My 100th Rebirth a day before the Apocalypse novel Chapter 816

Chapter 816: Chapter 816 Kickstarting The Trade 3

Kisha shook her head gently. "If you try going to the hospital, you won’t make it. That place is a death zone now, crawling with zombies." It was true — before the apocalypse, hospitals were crowded, and when the outbreak happened, they were some of the first places to fall.

"But you could try checking our base," Kisha offered. "We also have doctors there who might be able to help. They could check if there’s an alternative medicine or treatment for him."

Then, as if remembering something, she slipped her hand into her pocket, secretly accessing her inventory. She pulled out a small vial filled with glowing blue liquid. "Or you could try this." she said, holding it out. It’s the healing potion. But she’s not sure if it’ll help with a heart condition — wounds and heart diseases aren’t the same — but Kisha could only hope it might make a difference.

The woman accepted the vial of blue liquid as though it were a precious treasure, cradling it carefully in her hands. Her eyes shimmered with emotion as she turned to Kisha, overwhelmed. No words of gratitude felt sufficient to express what this moment meant to her.

And if the base truly had doctors, there might finally be hope for her son. That thought alone filled her with a renewed urgency—more than anything, she wanted to reach the base.

"Miss, thank you so much!" she said, voice trembling with sincerity. She moved as if to embrace Kisha, but Kisha instinctively stepped back, her body tensing. Physical affection wasn’t something she was comfortable with—Duke and close family were the rare exceptions.

The woman hesitated, quickly pulling back with an apologetic smile, but Kisha offered a gentle explanation, softening her stance so the woman wouldn’t feel embarrassed or rejected. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"I’m sorry... it’s a psychological thing," Kisha said simply. She didn’t offer further explanation—there was no need to dive into the who, the why, or the how. They weren’t close, and the truth was already in what she had said.

After everything she had endured across her past lives, Kisha had developed scars—deep ones that weren’t visible but always there. Like a porcelain doll shattered and pieced back together again and again, she might appear whole, but the cracks remained. Restoration didn’t erase the memory of being broken.

Sometimes, she could be unhinged, sharp, unpredictable—other times, warm, even gentle. But every side of her was real, a reflection of the long and brutal road she had walked. Kisha had learned to embrace these parts of herself—not as something to be proud of, necessarily, but as evidence. Evidence that she had survived. That she still existed. That she had clawed her way through the darkness and was still standing.

Others might misunderstand her, judge her, or whisper behind her back. But she wasn’t sorry—not for who she had become, nor for how she chose to protect her fragile self.

After all, people might say they understand you, offer sympathy, or speak as if they know your pain—but the truth is, unless they’ve walked through the same fire, they can never truly grasp what you’ve endured. Real understanding only comes from experience, from surviving the same kind of hardship.