Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

At the end, all of them decided the same thing: the best course of action was to stay silent and wait out Evelyn's episodes.

And so, the night dragged to a close.

The next day dawned with blistering heat, the winds of the Deathland hissing through the tents and over the dunes.

Evelyn's condition had improved—her complexion was no longer ashen, her lips had regained color, and the violent spasms had ceased.

She was breathing evenly now, her eyelids fluttering with the occasional twitch but nothing more. To anyone else, it should have been a relief, a blessing worthy of cheer.

But there was no cheer.

The group sat together in a circle, yet they may as well have been scattered across separate worlds.

Their atmosphere was heavy, suffocating, a weight that pressed down on their shoulders and sank into their chests. Not a single word of celebration was uttered. Not one smile crossed their lips.

Because Art had still not returned.

That silence carried more meaning than any words could. If he had been able, he would have come back by now.

The longer the absence stretched, the more certain the implication became: something had happened. Something strong enough to keep him away… or worse, something strong enough to stop him altogether.

The scorching winds whipped through the camp, rattling canvas and stinging skin.

Yet no one even lifted an arm to shield themselves. Compared to the dread gnawing at them, the heat of the desert was a minor nuisance, nothing worth reacting to.

"Haaah…"

The sound broke the silence. A sigh slipped from Celeste's lips. It was the kind of sigh that came unbidden, almost thoughtless.

Yet in the stillness of the camp, it echoed far too loudly. It carried the weight of resignation, of indifference, and because of that it drew every eye.

More specifically, it drew Zyon's.

His glare struck. Celeste immediately shrank under it, her shoulders hunching as if she had been caught doing something shameful.

"I didn't mean anything by it," she stammered, her voice smaller than usual. "It just came out. Reflex."

Zyon didn't answer at first. His brow knotted tight, the shadows under his eyes deepening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "Forget it. I don't have the right to preach about caring for him anyway. I didn't do anything to find him myself."

His words dropped into the silence like stones into water.

"You shouldn't blame yourself, Zyon," Freya spoke up gently. She leaned closer, her hand brushing against his back before beginning to draw slow, circular patterns over the tense muscles there. "I'm sure Art will be back. We just have to wait and have faith in him. If he couldn't fight a Sand Globe, then at the very least he could run. You know he could."

Zyon's lips twisted into something that might have been a smile, but the sound that followed was closer to a dry chuckle.

"I don't know. I'm not sure. I hope that's true… but reality isn't kind. It's full of harsh truths no one wants to face. And I can't complain, because I didn't even try to search for him."

His voice grated as if each word tore at his throat. His gaze fell to the sand, hollow and tired. "Why? Because I was scared. Because my fear chained me. So I let my friend die." His fists clenched against his knees. "I'm incompetent. Pathetic."

Before he could sink further into his own self-condemnation, the hand on his back moved. Not with comfort. With violence.

The crack rang sharp and merciless across the camp.

Freya's palm had struck him hard across the face, the sound slicing through the silence like a whip.

A crimson mark bloomed on Zyon's cheek, angry and raw. Yet he didn't flinch. He didn't raise a hand. He didn't even blink. He simply sat there, still and motionless, as if he had been expecting it—no, as if he welcomed it.

The quiet that followed was suffocating.

Freya's hand trembled faintly. Her chest rose and fell with the aftershock of her outburst, but as she looked at him, at the calm and resigned acceptance in his eyes, her certainty faltered.

She had believed he needed that strike, that he deserved it. But now, seeing him take it without resistance, without anger, she felt an unease gnaw at her gut.

Her lips parted, hesitant, caught between apology and justification. But before a single word could leave her tongue—

A cheerful voice cut through the air.

"Yeah, good job, Freya! That bastard deserved it! He did not even come to help me and yet he has the audacity to feel sad. Like bro, you chose not to help. At least be confident in your cowardice."

The voice cut through the thick, guilty silence like someone turning on a spotlight. Heads snapped up.

Every muscle in the camp went taut. For a half-second they expected the impossible. Then the impossible stepped into view.

Art was standing there as if he had just wandered out of a nap. He looked rough around the edges, hair mussed, clothes tattered, but very much alive.

Celeste blinked. Freya's hand, still tingling from the slap, tightened at her side. Zyon's jaw unclenched so slowly it might have been a conscious effort not to fall apart. For one horrible beat everyone thought they were looking at a mirage.

Art spread his arms theatrically and soaked in the collective shock. "What, saw a ghost? Come on, you should have hope in something. I am a pretty strong guy. This time your pretty strong guy needed help. Big surprise. But I am back, so try to act grateful."

Zyon did not act. He sprinted.

When he threw his arms around Art the sound was muffled but perfect. The man who had been kneading self-loathing into his chest a few breaths earlier turned into a child in the blink of an eye.

He hugged Art like the ground had been ripped out from under him and the only thing holding him upright now was this living, breathing idiot.

Art hugged him back. For once there was no jab, no quip. Just an arm around a friend.

Then Art stepped back a little, smirk re-arming in the center of his face. "Hey, big guy. Do not be such a wuss. Your boy is alive. But if you keep acting like this I might think about dying again, because the faces you make are hilarious. Honestly, try it. You should die once. It is very entertaining."

That line landed exactly the wrong way and the right way at the same time. Laughter bubbled out of someone, clipped and nervous. Zyon shoved Art's shoulder and pretended to be angry. "Shut up or I will actually kill you."

They all let themselves breathe a little. The relief was messy. It showed in the way Freya's shoulders loosened, in the way Celeste's face relaxed by a fraction. Even Evelyn, who had a hollow look after her episode.

Art glanced sideways toward where Leon stood. Leon was steadying himself on a rock, clothes dusted, chest working as if he had just run through a storm.

Amelia moved closer, worry plain in every line of her face. "Are you fine?" she asked.

Leon gave a slow, tired smile. His voice was calm. "Yes. Fortunately, yes. I opened my eyes before anything really dangerous could happen."

He sounded like a man who had stared into a hole and decided not to step into it. The simplicity of his answer steadied the group more than any speech could.