Jorgen-3

Renner woke up.

He pressed his eyelids with his left hand. The sound of breath blowing onto the palm became clear, like a withered leaf falling from his fingertips. Sometimes Renner felt that his fingers were nothing more than branches, growing laboriously from an unknown ancient tree, a tree not part of his body. He spread his five fingers in front of his eyes, clenched them, opened them, clenched them, watching a suture line from the knuckles to the palm's base change shape as the flesh shifted. He forgot whether it was a wound from combat or if they cut him open to alter something inside.

His gaze moved beyond his fingers to the wall five yards away. A black chain emerged from the wall, like veins exposed on the skin. Then came the second, the third, arranged in different corners. White maggots oozed from the junction of the chain and the wall, quickly crawling over the links, pushing each other until droplets, like muddy water, fell to the wall and wriggled towards Renner. Not a single maggot successfully approached him; they all disappeared about a yard away from their original position, as if an unseen trench devoured them.

Renner knew that the things before his eyes did not exist. The chain was just a crack on the wall, possibly a bloodstain left at an unknown time. The maggots were just damp mold. If he reached out, his palm would pass through these things, touching the solid wall. But he had no intention of risking an attempt.

Faced with such illusions, his two supervisors had different approaches. Lawrence would immediately inject him with medication, ensuring at least twelve hours without a recurrence. Tusha, in most cases, would let him endure it, speaking casually as if evaluating a dish. "It'll pass, it'll pass. If not, we'll see." Of course, provided Lawrence wasn't present to monitor.

Renner was curious about Tusha. In any situation, this troll wore shackles, with a heavy iron block dragged beneath the chain. Injection procedures aside, sometimes he even had to perform surgeries burdened with these restraints. While Renner didn't know much about trolls from a racial perspective, Tusha's behavior was entirely beyond the scope of racial differences. He couldn't fathom how someone could endure this pressure and humiliation for a whole three years—

—Or was it two? Renner wasn't sure. He didn't know precisely when he regained consciousness. It was like an adult lamenting the lack of memories from infancy, unable to touch the vague boundary between "conscious" and "unconscious," only gathering fragments of broken images. However, ordinary people's fragments, no matter how scattered, unquestionably pointed to the joy of initial life, representing curiosity, warmth, and sunshine. The fragments in Renner's mind were another matter: stench, decay, foul blood, and despair. He remembered floating in yellowish sludge, surrounded by thick fog. He remembered someone carrying his body through a dark corridor, countless spiders on the ceiling seemingly weaving their webs towards eternal darkness. He remembered a chained blade flying away from his chest, taking not only his blood and flesh but also things he once had, hoped to have, and could never have again.

However, he couldn't confirm if these things truly happened because they seemed to replay repeatedly in his mind, like malicious dreams entangling a sleeper, intent on sucking his brains dry and chewing his bones.

When he first regained consciousness, he couldn't see or hear. He was plunged into complete unknown. Though he recalled his name and partial experiences, it felt like memories belonging to someone else, far less real than the chains, maggots, and blood. All the unbearable hallucinations existed from the moment he regained sight, and it took him a long time to confirm that these things were non-existent. Shortly after regaining hearing, he overheard a conversation between Lawrence and Tusha, later realizing that these words explained the cause of the illusions.

"Lawrence, Lawrence. Your initial handling was a mess. The pseudo-death drug isn't perfect and leaves permanent trauma to the individual's brain. They'll repeatedly experience near-death hallucinations. Why haven't you prioritized solving this fundamental issue in so many years?"

"But... Previous individuals never showed such intense reactions."

"Of course, because they were all—using your words—junk. Unable to feel fear because they couldn't connect real things and emotions. To them, seeing a dead pig covered in maggots and a beautiful woman were no different. Those junkies didn't have this." The sound of a few thumps on the chest followed, and the conversation continued. "So, what if they see illusions? It doesn't matter. But 'he' is different. If you want to create the perfect specimen, at least don't mess up in the first step. Unfortunately, I'm probably too late in saying this now."

"Shut up. I invited you so amicably to solve problems, not to tolerate you insulting me like this."

"Okay, okay. Problems need to be solved, of course. But you better ask yourself first, what kind of specimen do you want, and then proceed towards that goal."

The conversation ended there. All that remained was the sound of chains dragging on the ground and the noise of opening and closing doors.

If the hallucinations were always bizarre and terrifying, it would be much easier for Renner, as he could immediately notice and then try to ignore them. Instead, it was the non-threatening hallucinations that had a more complex impact on him. Once, while eating, he saw a spider crawling out from the side of the plate. He reached out to brush it away, but he touched nothing. The spider passed through his hand, disappearing into the wall corner. Another night, he suddenly woke up and saw the door at the end of the house open. Behind the door was a corridor, with moonlight streaming through a skylight. At the end of the corridor sat a woman, seemingly manipulating something small in her hands. Renner sat up, about to step towards the corridor, and the heavy iron door reappeared in front of him, as if sealing those images into a coffin in an instant. Renner understood that what he saw was abnormal, but he couldn't ignore it.

