The Chosen One [Honkai: Star Rail]

Since killing and eating his third Pyre Dog, Anthony had been trapped in this crimson wasteland for seven days.

Seven.

He wasn't counting sunrises—there were none. Just a sky locked in permanent rot, bleeding red over a land that never changed, never rested. He counted time by kills. By exhaustion. By the way his body ached a little less with each day, even though his soul ached more.

He kept moving.

Why? Because he had to survive. He needed to.

He loved his family and wanted to see them again.

There was no mission briefing, no commanding officer barking orders, no objective markers blinking on some distant map. Just the gnawing truth that every breath he took, every step forward, was one step closer to home.

To them.

He thought of his mother's warm hands. His father's stern but steady voice. Rose's constant chatter and terrible knock-knock jokes. The mundane comfort of breakfast tables and laundry machines. Of shoes left in the hallway. Of someone calling his name for no reason but love.

He had to survive. Not for honor. Not for glory.

But for the sound of his sister's laugh again.

For the chance to sit at that table one more time—smelling home-cooked food, hearing his mom ask if he was eating enough, hearing his dad pretend not to cry as he pretended not to notice.

Anthony swallowed hard, adjusting the weight of the sword against his back.

"I'm coming home," he whispered. Not as a promise to the world. Not to the system. But to himself.

The system hadn't spoken to him since unlocking his first skill. No new quests. No guidance. Just stats. Kill logs. Cold, glowing data.

So he walked.

Sometimes he'd sleep under the ledge of a rock formation, sword tucked against his chest, one eye open. Other nights—if you could even call them that—he'd doze upright, back pressed against black stone, jaw clenched, muscles taut. Always half-alert to the scrape of claws in the dark. To the sound of something breathing nearby.

He killed and killed.

And killed again.

Every encounter was the same cycle: the red glow of embers, the low growl, the searing teeth. A slash. A stab. A scream. Then stillness. Always followed by the same cold choice:

Drink the blood.

Cook the meat.

Eat.

Keep moving.

His hands were calloused now. Rougher. His arms stronger, but thinner. His sword technique was no longer awkward—it was becoming automatic.

He no longer hesitated.

Not when they charged.

Not when they cried.

He didn't even gag anymore when drinking the blood. The first time had almost broken him. Now, it was just… fuel.

The meat was dry. Gamey. Burnt at the edges. Sometimes he undercooked it. Sometimes it was barely edible. But it kept him alive. Kept his muscles working, his senses sharp, his heartbeat steady.

Eat. Move. Kill. Repeat.

The world didn't change.But he did.

His thoughts were quieter now. Fewer daydreams. Fewer memories. They came in flickers—soft flashes of Rose's laugh or his mom's gentle humming—but they never lasted.

_________________________________

THE FIRST MONTH

_________________________________

Every fight followed the same brutal rhythm.

The red shimmer of embers.

A low, throat-deep growl.

The flash of fangs.

A slash.

A stab.

A scream.

Then silence.

Always followed by the same cold, joyless ritual: Drink the blood. Cook the meat. Eat. Keep moving.

Anthony looked down. His hands had changed.

What were once soldier's hands—controlled, trained—were now survivalist's hands: blistered, rough, stained in places he couldn't scrub clean.His knuckles stayed raw. Sometimes he woke up clutching his sword handle so tight his fingers wouldn't straighten right away.

His arms had gone lean, cut sharp like wire—not from gym reps or training drills, but from tension.

Swinging.

Blocking.

Bleeding.

He no longer fought with panic. He fought with clarity. Cold, sharp, practiced.Like the rhythm of breathing. Like marching drills back in basic.There was no room for thought anymore. No room for fear.

The sword was no longer a tool. It was part of him. His only constant. His only answer to anything this place threw at him.

"God, I'm starting to talk like a damn manual," he muttered one day, voice scratchy from disuse, words pulled out more from memory than need. His own voice sounded foreign.Too deep. Too empty.

He caught himself laughing—just once. Short. Bitter.

There was no one around to hear it.

No one around to talk to. No one to answer back.

"Day… thirty-something?" Anthony muttered aloud as he wiped blood from his blade. "I don't even know anymore."

No sun. No moon. Just that same goddamn red sky. Like it was stuck in a loop. Like the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Sometimes he caught himself talking to the rocks. Or the sword. Or the Pyre Dogs he just killed.

