I hate noises, they never stop, never.
Smack! Smack! Crack!
"My turn"
"..."
Smack! Smack! Thud, Thump! Crack!
The sound of blows echoed through the cramped room, each impact followed by a muffled groan. The stench of blood mixed with mold and the ingrained sweat of that filthy place.
Unbearable pain flared through his jaw. Every movement fought him, and even drawing breath forced a groan past his teeth.
He thought the place was strange. For a moment, the pain in his head made him forget everything, everything red and blurred.
Ah. Right. It's my own blood.
"Still not going to talk?" one of the officers growled—the big one—shaking his aching hand after a few minutes of punching.
The young man slumped in the chair, his face swollen and covered in bruises. His eyes tried to focus, but his eyelids were heavy. He didn't know why he was there. He couldn't remember anything that justified such brutality.
The interrogation room light flickered dimly, casting shadows across the peeling walls. The young man had been there for over an hour, handcuffed to the chair, with blood streaming down his entire face. One of the officers was wiping his hands with a cloth, as if he'd been handling grease, but it was blood.
SLAP!
His head snapped to the side, cheek burning
"Are you going to talk now? Or are you going to keep playing the innocent act?" the smaller cop asked, after kicking the chair. The screech of metal echoed against the peeling walls.
The young man slowly lifted his head. His left eye was a purple slit, nearly swollen shut, seeing only with the other one that remained slightly open. He spat a thick, crimson glob onto the floor, barely missing the cop's boot.
A jagged, bloody grin split his lips.
"Is that all?" he croaked, his voice like grinding gravel. "My ex-girlfriend must be underpaying you. You hit like a little girl—"
—SLAP!
The blow snapped his head back, but he didn't groan. He just laughed, a wet, hacking sound that made the officers exchange a fast, uneasy glance.
"The girl identified you," the big cop growled, leaning in until he could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "Cash, jewelry, crypto... just confess and we can end this."
The young man stared right through him, his bloody grin widening. He leaned toward the officer's ear.
"You need to brush your teeth," he whispered. "And nice story... but does it come with a bedtime snack? Because all I'm getting from you is a nap—"
—Smack! Smack! Thud!
After punching him, the officer covered his mouth, exhaling and sniffing his own breath. He looked back with a sneer. "You sure you want to play the tough guy with us? This is the kind of place where... uh... the son cries and the mother doesn't see. Wait. You don't even have a mother to look out for you, do you? So... yeah. This is where you cry alone. Or... no. Actually... Never mind..."
Smack!
The young man responded in a whisper, ignoring the pain like it was nothing. "The truth about this setup will come out... eventually."
The officers exchanged glances. One laughed.
The biggest officer grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up, forcing eye contact.
"Setup? You're in a police station, kid. Here, we give the orders, and whoever has friends, money, well, that doesn't concern you. Don't even know why I'm explaining anything to an orphan. Go ahead, file a complaint. See what happens. We're the ones who check complaints anyway."
The officer raised his fist and grinned.
"And today... well... the cameras malfunctioned. Old equipment, you know."
Smack!
The punches kept coming, blurring into a single, dull thud against his face. He tried to pull against the restraints, but his arms were bolted to the chair. The floor felt like it was spinning, the cop's shouting turning into a low, underwater hum. Then the light just... went out.
"Ah, maybe we overdid it." The biggest officer chuckled, then his expression changed. "He's nearly out," he muttered, kicking the chair leg to straighten it.
"Better talk, kid. An 'accident' might happen..." The voice carried some sarcasm.
THUD!
He wanted to say something, maybe a final catchphrase, only for his voice to fail as the pain ripped through him with enough force to make the world spin.
A muffled curse, followed by a solid hit to his chest that made something snap inside him.
"Ugh…"
Great… getting beaten in an interrogation room. For… whatever I even did… No… I didn't do anything.
With what little strength remained, he lifted his head and looked at the clock on the wall.
It was 11:1—
—A sound outside made him look up.
Through the small window near the ceiling, just above the clock, moonlight spilled in.
A raven perched on a branch outside, cocking its head from side to side, black eyes fixed on the scene inside.
Watching everything.
At least there's a witness…
They hit his head so hard he forgot why they'd even dragged him here.
