A blinding glare overwhelmed Mirac, a wave of light that erased every sense of reality.

In that brief instant, as the world faded, the words of the final message flashed through his mind like lightning:

[ Welcome to the Realm of Numbers, Son of Math… ]

Son of Math…

It was clearly a title referring to Mirac, but what did it truly mean?

A recognition of his Syntony with Math, or a hint at a greater, unexpected destiny?

In any case, the white light engulfed him before he could form further hypotheses.

For a moment, Mirac felt himself dissolve, his consciousness suspended in a shapeless void, like an equation without a solution.

Then, the world returned, but it was no longer his…

The air was thick and humid, steeped in the acrid smell of damp earth and moss.

His heart pounded in his chest, his lungs burned as if he had been running for hours, yet it wasn't him moving…

He wasn't truly controlling that body…

A sudden shiver ran through him when he noticed a foreign yet familiar presence: a left arm, alive and taut, moved naturally at his side.

Mirac, who years ago had lost his left arm in a trauma that still haunted his dreams, felt a shiver of wonder mixed with unease.

It was a forgotten sensation, almost alien, yet so real it drew an involuntary smile from him.

'A left arm…' he thought, his heart racing with exertion and disbelief.

The vividness of those sensations—the cold biting his skin, the fatigue weighing on his muscles, the sharp scent of resin and damp earth—had overwhelmed him for a moment, almost making him forget the truth of what he was experiencing.

Yet, the presence of the left arm, a part of himself that no longer existed in the "real world," reminded Mirac that at that moment, he was no longer in his own body!

Or rather, as foretold by the messages that had preceded the explosive flash, he was now receiving the senses of someone else, living this mysterious world through the eyes, ears, and touch of inhabitant +204843!

'So this is the Realm of Numbers?' thought Mirac, scanning the forest enveloping him.

In that instant, however, another detail struck him with the same force as the flash that had blinded him: the eerie silence in his mind!

Normally, his "Instant Knowledge" was always active, a constant stream of information revealing a person's weight, the air's temperature, the distance between two objects, and so on.

Now, though, as he ran through that dense forest, immersed in a darkness broken only by faint slivers of moonlight piercing gnarled trees and tangled shadows, that hum was absent.

No data, no information provided…

Even his "Immaterial Clock" had vanished.

'My powers… aren't working?' he realized, with a mix of astonishment and unease. 'Perhaps it's a consequence of accessing the Realm of Numbers through sensory synchronization rather than a transfer of consciousness?'

As Mirac reflected, the owner of the body continued to run relentlessly, his swift steps dodging twisted roots and broken branches, the sharp sound of wood splintering under heavy soles.

With his right hand, he tightly gripped a smaller hand behind him, likely that of a child.

But it wasn't soft, as one might expect from a young creature: it was rough, calloused, marked by labor and fatigue.

It was the hand of someone who had worked hard, perhaps every day, worn down by a burdensome existence.

Mirac tried several times to turn and see who it was, but the body hosting him didn't respond to his commands.

He was a powerless observer, a puppet dragged along by movements he couldn't control.

Judging by the height and physique—broad shoulders, decisive steps, muscles straining under a tattered, sweat-soaked shirt—Mirac deduced that inhabitant +204843 was a young man, probably in his twenties, youthful but hardened.

A distant howl tore through the silence, a guttural sound that echoed over the rustle of trampled leaves.

The young man quickened his pace, his breath short and labored, his hand gripping the child's with a force that betrayed urgency and protection.

"Faster, run! They're catching up!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, cracked with a fear that didn't break his determination.

Mirac couldn't see who was chasing them, but the young man's terror was palpable, a weight pressing on his chest even though it wasn't his own.

Amid the sensations overwhelming him, Mirac felt the same emotions as the young man: rage burning within, desperation tightening his throat, helplessness crushing him from all sides, but above all, fear—a terror that marked every beat of his heart.

Yet it wasn't fear for himself so much as for the small life he held tightly, desperately trying to keep safe.

'They're probably brothers…' Based on the emotions he sensed from the young man, Mirac made his deductions.

Suddenly, the young man stopped beside a large tree, its gnarled roots twisting into the ground like the veins of a sleeping giant.

He turned toward the child, and for the first time, Mirac could see him: a frail boy, no older than ten, with disheveled brown hair falling over wide, fearful eyes.

On his neck, barely visible under a tattered, mud-stained collar, a number stood out, etched like a tattoo: +503782.

Mirac instantly committed it to memory, his analytical mind grasping the detail like an anchor amid the storm of events.

"You have to climb," the young man ordered, pointing to the tree's low, dark, sturdy branches that stretched out like arms ready to embrace those in need. "Climb up and stay hidden there until dawn. Then head toward Lake Deca. You'll find people who will help you."