One time he looked down at a twitching Pyre Dog corpse and whispered, "Sorry," even though he wasn't.

He just needed to hear his own voice.

It reminded him he was still human.

The blood didn't make him flinch anymore. The first time he drank it, it felt like a betrayal, that he was betraying himself. Now? It was hydration. Heat. Vitality.

The meat, dry and chewy, began to taste familiar to him as MREs back in deployment.

"Better than sand," he'd muttered once, chewing on a half-charred strip of Pyre Dog shoulder meat. "Better than eating the dirt. Small victories."

He said that a lot now: "Small victories."

It helped.

His thoughts didn't linger on home the way they used to. Memories came in flickers—faded like old photos. He forced them to stay small, distant. Too much focus, and they started to hurt.

One day, he couldn't remember the exact pitch of Rose's voice. That shook him more than the monsters ever had.

He didn't cry. He didn't have the energy for it.

He just whispered, "I'll remember later," and kept walking.

By the end of the first month, he'd stopped counting how many Pyre Dogs he'd killed. Thirty Forty? They blurred together now.

He'd leveled 2 times. He was faster. Stronger. Calmer.

But more than that—he was aware.

He learned how to use the cliffs. How to lure the dogs into bottlenecks. How to bait a charge, let it pass, then strike the spine.

He was surviving. Not because of the system.

But in spite of it.

And then, during what he assumed was just another run-in, something shifted.

The Pyre Dog came fast. Smarter. Stronger. It struck first—knocking him into a crag wall so hard his breath exploded from his lungs. He nearly dropped the blade.

But he didn't.

He didn't even hesitate.

He ducked under its second lunge and rammed his sword upward into its throat, twisting with a roar of effort.

The body dropped.

The heat faded.

Anthony stood there, blood trickling from a split lip, arm trembling from strain.

And then—finally—the screen flickered to life:

[ The {Chosen One} has reached Level 4. A Warrior skill from the Warrior Skill Tree is now available. ]

Anthony barked out a tired laugh. "Well, look who decided to show up again…"

He stared at the glowing letters, expression unreadable.

"So what is it this time? Another swing? Another stat boost? Maybe something that doesn't involve me eating a dog every other day?"

Silence.

He sighed.

"Right. Of course not."

No answers. No guide. Just glowing words and another cold reminder that his life had become a series of kill counts and stat sheets.

Still… Anthony exhaled, slow and steady, wiping grime and blood from his forehead with the back of his hand.

This was how it worked now.

He didn't have to like it.

He just had to survive it.

"Let's see what you've got for me."

The screen pulsed softly before him, then split into two different panels:

____________________________

[ Select Warrior Technique ]

[ Cruor: Cleave ] A horizontal sword arc meant to sever or sweep. Wide-range, high-speed motion. Effective against multiple or evasive foes.

[ Arx: Divide ] A vertical strike from shoulder to hip, designed to break through armor, flesh, or guard. Increases impact power with momentum.

____________________________

He tilted his head slightly, reading both descriptions with a narrowing gaze.

"Only two skills this time…" he muttered. "Does that mean level 10's the cap? Three choices total—one every two levels?"

It was just a guess. The system, as always, wasn't volunteering any more information.

Not that it mattered.

He wiped sweat from his brow again, glancing briefly at the smoldering corpse of the Pyre Dog at his feet—still twitching faintly, like it hadn't accepted death yet.

"Not like I've been fighting more than one at a time. Yet," Anthony murmured, eyes drifting back to the screen. "But I'd rather be ready for when I do."

His finger hovered.

Cruor: Cleave.

A horizontal swing. Controlled. Fast. Wide.

Not as flashy as it sounded, but damn useful if he ever got surrounded… or missed a strike by inches and needed a follow-through.

He selected it.

[ Skill Unlocked: Cruor: Cleave. ][ Passive Effect: Momentum Threshold – Consecutive successful attacks increase swing speed by 5% for 3 seconds. Stacks up to 3 times. ]

A warmth bloomed in his chest again—same as before.

Not painful. Not pleasant. Just… there. Like someone rewiring his nerves, threading new reflexes into old scars.

He gripped his sword tighter.It felt different now.

Balanced. Responsive.

Like his body wasn't just learning the skill. It was remembering it.