All that remained… one thought.
Life… was total garbage.
A few fleeting moments flashed through the haze, some of him escaping into brutally hard RPGs, losing himself in fully immersive VR games, everything to forget real life for a while.
Those moments. That's all he had.
He didn't feel fear. Just relief. Death was next door, and honestly, his life held nothing worth clinging to anyway.
Finally… it's over. I hope someone beyond the Raven notices this injustice…
The tomato farm... guess that dream never had a chance either. Shame.
His face was beaten beyond recognition. He hadn't started handsome. His father drank until violence spilled out. His mother turned her face away every time fists flew; she didn't care what he was going through. Life had been hard on him, but at least it made him strong and tough. Now, pulped meat and split skin erased even that.
Sometime later, he became an orphan. Abusive parents or no parents at all—he never decided which are worse.
The only thing anyone ever noticed: his resilience.
…Smack…
Most people would've died for less than 11% of what he had gone through.
Thud…
His vision went black.
Finally I can sleep a little...
Voices carried through the darkness.
"You killed him! We were only supposed to soften him up… look at your hand! You blew it! We don't get paid for corpses!" The timid younger cop's voice cracked, panic bleeding through.
"Shut up." The other cop clutched his broken hand, knuckles already swelling purple and red. "We dump the body, say he attacked us, claim self-defense. Strict performance of legal duty... or whatever the lawyers call it."
Said the big, bald one, the cop who'd hit him the hardest.
The timid cop groaned. "We're screwed. Twice this month already. She paid us to cripple him, not kill him! If anyone finds out—" He pressed both bloodied hands to his head, smearing red across his temples.
"—Quiet, I need to think." The big bald cop's voice dropped low. "Move out of the way."
The argument faded, only some footstep sounds remained.
Darkness swallowed everything.
His body crumpled on the cold floor, abandoned.
Outside, the Raven tilted its head, black eyes fixed on the crumpled body.
Still watching.
He drifted into darkness.
Finally… free… wait. Am I dead? Why am I thinking? Doesn't make sense…
He blinked.
Cold.
His back pressed into something wet.
He blinked again.
Trees.
They were too close and too dark.
His lungs burned.
He sucked air and coughed.
Rotten soil, and leaves.
He tried to move, only to be stopped by the pain.
Light washed over his chest, it was warm and steady.
Then…
"Hey… you're finally awake."
The voice of a woman.
Too calm. "Don't move yet."
Hands hovered above him, glowing gold.
The pain was reducing little by little.
Healing? How? I was in that room, now I'm in a forest… maybe they beat me up too hard in the head…
"…Hospital?" he asked.
"No, we don't have… that here."
He stared past her.
No walls.
No ceiling.
Dry trees.
The same Raven in the—
Still watching everything.
—Wait what?
Then it was gone...
The edges of his vision began to darken.
This… is an isekai… Must be it…
He passed out because of blood loss. Meanwhile, in the previous world:
***
The local paper ran a report.
GREENFIELD GAZETTE - WEEKLY EDITION
Local Man Dies in Police Custody; Authorities Claim Self-Defense.
A 22-year-old man died Tuesday morning at the central precinct following what officials describe as "violent resistance during interrogation.
According to the official report, the deceased allegedly attacked officers during questioning, forcing a response that resulted in his death. Authorities maintain the use of force fell within legal parameters of self-defense.
The incident remains under internal review. They didn't show the body. The case became known because a rapper was jailed in the same department as him; when he got out the next morning, he said the cops had got rid of the young man.
State Police released a statement: the deceased 'charged officers with extreme aggression,' and the force applied proved necessary to contain the imminent threat. Two officers reportedly sustained minor hand injuries while blocking his blows.
An internal medical report notes toxicology tests pending to verify possible chemical use, though no evidence currently supports this claim. Critics suggest the measure exists solely to reinforce a narrative of instability.
The deceased leaves no immediate family. Following administrative orders, the body will undergo cremation without ceremony or public viewing once paperwork clears. Police maintain custody procedures followed protocol but declined further comment.
The man faced detention on suspicion of theft and breaking and entering. Officials allege he invaded his ex-girlfriend's residence, stole money, and threatened her family.
