I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

  That was all I had left to repeat to myself.

  I crawled.

  And crawled.

  And crawled.

  In truth, the inability to grow tired is deeply unsettling. It creates a strange feeling of abandonment—a kind of detachment, as if I’m floating through this effort without ever truly feeling it.

  I finally reached the pile of bones.

  The sun had already turned red; night was near.

  I wonder—will I grow stronger at night? After all, I’m supposedly on the “dark side” or something like that.

  But recalling how we guarded the campfire and slaughtered villagers, I never felt any surge of power from the moons or aid from the darkness. And during the day, sunlight never harmed me or reduced my abilities in any way. So it seems I’m fairly immune to such influences.

  My skull touched the nearest bones.

  Beyond this point, I couldn’t move even a fraction farther. Reaching this spot was only possible because there were no real obstacles—just old, dry leaves. A few of them had even stuck to my skull, forming random patterns.

  So… what now?

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  I made it—but nothing changed.

  Of course, it would’ve been wonderful if my arm and leg bones suddenly sprang to life, danced cheerfully over, and reassembled my body in full.

  But instead, I only added my own remains to the pile of dead bones.

  Maybe I should shift the rest of my body closer—right now, only my head is touching the others.

  Looking around as best I could, I spotted something not far off that resembled a hand—or at least what might pass for one from a distance.

  It took me about an hour of crawling—or maybe more; I have no clock—to drag my ribcage into position.

  Again, no joyful bone-dance followed. What a shame.

  I tried moving my ribcage. Strange as it sounds, it actually worked. It felt as though ligaments—or even invisible muscles—were still there, holding things together.

  After rocking back and forth a few times, I managed to… connect somehow.

  A bone that had lain completely still began to tremble—just faintly. It felt like when you’ve fallen asleep on your arm, and it slowly wakes up with pins and needles.

  It was only one bone—the shoulder.

  Ah! I have a shoulder again!

  Moving it slightly, I grew more and more aware of this new part of myself. I lifted it, waved it gently.

  Then, slamming it down onto the ground and bracing myself, I pushed up my incomplete, tireless body just enough to get a proper look around.

  There were the remains of more than three once-whole skeletons here—but most bones were shattered or broken.

  That horseman really did a number on us. May wolves tear him apart in his sleep.