The child shook his head, his glossy eyes reflecting the faint light of the full moon. "N-No, I'm not leaving you!" he protested, his voice trembling, broken by panic.

"You have to!" the young man insisted, kneeling to meet his gaze, his face marked by dust and sweat. "The Second Head has awakened. If the Soldiers of the Prime Army capture you, it'll be the end for you. We have no choice: we have to split up to save you!" His voice was firm but laced with a warmth that betrayed a deep bond. "I'll catch up with you, I promise. I'll take the long way around to throw the soldiers off."

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The child hesitated, his trembling hands still clutching the young man's. "B-But…" he began, his voice a choked whisper.

"Don't worry, I'll make it," the young man replied, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture both reassuring and urgent. "Trust me."

With one last, fierce, quick embrace, the young man helped the child climb onto the higher branches, lifting him with strength to ensure he was well hidden among the foliage, where the shadows cloaked him like a mantle.

"Don't come down until dawn," he repeated, his tone resolute, his eyes scanning the child for one final moment. "See you later."

The child nodded, his eyes still glossy but filled with trust. "D-Don't let me down, big brother…"

As soon as the young man glimpsed the glow of torches in the distance—beams of light dancing among the trees like predatory eyes—accompanied by the sound of harsh voices and breaking branches, he turned and resumed running.

There was no doubt: the pursuers were close!

Mirac felt every step, every jolt reverberating through his bones, every heartbeat of the young man, rapid as the frantic rhythm of his run.

He ran, paused to catch his breath, his chest heaving in labored spasms, then ran again.

But suddenly, during one of these pauses, a sharp sound tore through the air.

Bam!

A sharp pain exploded in the young man's shoulder, a burning heat spreading like liquid fire, wrenching a stifled groan from him.

"Damn it!" the young man exclaimed, gritting his teeth.

Both he and Mirac knew exactly what had just happened: a bullet had struck the young man's left shoulder!

Mirac flinched, the pain so vivid it brought back memories of his own escape from Klark years ago, when blood poured from the stump of his severed arm, the world closing around him in a spiral of pain and fear.

It was an experience he had sworn and hoped never to relive in his second life.

Yet here he was, trapped in another's body, feeling the same terror, the same exhaustion, the danger looming over him.

"There he is! This way!" shouted a male voice, close and laced with hatred, perhaps belonging to the same person who had just pulled the trigger.

Immediately after, the echo of more gunshots bounced among the trees, but none hit the young man, who had used trunks and roots to shield himself from the gunfire.

Despite the excruciating pain, the young man kept running, teeth clenched, blood soaking his tattered shirt, the left arm—the one Mirac perceived with strange wonder—throbbing with every movement but refusing to give out.

'Damn! That hurts!' Mirac exclaimed inwardly.

For a moment, he was tempted to break the synchronization, to escape the horror that pinned him to another's pain.

But in the end, he reconsidered.

Despite the pain, despite the fear, he decided to stay, his curious mind clinging to the young man's determination in his flight.

He couldn't act or control anything, but by staying longer, he might uncover the mystery of the "Second Head," the reasons behind the desperate escape of the two brothers, and, above all, what the Realm of Numbers truly was.

So, taking a mental breath, Mirac prepared to follow the young man wherever this desperate flight would lead.

* * *

The young man kept running for several minutes, his breath broken and labored, each step a struggle against the pain tearing through his left shoulder.

His right hand, pressed against the wound, tried in vain to stem the warm blood that flowed, soaking his tattered shirt and slipping between his fingers in sticky rivulets.

The pauses between one sprint and the next grew longer, the young man's body buckling under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss.

Each stop was a moment of agony, his chest heaving in desperate spasms, his heart pounding like a drum on the verge of breaking.

Mirac, trapped in his senses, felt every pang, every tremor, every drop of sweat burning his eyes. 'Damn it! I can't take it anymore!'

At a certain point, the young man found himself before a thick bank of fog: a milky curtain that turned the trees into ghostly shapes and reduced visibility to mere inches.

Yet the young man didn't hesitate and plunged into the white veil, moving cautiously.

Mirac sensed that the young man was probably using the fog to throw off his pursuers once and for all.

After the barrage of gunshots, they hadn't been heard again, but they would inevitably catch up if he stopped, simply by following the trail of blood left along the way.

As he continued his escape, the fog enveloped him completely.

The air grew even more humid, heavy, a cold veil settling on his skin like a shroud.

His vision was blurred, both by the fog and exhaustion, but the young man pressed forward, determined, each step an act of faith in the darkness.

His eyes, clouded by fatigue, barely caught the outlines of roots and stones, but his body seemed to know the terrain, like a blind man relying on his cane.

