Hated Doctor is actually NOT the strongest

A thin, blackened hand broke through the wet surface of the earth. Another hand followed, rising into the night. Frantically, the hands began to claw at the dirt beneath them. The cold soil burned against fingers already numb, its hardened fragments—pebbles and shards of wood—cutting deeply into nearly skeletal hands. Blood dripped, mixing with the mud. The nails, shattered and useless, clawed in desperation.

After what felt like thirty agonizing minutes, Ater rose from the icy mud, stiff as a scarecrow. His body was entirely caked in soil clinging to his face and clothes, making him resemble a creature from the swamp. With mud-covered hands, he tried to wipe away the filth obstructing his eyes. He fell to his knees, releasing a roar like a wild beast on the brink of collapse before staggering down the slippery path. Stumbling and falling every few steps, he pressed on, slow but relentless, down the beaten trail. His eyes gleamed with a determination born of vengeance.

The moon, seemingly frightened by this muddy figure, refused to cast its light on him. Instead, its glow illuminated a pit from which Ater had clawed his way free. Above it stood a small stone cross, engraved with the words "The Dark Doctor."

This was no ordinary pit—it was a grave.

Ater collapsed onto the ground, his teeth grinding as dust and dirt crunched between them. He lifted himself onto his fists in a kneeling position. Voices drew nearer ahead of him. As he raised his gaze, he saw a mob—fifty people carrying torches, pitchforks, and hoes. Among them were some wielding genuine weapons—spears and swords, likely relics of the Great War.

Ater couldn't rise, nor could he fall completely to the ground. The mob halted before him, and one broad-shouldered man stepped forward confidently, grabbing Ater by the collar. "Ha... The witch was right! You did rise from your grave…"

The man loosened his grip, and Ater collapsed again, kneeling before the crowd, too weak to flee, speak, or even think clearly. Again.

"It doesn't matter that you're dead. You haven't paid enough for the horrors you caused," the man sneered. He kicked Ater in the stomach, sending him rolling down the wet path as the crowd cheered. Ater spat out blood mixed with soil and lifted his head. Among the gathered townsfolk were young and old alike, even women. In the front row, something caught his attention—a man stood with his hands firmly resting on a child's shoulders. The child, no older than ten, stared wide-eyed in horror at the bloodied, muddy figure writhing on the ground.

"S...," the wounded doctor tried to form a word.

"Oh?! He's got something to say!" the man jeered gleefully. "Let's hear him out!" He lifted Ater by the neck and turned him toward the crowd. Though shorter than Ater, the man held him high enough that his knees barely touched the ground.

"Well? We're listening…" the tormentor urged.

"S-Simply…," Ater began, but before he could finish, the man tightened his grip, cutting off both air and speech. The crowd burst into cruel laughter.

"Try again! Maybe you'll get lucky!"

"J-Just wanted to…" The grip tightened again, causing Ater to lose consciousness momentarily before his head jerked upright as the grip eased for a second time.

Once again, Ater was thrown to the ground. The man spat on him as he lay there. Raising his face from the mud, Ater rasped hoarsely, "I just wanted to help."

The crowd stared in disbelief. "Help?! You call that help?!" the man who had strangled him exclaimed. "Well, now it's our turn to help, friend. Not just for you, but for countless lives you would have ruined in the future. Yes, yes, we're doing the world a favor!"

The mob roared in approval.

Grabbing Ater by the ankle, the man dragged him down the muddy path toward the scattered lights of the mountain village.

"How long do you think he's been asleep?" Deril whispered.

"It hasn't even been 24 hours, and this has to be his fifth nap!" Rusuf responded in an equally hushed tone.

As if hearing their critique, Ater stirred and slowly woke up. He propped himself up, one hand resting on the stone floor he used as a bed, while the other absentmindedly scratched his neck. He scanned his surroundings as if unsure where he was.

Upon noticing Rusuf and Deril, he frowned and tilted his head in confusion.

"Rough sleep, huh?" Rusuf said amicably.

Ater ignored him. Standing up, he stretched—first his arms, then his legs. "Still not good enough," Ater muttered to himself.

"W-why do you sleep so much?" Deril asked cautiously.

"Why are you so awake?" Ater shot back. The question silenced Deril for a while. The two doctors in white sat quietly, watching Ater pace nervously back and forth in the cell, his steps slow but agitated. Neither Rusuf nor Deril had the courage to ask what was on his mind.