"…Momentum threshold, huh?" he muttered, testing the blade with a slow swing. "So the faster I land hits, the faster I keep swinging. Good incentive not to miss."

He nodded to himself. That made sense. It was brutal, practical. Just like this place.

"But…" Anthony lowered the sword, staring at the dusty red horizon. "What happens when I unlock the last skill in the Warrior tree? That's it? No more skills after that?"

For the first time since this nightmare started… the system answered.

[ Incorrect, {Chosen One}. Upon reaching the final skill tier in the Warrior (Tree), the {Chosen One} will be permitted to create new techniques. ]

Anthony blinked.

"…Wait. Create?"

No reply came. Just the lingering glow of those words, humming silently in front of him.

He stared at it for a moment, digesting what it meant.

"Okay," he murmured slowly. "That's… new."

The idea stuck in his mind like a splinter. Creating skills—something no longer pre-written by a cold system. Something that might actually be his. Somehing... unqiue to him.

"After i get the next skill, how do create skills?" Anthony asked but then there was no response.

"After I get the next skill, how do I create skills?" he asked aloud, standing straighter. "Is there a command? A process?"

No response.

No screen. No flicker. Not even a buzz of rejection.

Anthony's jaw tightened. "Of course," he muttered. "Figures you only speak when you want to."

He rolled his shoulders, the weight of dried blood pulling at his shirt, the sword already feeling like a part of his arm. Familiar. Heavy. Still, that idea refused to leave him.

A skill that's mine.

Something born from his experience. His will. His survival.

The thought brought a smile to his face. It gave the silence a different texture. Not quite hope—but something like it.

He started walking again. Sword at his side. Muscles sore but strong. He could rest later.

There were still dogs out there. Still blood to earn.

Still a final skill to unlock.

And after that?

Something new.

_________________________________

THE SECOND MONTH

_________________________________

Anthony lay sprawled across the sand, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting on the hilt of his sword.

Above him, the same old sky—dull red, like rust bleeding through a torn sheet. No clouds. No sun. No stars. Just that sickly, dead light that refused to change.

He wasn't even tired, not really. Not physically. But sleep didn't come easy anymore. Not real sleep. Just stretches of stillness where his body paused and his brain refused to shut off.

He stared.

Not at anything in particular.

Just... up.

"Don't know why I keep looking up here like it's gonna be different," he murmured to no one, voice flat. His throat still sounded rough, like gravel dragged across metal. "Might as well be staring at a ceiling."

A small breath left him. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh.

His fingers twitched slightly on the sword hilt. His other hand dug absently into the coarse red sand beside him.

The days—if you could call them that—blurred now.

He didn't track time anymore. Time was measured in kills, in wounds, in meals. Not minutes.

Three more Pyre Dogs yesterday. Maybe four. One had tried to circle him. Got smart, came from above. He dropped it with a backstep and a gut stab.

It didn't even shake him.

He didn't flinch at the growls anymore. Didn't brace for the rush of claws or fire. His body just… moved.

"Automatic," he muttered, closing one eye, shielding it from the nonexistent sun. "I've become automatic."

The thought didn't feel like pride. It didn't feel like anything, really.

Just another line in the list of things he couldn't unlearn.

A faint crunch—sand shifting.

He sat up without hesitation. Hand already on his blade. Head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing toward the noise.

A rock slid down a nearby outcrop.

Nothing followed.

Not yet.

He stood, brushing dust from his back with a single rough swipe. His joints cracked when he rose—worn from effort, from constant motion.

Anthony stretched his arms and peeked behind the jagged outcrop of black rock.

And there it was.

A Pyre Dog.

But not like the others.

It limped. Whimpered as it moved, dragging one leg behind it. Each step left a twitch in its side, its ember-lit fur patchy and matted with soot and blood.

Anthony narrowed his eyes, studying it from the shadowed ridge.

This is a first…

He crouched lower, frowning.

I've never seen one wounded before. Did they… fight each other? It made sense when Anthony actually gave it some thought. What else would they eat out here? There was nothing else. No prey, no water, no life beyond them and him.

"Whatever…" he muttered, standing upright with a small stretch. "Free food for me. And I'll be putting it down out of mercy."

He started toward it, slowly at first—sword low, shoulders relaxed.