Sources close to the investigation describe his history as marked by aggressive behavior and potential ties to high-risk elements in his neighborhood.
Old social media photos showing hand gestures surfaced as supposed evidence of his violent profile.
We'll be back next week. Thank you for reading the GREENFIELD GAZETTE.
***
A gorgeous and apparently rich woman was sitting in front of a TV, with one wine glass in her hand.
CRACK.
She no longer had a wine glass in her hand.
"I-I can't believe it… they killed him... I—I-I just wanted to make him regret it… and come back to me…"
Sob... sob...
"They'll… die…"
She dropped the magazine on the floor and changed the channel, then looked at the TV, "I-I regret what I said… in the interview… but it's too late now…" she muttered while breaking into a sob…
***
"Now, we go to our beloved field reporter, the famous White Hair."
"Hello everyone, White Hair here. From what I've uncovered, the deceased lived as an orphan since age 11, no close family, no support network. In his absence, attention shifted to his ex-girlfriend, who appeared before cameras tearful and shaken. Let's hear from her."
"Miss, could you tell us about the incident?"
"I just wanted peace... just wanted to feel safe. He went crazy and left me—coughs—left with my things…" Her voice trembled as she looked down and hugged herself. Her tears fell but didn't hit the ground, caught by her chest as she sobbed. Her brother stepped in, pulling her close, and guiding her past the microphones.
"She can't handle this right now, look at her, she is traumatized. The guy grew aggressive and unstable, she feared for her life, and now she just wants to move forward." The brother's tone shut down further questions.
White Hair turned back to the camera.
"The officers involved remain on active duty. No independent investigation announced."
A group lingered near the woman. White Hair approached.
"What do you think about this case?"
"Serves him right! Who does he think he is, acting tough with cops? Good riddance. Criminal scum."
"Exactly," another voice chimed in. "He got what he deserved. Nobody mourns a criminal like that."
White Hair said nothing. The camera lingered on him a while then zoomed a little, just long enough to catch the crowd's laughter in the background.
Then the feed cut.
***
Sob… sob…
"After everything is done... I'll join you Karl... we'll be together… Forever."
***
Karl regained consciousness once more and tried to make sense of where he was again.
Looking again to where he appeared.
A shiver shot down his spine.
Calm down, Karl, it's too early to jump to conclusions, this kind of place shows up in every game or series anyway.
Great, just great, no... I must think positively about this...
Then he turned his head, muscles protesting.
She was still doing the same stuff motionless, like a statue.
Kneeling at his side, legs folded beneath her, perfectly still. Golden light continued to flow from her hands, draping his body like a warm mantle. The pain was rapidly leaving him.
His vision had cleared enough to really see her now.
Those eyes watched him in silence.
Gold, deep and bright, like sunlight trapped in molten metal, very isekai-like. He lingered on them longer than he meant to. Eyes unlike any he'd encountered before. Beautiful, yes, but distant. A calm so complete it swallowed every hint of emotion.
She wore a white robe that wrapped around her frame, silver trim catching the glow, pale sky-blue patterns stitched into the fabric with precision.
A Moon symbol rested diagonally against her chest, with some unknown meaning, it was familiar to him, but he couldn't remember. Power coiled around her fingers, subtle and controlled, the light bending to her will.
Magic?
She didn't speak a word.
She didn't need to.
Whatever she was doing, it worked, and that realization unsettled him far more than the pain ever had.
This is an isekai. Has to be… the pain from my head… everywhere. Too real for a dream. Way too real.
"Don't move… not yet," she said, her voice low and steady, yet gentle. "Your bones were… broken, most of them."
He stayed in roughly the same position for almost 11 minutes after being dropped there, while she healed him.
He looked at the place again.
Could've been a farm, a quiet village… slice-of-life stuff. But no. Only one life. And if this is anything like the games I used to play, yeah, I'm screwed.
He scanned his surroundings again, desperate for some fantasy paradise with meadows, castles, maybe a cheerful village.
Yeah, my head is better now, and the place is the same, oh great, luckily nothing bad happened till now…
Instead, twisted trees clawed at perpetual twilight. Fog coiled between gnarled roots. The air tasted of rust and rot.
Then he looked at her.
Please, don't be… a hardcore RPG… I need to confirm.
