whisper, perhaps, or a breath.
A word formed in his mind, quiet and unbidden:
Huntress.
Then the light faded, leaving only the whisper of memory.
The arrow still pulsed faintly, as if it were listening.
As if it had found something — or someone — to follow again.
---
Orien held it close.
He didn't understand what it was, or why it called to him.
He only knew that it felt right.
As if this was where his path had been leading all along.
He turned to leave.
The air was still.
Only his steps broke the silence.
Just before he crossed the archway, a faint wind passed behind him.
A whisper followed —
soft, almost sorrowful.
"...Come back."
He stopped.
Didn't turn.
The arrow trembled once in his hand.
Then he stepped forward and walked into the darkness beyond.
The golden light beat quietly against his chest,
in perfect rhythm with his heart.