The aftermath of that mining disaster was exceptionally cruel and torturous—a finale that would make even demons shudder. To survive, one had to eat others. To live, one had to devour companions before losing the strength to fight back…

At certain moments, the line between humans and demons might be nothing but a name. Perhaps humans, capable of boundless cruelty, could terrify even devils. No species had ever inspired such primal fear in them—a desperate urge to annihilate humanity, the rebellious child cast aside by "Her" will. Humanity’s terrifying resilience went unnoticed even by themselves.

Mirror October glimpsed a fragment of this human strength.

Through countless games, he’d witnessed the breathtaking power humans unleashed when facing life and death—ugly or beautiful, raw and moving. Fate—or mere coincidence—led a young survivor, always sheltered by his coworkers, to a sharp metal shard amid the chaos of the early disaster.

A fragment from some shattered machine. Its origin no longer mattered.

In the cramped, collapsed tunnel, the youth struck while others slept. With a weapon in hand and calculation outweighing panic, he crept toward former friends. When pushed to utter hysteria, the human mind shuts down. Instinct takes over: hunger demands feeding, threats demand flight. If escape is impossible and a weapon lies ready—eliminate every threat.

Weapon in hand, murder blooms in the heart.

The instinct to kill is etched into human bones. Even the meekest soul fights back when cornered. A weapon grants instant power—a false sense of dominance over the unarmed. The heart swells with reckless abandon.

This mismatch between power and conscience always breeds tragedy. Hollywood has long exhausted this truth: strength without wisdom harms those closest.

But Mirror October preferred a meme’s blunt wisdom:

*When showing off, brains check out.*

Seemingly unrelated, yet fundamentally the same.

So in this abyss, the youth’s weapon erased his reason. Sanity plummeted to zero, then plunged negative. For fragile safety, the inevitable followed…

He didn’t kill all his coworkers. He slashed the tendons in their hands and feet. He just didn’t want to die. Someone *would* rescue him. Until then, he couldn’t let these man-eating demons devour *him*.

"Why… why force me?!" he shrieked, clutching the shard, sobbing like a child. The stench of blood clung to his nostrils. "I never wanted to eat… I… *urk*! Not me! Not me! Foreman, don’t look at me—it wasn’t me who ate you!!"

Then his sobs twisted into laughter. Tear-streaked, his rigid grin radiated chilling madness.

"Hehe… Eat? Why *not* eat?! The foreman wanted me to live—I *deserve* this! I’ll wait. Even if I can’t climb out… Director Wu will save me someday. Hehe!"

In despair, humans invent excuses. We cannot live like beasts. Burdened by sin, we need justifications: *They forced me. Society failed. They deserved it.* Only then can we survive—pitiful, tragic creatures.

This youth, once timid and obedient, had been a coiled spring. Life-or-death pressure snapped it. His rebound shattered himself. Self-deception. Excuses. All for survival.

Once broken, a human’s limits shatter again. And again.

The first bite was beastly hunger—mindless, feral. Awakening brought guilt that never faded. Remorse would haunt, curse, and spit on him forever. But the second bite? Not hunger. Just: *I’ve done it once. What’s one more time?*

So the boundary dissolved.

The youth who’d only wanted to disable his coworkers—to avoid becoming prey—now eyed his helpless companions with a predator’s gaze after gnawing the foreman’s corpse. No. In his eyes, they were no longer human. Just meat on a platter.

Like Hannibal Lecter in *Silence of the Lambs*. His first taste of human flesh was survival. But later… he ate because he *needed* to. Humanity ceased to be his kin. Few, if any, remained worthy of that title.

This was his "transcendence."

"Sob… why… why hasn’t anyone come to save us?" The youth stared blankly at the sealed exit, food no longer an immediate worry. The foreman promised rescue. They’d waited so long. Half their bodies had been eaten. Why no one?

*Wu Jianguo… why haven’t you come down to save us…*

The whisper repeated, growing weaker, less human each day. After devouring every scrap—even his own hands, knuckles gnawed to bone with deep tooth marks—he collapsed. Laughing and sobbing, his final breath hissed with venomous hatred, a chorus of ragged, overlapping voices:

"Hehe… Wu Jianguo… why haven’t you come down…"

"Hehe! Since you won’t come down…" His grin split the darkness. "*Then we’ll come up to you.*"