"You're... a cleric?" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
She glanced down at him, hands still glowing with golden light. "I'm. Order of the Crescent Moon." Her fingers traced another pattern over his ribs, of a moon, then a soft silver light, and the pain dulled further.
Great, just great… a woman using healing magic, and it doesn't heal fast, must be a hardcore RPG…
The scenery gnawed at his memory. Those specific dry trees, the way the mist coiled, the oppressive atmosphere... and the name of that Order.
Wait… the name...
It's just like in that game... The Last Days of Men. I remember a Moon Order with clerics.
That game was a Dark Fantasy RPG that devoured his childhood weekends and spat them back out as pure frustration.
The roguelike that sent grown men crying to forums. The game was so brutally difficult, so catastrophically buggy, that even he'd rage-quit halfway through, because he was just a kid back then.
The tutorial alone marketed as "campaign mode" played like a Souls game with a five-person party, the player controlling the hero, and AI commanding four classic NPCs through brutal encounters.
Campaign mode, set 11 years before the main MMO timeline, dropped players into endless conflicts with one ironclad rule: die, retry, die again.
Most sections chewed through 11 deaths per attempt, sometimes more if bugs decided to join the party.
After surviving that gauntlet of "tutorial hell," players earned the right to show off the Tutorial Completed emote in online mode.
Most players skipped it, and rushed to character creation… then, hours later, jumped straight into online mode.
Every choice carried weight. Pick the Remnants? Instant enemies across every major faction. Choose the Undying? Half the world hunts you on sight. Any alliance between the factions could break easily. No safe zones, with constant invasions, the game was pure chaos.
Of all the games...
He rolled his eyes.
Couldn't isekai into a farming sim, with a tomato farm. A slice-of-life adventure. Something with, I don't know, survival rates above one percent?
He was in denial. Reality refused to sink in.
The hero of that game along with his entire party died constantly, and overpowered enemies crushed them almost every single time.
Buggy evasion triggered phantom deaths, floors gave way without warning, and terrain traps swallowed characters whole in dungeons, leaving them to starve to death without hope.
The online mode's roguelike elements? Tolerable. Other players dragged you through the worst encounters.
But solo? In the tutorial?
He'd never finished it, being too young, too frustrated, and of course too busy with life's demands, and then the problems came, eventually pulling him away from gaming entirely.
If this really is The Last Days of Men... Whatever. Whining won't help at all. If this is that game, I have a plan. I just need to figure out where I am.
He touched his forehead.
At least I know some hidden features.
The fog thickened around him, and somewhere in the distance, something howled.
"Er... did you arrive with… the mercenary group?"
She broke the silence. Her brows tightened with concern. "Your head is… better?"
He'd stared at nothing for the past minute, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open, like he was in the 'moon' world.
He blinked.
"…What?"
When he looked at her again.
Yeah, I'm not alone in this game. I need a party to survive this, because being a normal human here is certain death. That's basic RPG logic. If I can just get a group together, The Last Days of Men is beatable… not that I've beaten it before.
"Your clothes..." She pressed a finger to her lips, eyes distant. "They look nothing like... what the soldiers wore... the ones who entered the dungeon with us... before the teleport trap... activated."
Her gaze snapped back to him, sharpening. "I don't recall... seeing you among the combatants. Did you travel... with the separated group?"
She spoke slowly, those deliberate pauses fragmenting every sentence like a certain witch in a goblin universe. Something in that rhythm tugged at his memory. It was too familiar; he was maddeningly close to piecing it together, but the connection slipped away before he could grasp it. He'd heard her voice before. That exact manner of speaking too.
This woman. It's too familiar, her voice, face… nah, I can't remember exactly who she is.
From what little he'd analyzed of the scenery, he was in that game without a doubt, or something eerily similar.
The pain carving through me is too real for any dream, and when you're awake, you know you're not dreaming. I know this to a bone-deep level.
She watched him, waiting for an answer.
I can't just tell her I came from another world.
Guess I'll cook something, maybe 'teleport event' and based on what happened, it's not a lie.
"I was picked in a teleportation trap, just like—"
So, he answered, or tried to, but something not too small emerged from behind the dry bushes with a human arm in its mouth, cutting him short.
Just my luck.