But then the Pyre Dog looked at him.

Stopped limping.

And laughed.

A sharp, high-pitched whooping sound burst from its throat—mixed with cackles and groans. The cadence wasn't a snarl, wasn't a growl.

It was laughter. Hyena-like, broken, wrong.

Anthony froze.

His stomach turned.

The Pyre Dog crouched, and before he could even process it, the thing sprang—lunging forward like a trap had been triggered.

Anthony reacted fast, swinging the flat of his sword up to block. The beast slammed into it hard, snarling, flames bursting from its maw as it tried to claw past him.

"No way—!" Anthony staggered back, heels digging into the sand. "They've never done that before…"

He ducked and slashed, forcing the dog to retreat with a bark and a flick of its ember-tailed spine.

Chest heaving, eyes locked, Anthony slowly circled it again.

The Dog answered with another sick, breathy laugh, pacing with its tongue lolling from its mouth. It wasn't even pretending to limp now.

It had baited him.

It wanted him to come closer.

And that… terrified him more than any fang or flame.

He grit his teeth, adjusted his grip on the sword.

Anthony's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

It's baiting me. The Pyre Dog's eyes locked with his—glowing, calculating. No snarl. No mindless aggression. It was watching him.

It stopped limping the second I moved. It wanted me to see it weak. It wanted me to drop my guard. A month ago, that would've worked.

Now?

He shifted his weight, lowering his stance. Shoulders loose. Knees bent. Blade low by his hip, just like he practiced.

Alright. If you want to test me… then let's test each other. The beast lunged—fast, reckless.

Anthony didn't move until the last possible second.

Recast.

A breath caught in his chest. Muscles fired. His feet slid along the ground in a quick sidestep, and the world seemed to slow just enough for his instincts to take over.

Now.

He pivoted, letting his momentum guide the swing.

Cleave.

The sword carved a wide, flat arc. Clean. Fast. Brutal.

Steel met flesh. Sparks. Blood. Heat. A yelp.

It staggered sideways—its flank torn open, blood pouring from the gash. But it didn't go down.

It's trying to get behind me— He turned with it, steps nimble from [ Velo: Recast ], pressing the advantage. It snarled and tried to leap, but its rear leg faltered.

Too slow. He struck again. No hesitation.

Steel bit deep into its neck. It yelped and this time, it fell.

Hard.

Twitching.

Dead.

Anthony held his breath a moment longer, watching for movement.

Nothing.

Then the screen blinked to life in the corner of his vision:

[ You have slain a {Pyre Dog}! Experience gained. ]

[ {Cruor: Cleave} proficiency increased. Damage slightly boosted. ]

[ {Velo: Recast} has entered cooldown due to its useage reaching max. ]

He exhaled slowly through his nose, sword tip dipping toward the dirt.

That one was different. Smarter. Smarter than my third Pyre Dog kill... He scanned the wasteland again, the red haze burning dim against the horizon. Empty, for now.

If they're evolving… I'm going to have to evolve faster. His eyes drifted to the corpse, still faintly smoldering.

He knelt beside it in silence, already moving through the routine.

Blood. Meat. Cook. Move.

However he stopped. He watched as the Pyre Dog's blood pooled at his feet. And for the first time in the two months he's been trapped in this hell, he saw his reflection.

For the first time in two months, he really looked at himself.

He looked… older.

There was a beard now—short, patchy, but thick enough to make him look like someone who hadn't seen civilization in weeks. His eyes were hollowed, darker under the lids. His jaw looked sharper, tighter. His expression wasn't scared, or angry… just tired. He knew he had a beard now. Anthony knew he would look different, just not to... this extent.

His breath caught for a moment.

Is this what I look like now? He hadn't seen a mirror since waking up in this hell. Just endless sand. Endless blood. The weight of survival pressing on his back day after day.

His fingers hovered over the blood, not yet collecting it. Just… staring.

"I look like I've been living under a bridge," he muttered, voice low, almost unfamiliar. "No... I look like I've been surviving under one."

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

He shook his head, scooped the blood like always, and stood.

No time to dwell.

Not here.

He drank. He cooked. He ate.

And when it was done, he wiped the blade clean, adjusted his grip, and kept walking—just like he always did.

But the image stayed with him, burned into the back of his mind:

The reflection of a man being slowly carved into something else.