Renner could recall many things from his past. He could roughly outline his basic life before coming to Stromgarde. He even remembered that before losing consciousness, he was in a place with a yellowish sky, filled with ruins. The last person he spoke to was named Jorgen, an investigator from Section Seven, and they had conflicts and collaborations. He tried to locate the exact position of the woman in his hallucinations in his memories, but it was never very successful. Sometimes he felt it was a collection of different women. He tried to recall her face, but each attempt resulted in deviation. However, in the end, he unconsciously knew her name. It happened during a conversation guided by Lawrence.

"What is your name?"

"Renner Marvin."

"Age?"

Silence.

"Your original profession?"

"Officer. Major... Lieutenant Colonel. Lieutenant Colonel."

"How did you end up here?"

Silence.

"Birth father's name?"

"Don't know... but he was a cloth merchant."

"Have you formed a family?"

"I was married."

"What's your wife's name?"

"Crecyda."

Renner uttered a syllable he had never thought of before. Without a moment of hesitation and pause, as natural and reasonable as the sun rising from the serene sea every day, waterfall always washing into the same deep pool. At the moment of utterance, he felt an unparalleled familiarity with it. More familiar than his own hands. More familiar than the flames kindling on a pile of wood. More familiar than the hometown in a wanderer's dream. Crecyda, a variant of crystal. Crecyda. He felt surprised, not because of the name itself, but because he didn't understand why he only recalled it at this moment.

"She is my wife," he added.

Lawrence on the other side of the iron grating seemed displeased with this redundant clarification. He glanced at the data in his hand, flipped a couple of pages, revealing clear impatience. He didn't continue questioning and left.

Renner still couldn't confirm if the woman in his hallucinations was Crecyda. He couldn't remember her face, couldn't recall anything between them, and admitted that he was actually disconnected from this name. Besides the sense of belonging to the syllables themselves, he knew nothing. He couldn't feel the emotions towards a wife that should arise from common sense. He could only logically deduce that he and she were in love, but such deduction was like observing algae at the bottom of a lake from the surface—looking vivid with the eyes, but unable to accurately touch with the hand. The only clear memory was that he had corresponded with Crecyda. Not a one-time thing, but a prolonged process. He assumed Crecyda, his wife, loved him. At least, she used to. It didn't make him feel better, but at least, it made him feel more like an ordinary person, even though he understood the vast differences in his body and the time before losing consciousness.

The chains on the wall, maggots, and blood all disappeared. Someone opened the door and took Renner out. "It's time," they said. The corridor where the phantom of his wife appeared was now just the familiar underground passage. After passing through it, they arrived at an open-air area surrounded by high walls and guards. Strong sunlight shone from above, and the sound of waves echoed in the ears. Now, Renner was familiar with all of this. When he first regained consciousness, he thought things like the sky and seawater would never appear before his eyes again, regressing into eternal mysteries.

Outside the high walls was... just "outside." Renner didn't know which land he was in, and he believed he had never been here before losing consciousness.

Renner sat on a raised platform to the right, where Lawrence was present, while Tusha was absent. Sometimes Renner felt that Tusha was subjected to even stricter limitations than himself. Beside Lawrence was Prince Galin. Renner knew nothing about this person but often observed him despite not being his "doctor." Galin would stare from beyond the fence, nibbling the edge of his thumb and muttering to himself. "You can't betray me, absolutely can't," Renner had heard him say, but he didn't understand the meaning.

In the center of the arena stood an ogre, much larger than most of its kin, with over twenty robust prisoners surrounding it, tightly holding the iron chains that bound it. Anyone could see that if the chains were loosened, it would immediately crush those prisoners. Due to the ogre's stupidity, it had zero tolerance for humiliation, especially when inflicted by tiny humans.

Someone handed a pair of swords to Renner. His task was to prevent the ogre's revenge, allow Lawrence to observe, and let Galin appreciate. This wasn't the first time he had done this, nor would it be the last. Although he had no memory of his combat experiences before losing consciousness, he knew that his past self didn't possess such abilities—likely the reason he lost consciousness in the first place.

Renner still couldn't claim to understand who he was. He also didn't know what Lawrence and Tusha had done to him. He had endured all painful medical procedures, even though he didn't know why he had to go through them. As he gripped the swords, guards on the city walls raised their bows. Renner felt annoyed by this sight because, in reality, he had no intention of escaping. At least not yet. From a positive perspective, he didn't want to escape into an unknown world before understanding who he was. From a practical standpoint, it was because of two reasons: one, he couldn't do without those medications, and two, if he couldn't dispel the tormenting hallucinations, he could at least alleviate the pain by swinging his sword. This had nothing to do with the former Lieutenant Colonel Renner Marvin, nor did it concern who Crecyda was. Now, he simply had to kill. He needed it. He knew he might accidentally kill some fleeing prisoners, but no one would blame him.

When he saw groups of spiders crawling from behind the ogre onto its arms, Renner tightened his mask.