Chapter 7: Wounds
Zane didn't realize he was walking.
Only that the ground kept meeting his boots.
The forest had gone still in that hollow, post-battle way—like a place that had decided it was done watching for the night. The drums were gone. The goblins were gone.
Only blood remained.
His blood.
Each step dragged something inside him loose. The impact to his ribs burned with every breath, something sharp grinding beneath the skin whenever he moved too fast. His shoulder throbbed with a deep, pulsing heat, and his thigh screamed in time with his heartbeat.
A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from his throat as agony lanced through his body all at once. The spear wound burned hot and angry. Every breath scraped against his ribs like broken glass.
"Almost… there…" he whispered.
He didn't know where there was.
Only that stopping meant dying.
The sky began to change.
Black bled into gray. Stars faded one by one as a pale line of light crept along the horizon.
Dawn.
Soft. Indifferent.
Zane hated it.
Dawn meant the world kept going.
His legs gave out.
He caught himself on a tree trunk, bark tearing beneath his grip. His fingers slipped—slick with blood—and he collapsed to his knees.
Air refused to enter his lungs properly. Each breath came shallow and sharp, ugly and uneven.
"…Kay," he rasped.
His vision tunneled.
Zane forced himself to stay still.
Panic would kill him faster than blood loss.
He took stock.
His left shoulder was punctured clean through—entry and exit—but it had missed the joint. Muscle damage. A miracle, considering everything else. Blood had soaked his sleeve and dried stiff against his skin.
His thigh was worse.
The arrow had torn through muscle on the way out, leaving a ragged gash that throbbed violently with every heartbeat. Blood had crusted and split again and again as he moved.
Smaller cuts and bruises layered his body like a map of every mistake he'd made last night.
He clenched his jaw.
No system.
No healing potions.
No respawn.
"Alright," he whispered. "Manual mode."
Slowly—carefully—Zane dragged himself upright, his back pressed against the tree. His hands shook as he tore strips from his already ruined shirt.
Thigh first.
He wrapped the cloth high and tight, cinching until stars burst behind his eyes. His breath hitched, but he welcomed it.
Pain meant he was conscious.
Using a sharp stone, he sliced the fabric cleaner, then packed moss into the wound—dry, fibrous, better than nothing. He wrapped it again, tighter, breath hissing between his teeth.
The bleeding slowed.
The shoulder came next.
Zane bit down on a strip of cloth as he pressed, tied, and pulled until his arm went numb. His vision darkened at the edges, but he held on, counting breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Eventually, the blood stopped seeping.
His hand drifted to his side.
Wet fabric. Torn fibers.
Something sharp lurked just beneath the skin.
Zane swallowed.
Part of the arrowhead had snapped off when it struck his ribs—lodged shallow, close enough to scrape bone but not deep enough to puncture through.
Not pierced.
But close.
He braced himself, dug his fingers in, and pulled.
Something tore again.
Zane screamed—raw and animal—the sound ripping out of him until his throat burned.
The shard came free.
He pressed trembling fingers to his side. The skin there was already darkening—purple bleeding into black. When he tried to draw a deeper breath, his vision swam violently.
"Cracked," he muttered. "At least one."
Every exhale burned. Every cough felt like something grinding inside his chest.
If a shard punched inward—
He stopped that thought.
Zane tore another strip of cloth and wrapped his torso tight, binding his ribs until breathing became shallow and controlled.
It hurt less that way.
Barely.
He slumped against the tree.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
His body trembled—not from cold, but from shock. Zane pressed his forehead to the bark, grounding himself in the rough texture, the scent of sap and earth.
He remembered dying to infections in earlier runs.
Remembered laughing it off, knowing he'd reset.
This time—
He swallowed hard.
"This time it matters."
Night crept in slowly.
Before darkness fully claimed the forest, Zane forced himself to move. He limped deeper between the trees, choosing uneven ground, masking his trail the way he'd learned across nine lives.
He found a shallow depression beneath tangled roots and crawled inside, pulling branches and leaves over himself.
A bad shelter.
But hidden.
He lay there, staring at nothing, listening.
Every snap of a twig sent his nerves screaming. Every rustle tightened his grip around a stone he'd found nearby.
Sleep came in fragments.
Nightmares followed.
Kay stood before him—not dying, not broken—but smiling sadly.
"You're hurt," she said softly.
"I'm fine," he tried to answer.
The lie stuck in his throat.
She stepped closer and placed her hand against the side of his head.
"I know," she said gently. "But there was one more thing that was supposed to go to you… and didn't."
"What did you sa—"
She kissed him.
And in that instant, every life he had ever lived in the game crashed into him at once—every mistake, every victory, every death—no longer distant, no longer borrowed.
They were his.
Zane woke coughing, chest burning, dawn light creeping through the gaps in his shelter.
His skin burned.
His head throbbed.
Fever.
He stared up at the pale sky through the leaves, breathing shallow, controlled.
Still alive.
Barely.
And in this world—
That was enough.