Faust remained in the house. He wanted to leave, he felt the urgency to leave, but he wouldn't.
Not until he knew more.
Though he didn’t know how much time had passed, it was enough for his wound to heal almost completely. Now only a small opening and scar tissue remained.
Meanwhile, he fell into deep thought, watching the obscure outside through a broken window.
Despite understanding he wasn’t as safe as he’d thought, he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t even worrying too much about it.
What was different now? Aside from not knowing his enemy, everything was the same. He had an enemy that wanted to end his survival. He wanted to survive.
A simple problem, a simple answer—in theory, at least.
In practice, not knowing what hunted him made all the difference. Faust had a hunch that brute force alone wouldn’t work against whatever this was.
At first, he considered using the enclosed spaces of the houses to his advantage, but they could just as easily become a trap. If he couldn’t run, he could be killed.
Then came the idea of simply ignoring the enemy and rushing straight for the clockwork tower. That was unlikely to work either.
So he had to find a way to anchor himself, to keep from losing his way during those blank moments. What anchor could he use?
Pain hadn’t worked well; otherwise, he would have remembered what caused the injury.
Maybe it was not enough.
Fighting didn't seem to have worked either. He was sure he’d fought... he wouldn’t simply run, would he?
Forcing himself to remember names or faces would be too difficult when whole sections of memory were missing.
Just as the problem whirled in his mind, he looked down and saw the answer:
Iron-Beak. Blood.
In some books, heroes would recover their memories after amnesia by looking at someone or something they valued immensely.
That was his friend, Beak. It was the only possession he had—something he didn’t need to remember because it was always with him. He couldn’t forget it even if he tried.
But it hadn’t worked before. Or at least, it didn’t seem to have.
How could he maintain control during the blank moments long enough to ground himself with Iron-Beak?
A combination of methods, perhaps?
That could work. Cut his own hand to create enough pain to force his disoriented self to look at it and by looking, see Iron-Beak, and remember what he had to do.
Not only that, but with the blood that dripped, he could mark the paths he’d already explored.
“Wow…” he sighed. It was a long shot. But what else could he do?
I will survive this place just like I survived the others. No matter what I have to do, or how long it takes…
...
Once fully recovered, Faust set his plan in motion.
He stepped out of the house through a crack in the wall—presumably the same way he’d entered.
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Instantly, he slashed the palm of the hand that held Iron-Beak, at the same time cutting off most of the mana flow to slow the regeneration.
Blood dripped from his hand onto the ground, leaving a trail of dried blood along the stone streets.
If I follow this, I can go back to where I was injured… but do I want to go there?
Of course.
Faust gripped Iron-Beak with even greater force, emptying his mind and focusing entirely on it.
Following the blood trail as he ran at astonishing speed, he was met with surprise. It was long—spanning at least a kilometer or more. How had he not bled out from such an injury?
Even he was surprised. If the wound was already somewhat healed by the time he reached the house… what had it been like at first?
Looking down, he could almost swear he saw his own organs exposed, but he pushed the thought aside.
It was of no importance now.
The trail passed through alleyways, empty streets, even through the walls of some houses, marked by handprints. Apparently, he’d struggled to stand… understandable.
But how could he not remember any of it? This place was…
In any case, Faust eventually reached the end of the blood trail... or rather, its beginning.
It was a lot of blood. A pool of it, like the aftermath of slaughtering an animal.
Now dried, it must have been some time since it was spilled.
Analyzing quickly—he didn’t know when his memories might lapse again—he saw marks on the walls. Claws. Slashes. Gouges in the stone.
Chilling sweat ran down his neck as he imagined what could have made them.
It was something big. At least the size of a bear, maybe larger. Its claws were sharp, large, and strong enough to cut stone.
This hunter was strong.
On one of the walls, there was something written in blood:
Changed.
What is that…—
Suddenly, he turned, pointing Iron-Beak toward the roof of a two-story house. It was empty, but he’d felt something—for a split second, he’d felt something.
I’m sure of it.
Before he could do more, his mind began to grow hazy again.
No… not yet.
If it’s the creature, I can’t fight it yet. I need more information.
In a split second, Faust made his decision and bolted in the opposite direction at full speed.
His senses sparked. He could tell something was watching him. From the top of a house, then from behind, then through a window.
It was everywhere, but not all at once. It shifted. Constantly.
He faltered. His steps grew erratic. He missed one, then another, falling to the ground but rolling back to his feet.
Doing his best, Faust tried to maintain his rhythm. He needed somewhere safe. A safe place.
And fast.
With every passing instant, his thoughts grew sluggish.
A weak pain in his hand made him look down. There was Iron-Beak.
Beak!
Momentarily, Faust jolted back to a state of greater awareness as he kept running. But soon enough, his mind grew hazy again. There wasn’t even any pain to feel anymore.
It was silent. Far too silent. No sound of breathing, heartbeat, feet on stone—nothing at all.
But just before he was completely lost, he heard it.
In the distance, from somewhere, in the closeness… a whistle. Low and faint, barely audible.
Then his consciousness faded.
…
“Ahhh!” Faust breathed out nervously. “What… the…”
The corner of his lips twitched. A sharp pain assaulted his leg. It had been pierced clean through—a hole that let him see the other side.
Blood in the area was already coagulating; part of the wound had closed, judging by the scar tissue. The hole was large enough to fit a cup and luckily missed any bones, otherwise...
Forcing himself to calm down, he observed his surroundings. A house, this one three stories high. How had he gotten here? Judging by the bloody marks on the window frame, he had an idea.
Thankfully, Iron-Beak was still with him. Despite whatever had happened, his friend remained.
I followed the blood trail… I found a blood pool, then I sensed something and ran… then everything became blank.
No. That’s not all.
Remember!
Remember!
Beak… yes, I remember looking at it. My hand has already healed, but it seems the plan worked… not as well as I’d hoped, but it did. That’s good.
What else… what else… I feel like I’m forgetting something.
Faust held his head with both hands, as if trying to squeeze out information. Frustration built—maybe the pain was contributing to it.
He kept trying to remember and kept failing. His injury had already healed, but he had no intention of leaving the house.
He knew there was something else. But what was it?
No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t grasp that final detail.
“Shit!” he shouted, unintentionally throwing Iron-Beak to the ground. Though his friend wasn’t hurt, the impact produced a loud, reverberating metallic clang that echoed through the room.
Instantly, Faust rushed to pick Beak up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“It’s alright, my friend!”
“Goodness… I’m sorry…”
Faust wanted to tear up, but at the same time, something clicked.
A sound...
The sound!
I remember!
He had heard something seconds before forgetting.
What was the reason for hearing it?
Whatever the reason, it was a clue. A clue to solving this place.
A clue to winning.