Suddenly, though, the young man's right foot tripped in a hole hidden in the ground, a treacherous void concealed by the dense fog.

His leg sank up to the knee, his body lurching forward with a stifled groan—Urgh!—his wounded shoulder screaming in pain from the jolt.

'Damn!' the young man exclaimed inwardly, startled—and with him, Mirac too.

Fortunately, the young man reacted instinctively: he leaned forward and pressed his abdomen against the damp ground, distributing his body weight to avoid sinking fully into the hole, grasping at anything he could find for support.

'Phew! That was close…' thought the young man, relieved.

As he tried to stand, his left hand slipped on the wet ground, feeling the soil to maintain balance and find a firm point to leverage.

Through that sensation, Mirac immediately noticed something unusual: the hole the young man had tripped into didn't seem like a natural formation.

It was too regular and deep to be one.

It seemed, instead… to have been dug…

But considering its size, it appeared that something much larger than a mere mole or any other burrowing animal had emerged from that hole…

'Wait a second!' the young man exclaimed inwardly. 'Don't tell me…? DAMN IT!!!'

The young man leapt to his feet, as if the pain had vanished, driven by a sudden urgency that quickened his breath and clenched his fists.

But it was too late…

Suddenly, before he could react, a ferocious bite tore into his left arm: sharp, jagged teeth sank into the flesh, ripping away a chunk of muscle with a wet, tearing sound.

The pain was an immediate explosion, a liquid fire spreading from the torn muscle fibers to the bones, where the teeth scraped against the humerus with a horrific grinding, chipping it into fragments that snapped with a dry, nauseating crack.

"AAAAAARGH!" the young man screamed, his voice a roar broken by agony, already dissolving into desperate sobs, tears streaming down his face as he tried to free himself.

Rough, icy hands seized the young man's wrists, gripping with inhuman strength that crushed his skin against his bones, making them creak under the pressure, while other hands—and mouths—assailed him from every direction, a chorus of guttural growls and jaws snapping shut on his flesh without mercy.

A mouth latched onto his right calf, teeth sinking deep into the muscle, pulling and tearing away a chunk of flesh with a slick, ripping sound, exposing the fibula, which bent under the strain until it shattered.

"AAAAAARGH!" he screamed again, his voice a roar broken by agony, as he thrashed furiously, kicking and twisting his body, blood spraying into the fog.

But it was all futile.

His strength, already sapped by the wound and the exhausting nocturnal escape, faded under the relentless assault, his body collapsing as the creatures dragged him to the ground, their claws raking the skin of his chest, tearing away strips of epidermis and exposing ribs that buckled under subsequent bites.

Crunch!

The creatures sank greedy teeth into his ears, ripping away flesh and cartilage, a dull pain shooting through him to his brain.

He tried to scream, but a violent bite to his jaw shattered the mandibular bone with a horrific crack, preventing him from even forming a coherent sound.

His screams turned into a choked gasp, a voiceless sob.

Mirac, trapped within this symphony of horror and pain, felt everything as if it were his own body: the visceral terror of being devoured alive, the horrific sensation of flesh being chewed and swallowed while still attached, the wet crunch of bones breaking between rotting teeth, the metallic taste of blood flooding his throat from the reflux of agony, and the absolute powerlessness of a body dissolving piece by piece, muscles convulsing in endless spasms.

Through the fog of pain and panic, Mirac caught a glimpse of the attackers: emaciated figures with grayish skin stretched taut over bones, marked by negative numbers etched like tattoos—on their necks, arms, and other parts of their decomposing bodies.

They were monsters, akin to zombies, their hollow eyes and gaping mouths driven by ravenous agony, their bloodstained teeth snapping shut again and again.

Crunch! Crack!

Another mouth clamped onto his left thigh, teeth sinking to the femur, tearing away a large chunk of muscle, amplifying the pain in waves that made his entire body tremble.

"AAAAAAAAARGH!" The young man didn't stop screaming, the pain morphing into a wave of desperation that engulfed Mirac as well.

Mirac's analytical mind recorded every detail of the negative numbers, like pieces of an unfinished puzzle, but the horror of the scene overwhelmed him: the pain and desperation were a fire consuming every attempt to think logically.

Before Mirac could mentally escape this nightmare, one of the creatures sank its teeth into the young man's head, its jaws closing on the skull with an explosive crunch, shattering the parietal bone into fragments that lodged into the brain, an eruption of final agony blending searing pain, growing darkness, and the wet sound of brain matter being sucked away.

Crunch!

Suddenly, the world went out.

Total blackout, except for two glowing messages that appeared one after the other before Mirac, like a cold, singular testament to the brutal scene that had just unfolded:

[ Synchronization interrupted ]

[ Inhabitant +204843 has died ]

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