The tense atmosphere was interrupted by a guard approaching the bars. "Alright, boys, you're free to go... Orders from higher up," the guard said, sounding much less confident and more subdued, like a child recently scolded by their mother. Rusuf and Deril beamed with grins from ear to ear.

"Ha! I bet the Guild pulled some strings! I knew they couldn't do without me!" Rusuf shouted.

"Us!" Deril corrected.

"Thank your dark friend here for this," the guard nodded toward Ater while clumsily jingling the keys at the lock. Rusuf and Deril turned to express their gratitude to their supposed benefactor but froze. Ater had a wild, furious expression they had never seen before. The darkness in his eyes was vast enough to drown a ship.

When the guard finally creaked open the old, rusted cell door, Rusuf and Deril quickly stepped aside to let Ater stride past. The dark doctor stormed out of the station like a whirlwind. Rusuf and Deril followed closely behind, stumbling onto the cobbled street and shielding their eyes from the blinding sunlight.

When their vision adjusted to the daylight, Ater was gone.

"Again," Ater muttered, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position.

He opened his eyes. Darkness.

He focused on his other senses.

Touch. Earth. Wood.

Smell. Mud. Water.

Taste. He stuck out his tongue. Dust.

Hearing. Thud. He only heard the sound of his own heartbeat. Thud.

He raised his fingers and started clawing at the dirt above his hands. He worked quickly, deftly, like someone who had done this dozens of times before.

Soon, he had enough space to lift his hands to his chest. He continued digging, wriggling as the soil fell onto him.

He jerked suddenly. A sharp, piercing pain shot through his left index finger. With his other hand, he felt a stone wedged beneath his nail and pulled it free. The numb, cold fingers were shocked by the warmth of his own blood. Ater kept digging.

His mouth was dry. He was thirsty. He sensed the moisture all around him, knowing it was raining outside. He would have to endure. Somewhat absent-mindedly, he licked the wet soil above him. He kept digging.

Finally, his hand broke through the surface of the earth. He remained still in that position, with one hand in the fresh air. This was his favorite part.

Soon, his elbow followed his hand. Then his other hand. With Herculean strength, Ater braced himself and slowly, steadily rose from the ground, like the root of a fallen tree.

Rain. A stone slab bearing his nickname. A path. Mud.

Blood.

He lifted his head, letting the rain wash the mud from his face. "Far more efficient than cleaning myself with my hands," Ater mentally noted.

He raised his fingers to his face. They were battered, cut, bruised, numb, and bloody. He longingly eyed the ground. He had to resist the urge to sit down. If he sat now, he wouldn't be able to stand up in time. He had learned that the hard way.

The resurrected Ater began a laborious limp down the path ahead of him. He frequently glanced around, observing the trees. Ater loved trees.

A mob.

An oh-so-familiar tormentor approached Ater. "Ha... The witch was right! You did rise from the gr—" The man's sentence was cut short as Ater collapsed at his feet, dead.

The Dark Doctor jolted awake in the comfort of his room. Propping himself up on his hands, he rubbed his eyes, visibly displeased. "What did I do wrong this time?" the doctor self-analyzed. He placed a hand on his forehead, trying to recall everything he had done. "Grave. Digging. Rising. Rain. Path. Trees. Mob. Torment—"

"Trees?"

Ater smacked his forehead with his other hand. "I got exhausted admiring the trees. What a fucking fool I am—"

Only then did he notice a pair of curious eyes watching from the shadows as he hit himself repeatedly on the forehead. "How long have you been there?"

Rusuf tilted his head. "Boss, a few minutes. We didn't want to wake you..."

Ater nodded. He knew why. "What do you want?"

Deril peeked over Rusuf's shoulder. "We came to thank you. The guard said they let us go because of you."

Ater nodded. "You're welcome. Now go. I have work to do," Ater replied curtly.

Somewhat dejected, Rusuf and Deril left Ater's urban shack. 

"Why didn't you give him—" 

"You saw he wasn't in the mood—" 

"Then leave it by the entrance—" 

"But what if someone takes it—" 

"Hide it a little to the side then—"

After a brief argument, Deril placed a small package behind a sheet of metal leaning against the outer wall near the entrance. The pair went on their way.

Amid the clutter around him, Ater reached seemingly at random, pulling out a half-eaten, stale apple. He ate it and tossed the core back into the heap behind him. He lay down again. Just before closing his eyes, they gleamed for a moment. He had a good feeling.