Day 87.
Raven woke up amidst the ruins of Level 83.
No laughter.
No fresh blood.
No new pain.
He… was alive. But that didn't mean he knew why.
For a long while, he just sat there, staring at his trembling hands. He couldn't remember who he was, and worse than that—he wasn't sure if he even wanted to.
But the wind in Level Space whispered.
And within those whispers, he heard it:
"Raven."
The voice came from within.
Not like a memory. More like a reflection.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he saw his mother's face.
His father's smile.
The sound of small laughter—his own, from long ago.
"Your name is Raven… You once wanted to be a hero…"
He opened his eyes, crying—not from pain.
But from the fear of forgetting something he should have held on to.
And he slammed his fist into the ground.
Once. Twice. A hundred times.
"I'm not dead," he whispered. "And I'm not finished."
---
Day 88.
Raven stood up.
Weak. Thin. But standing.
He began with push-ups.
One. Two. Three—his bones cracked. But he continued.
Blood dripped. But not as much as yesterday.
---
Day 89.
Sit-ups. Jumping jacks. Squats. Pull-ups.
His hands tore. His back bled.
---
Day 90.
He started training his breathing.
Inhaling deeply and holding it amidst the shifting gravity of Level Space.
Regulating blood flow, heartbeats, even the way he listened and observed.
He called it Vortex Breathing.
Not magic.
Not an inherited ability.
But the result of organized pain.
---
Day 112.
Raven punched the air.
Fought with shadows.
Sparred with his own reflection.
Forged a fighting style that blended animal instinct with human precision.
He called it: "Broken Form."
A combat art crafted from a body that had once been shattered—and refused to break again.
---
Day 134.
Raven ran through spiked corridors.
Sliced. Beaten. Fallen. Risen. Repeated.
Every single day.
And slowly… his regeneration returned.
Flesh regrew whole.
Bones fused perfectly.
But there was a price: every wound that healed… still hurt.
But now, he smiled through that pain.
---
A year passed.
Day 365.
Raven stood in the midst of the desert of Level 103—a wasteland of storms and broken stone.
He wore clothes woven from the flesh of anomalies.
He carried the book, no longer trembling, just still.
And as he meditated in the emptiness…
The sky split open.
And it came.
Not a creature. Not an entity.
But a concept.
Oblivion.
The Lord of Hell.
The embodiment of pure emptiness.
It appeared as black smoke, coalescing into a skull, burning with violet flames.
Its voice echoed like the howl of a bottomless pit.
"RAVEN… I SEE YOU."
"YOU HAVE TOUCHED SUFFERING, INHALED FEAR, KNOWN DARKNESS THAT OFFERS NO ESCAPE."
Raven opened his eyes.
His body still trembled. But his gaze was steady.
"WHY DO YOU PERSIST, CHILD?"
"WHEN THIS UNIVERSE HAS ALREADY CONDEMNED YOU TO MADNESS?"
Raven answered without words.
Only with a look.
A look from the one percent of him that still held on.
Oblivion went silent.
Then it laughed—not from amusement. But from admiration.
"I DO NOT GIVE GIFTS."
"I ONLY ACKNOWLEDGE THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN BROKEN AND STILL STAND."
"YOU ARE NOT READY TO BE ME."
"BUT I ACKNOWLEDGE YOU AS A CANDIDATE FOR CRUELTY."
Black lightning struck Raven's body.
Not to kill.
But to baptize.
His flesh melted. Then healed. Then shattered. Then rewrote itself.
And from that void, Raven stood.
Not as a hero.
Not as a monster.
But as something halfway.
Not someone. But not a victim anymore.
At the end of that year of training, Raven carved a single sentence into the stone walls:
"I am a wound that survived long enough… to become a weapon."
And he walked forward.
To the next level.
Not to kill.
But to carve his existence into the history of Level Space—
with blood, breath, and imperfect steps that refused to stop.