Reincarnated as a Haunted Machine

Before being hauled outside for transport, each of the glass containers were carefully packed with cloth and padding. Thick straps of weaved fabric wrapped around each covered case, firmly securing the covers in place.

This frustrated the machine since he wouldn't be able to view the outside world. It seemed everyone in this world felt the need to cover all their cargo. Perhaps prying eyes and robbers were common here? In any case, he felt it wise to just be patient. After all, he didn't currently have enough mana to do anything right now. He glanced at the simplified status in the corner of his vision.

----

[Level: 8]

[XP: 18/320]

[HP: 1/20]

[MP: 1/10]

----

The lenses that served as his eyes were damaged, likely shattered with some glassy shards missing. But luckily, his status functioned like a kind of overlay that didn't rely on his eyes, so it was still legible.

The machine thought through his situation as he felt the container move.

He had woken up among several strange artifacts. Each artifact was contained in glass boxes which were seemingly designed to display the contents. He didn't see any clear openings or access doors in the glass boxes so... Perhaps he was being moved to a museum? Or maybe a research center? In either case, many eyes would be on him. This worried him, as his fastest regeneration would take a considerable amount of time and mana.

Unless some unexpected opportunity arose, his only option would be to regenerate very slowly, hoping that no one would notice the changes. But if people were studying him every day, they would likely discover his recovery long before he regenerated enough to escape.

'This... might be a problem.'

---

Three men ran through the darkness, weaving through a maze of the slums. The streets were lined with uneven and disorienting shacks, makeshift homes built by the poor and homeless. Each was made from whatever materials they could scavenge: cracked bricks discarded by masons, warped wood from scrapped carts, and sometimes they even used cloth to cover the remaining gaps in the walls. There was no organization or consistent pattern to the cramped architecture. Each shack encroached on its neighbor at strange angles, making the road jagged and cluttered.

Edmon's superior vision helped him navigate the contorted path. Naturally, he led the other two surviving Jackdaws as they fled.

They were running as fast as they could. His lungs heaved, drawing in the humid and polluted air. Droplets of bitter, contaminated rain were pulled in too, causing Edmon to cough or spit, but he refused to slow down for anything. He turned his head, stealing a glance behind himself. Their pursuers were out there somewhere behind the curtain of rain, but he still couldn't manage to spot any of them. How were they staying hidden?

Shunk

The third man, an armored fighter, let out a pained yelp as something pierced his back. He tried to call for help, but was decapitated before another sound could leave his mouth. His body hit the ground, his head rolling away, still inside the helmet.

"Shit!"

Edmon cursed. The enemy was closing in too fast and he still couldn't see them. The Jackdaws had been eviscerated. He and the young scout behind him were the last of them all.

The little scout running behind Edmon had tears streaming down his face.

"We're not going to make it! We're not going to make it!"

Edmon's heart twisted when he heard the young man's despair. This poor little scout never should have joined the Jackdaws in the first place. Hell- everyone was certain he was too young to be in the dungeon at all. He was practically still a child. They figured he had the necessary skills, they figured they could protect him... But now everyone else was dead.

Tears welled in Edmon's eyes as guilt sunk its teeth into his conscience. This child would die, and the blood would be on his hands.

"No! Don't give up! We just have to make it to the church!"

Edmon shouted those words without looking back. He wasn't sure if he was trying to encourage the child, or if he was trying to convince himself. The young scout sobbed, but kept running behind him.

"We won't- we won't make it!"

He choked on his own words. This was no way to die, being mercilessly hunted down and slaughtered like animals. He never thought he would die like this. He wanted to meet his end in the Labyrinth, diving deep into the heart of mystery and adventure, leaving a legacy to be remembered by his friends. But instead, he was going to be killed namelessly in the slums and no one would be left to remember him.

Something whizzed past his cheek, slashing it open as it passed. It stung, and he could feel the warm flow of blood oozing down his face. He continued to sob, doing his best to follow Edmon's silhouette.

"We're almost there! Don't give up- by the gods, DON'T GIVE UP!"

Edmon roared, his voice swelling with unwillingness. They would make it, they had to. The church house was visible now, it was a straight-shot. They just had to run another 50 meters or so.

"STAY WITH ME!! DON'T GIVE UP!!"

His body was at the limit. He wasn't sure what caused it, whether it was blood loss or the extreme exertion, but Edmon's hearing had gradually become weaker. Everything sounded a bit muddled. His field of vision was becoming smaller too, his peripherals now faded to black.

He continued to roar in defiance, trying to forcibly will their survival into reality if it were possible.

30 meters to go...

His hearing was now noticably dampened. He could no longer hear the scout's sobs and his own screams were becoming hard to make out.

20 meters left...

Sound was all but a memory at this point. The only thing he could hear were the thumps from his own footsteps, thundering through his bones.

10 meters...

Just past the gate. Darkness had encroached further on the edges of his vision, but he could still see the church's door. He could make it! He tried to redouble his efforts, but there was nothing left in his body. He watched the door approach in slow motion. It felt unreal, like this was a dream. He needed to be there, only then would he be safe.

He couldn't hear any more, but he tried to roar one last time as he gave everything he had to push those last few meters.

SLAM

His legs and lungs had given out, but not before he slammed face-first into the door of the chapel.

He disoriented, but sound and vision began to restore themselves shortly after he hit the ground.

A light came on inside the chapel, clearly alarmed by the body slam against their front door.

"... Ha. Haha. Hahahaha!"

The first thing Edmon heard was his own maniacle laughter. The clergyman was coming, they were saved. No one would dare kill on holy ground, not so long as the church could see them. They were saved! Edmon quipped to the little scout between ragged breaths.

"See? What did I tell you? We made it."

His whole body was sore, but he managed to roll over to face him.

"We made..."

But when he turned around, the little scout wasn't there.

Instead, he saw a figure. The figure stood just beyond the church gate, at the edge of the light. The figure was hooded, and too far into the darkness for him to see clearly. The only thing he could see was their weapon, a sickle held in hand, still slick with dripping blood.

The figure stood there for a moment, glaring at Edmon with unfathomable bloodlust.

Edmon's heart felt like it stopped. He could only stare back and hope that bastard didn't dare enter holy grounds.

Then, the figure turned and slipped away into the darkness, leaving Edmon to his shock and guilt.