As Michael's limp body plummeted into the unknown, time seemed to stretch endlessly, the descent both agonizingly slow and terrifyingly swift. His thoughts, fractured and chaotic, began to stitch together fragmented memories. The weight of these recollections pressed heavily on his shattered spirit, forcing him to confront the harsh reality of his existence—a reality he had long sought to obscure with delusions and half-truths. Now, with nothing but the abyss to cradle him, those comforting lies unraveled, leaving him exposed to the raw pain of his past.
The walls of the pit, unnervingly smooth and impossibly close, began to shift in color as he descended further into its depths. What began as an all-consuming blackness soon gave way to a blood-red hue that seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of its own. The air thickened with an acrid stench, the foul odor of decay mingling with the suffocating scent of something far more sinister, as if the pit itself was a tomb for forgotten horrors.
As the last vestiges of light were swallowed by the abyss, Michael felt the tendrils of despair tighten around him. The darkness was not merely an absence of light; it was a void that threatened to consume his very soul. Every breath he took was laced with agony, his wound, hastily and poorly mended, now torn wide open. The warm, sticky sensation of his life's blood seeping from his body was a cruel reminder that his end was near. His consciousness began to fade, the edges of his vision blurring as he prepared to embrace the finality of death.
But just as he teetered on the brink of oblivion, his descent halted abruptly. Suspended in mid-air, Michael hung mere feet above an ancient altar, his body swaying gently as if caught in the grasp of some unseen force. His blood, dripping steadily from his reopened wound, splattered onto the altar's surface, each drop igniting a dormant power buried within the stone.
The change was immediate. Around him, statues emerged from the shadows, their once-invisible forms solidifying as ancient lights flickered to life. The lights, though dimmed by the passage of time, still burned with an eerie brilliance, illuminating the chamber in a ghastly glow. The altar, now fully awakened, seemed to hum with anticipation, its pristine surface contrasting sharply with the decay that surrounded it. The broken skeletons that littered the ground, some still clad in remnants of flesh, were silent witnesses to the altar's terrible purpose.
As if responding to the blood that had awakened it, the altar gently lowered Michael onto its cold surface. His body, now barely clinging to life, lay motionless as his head struck the stone with a dull thud. In that moment, a voice, cold and devoid of emotion, sliced through the fog in his mind.
"What do you wish for?" The voice was neither malevolent nor kind; it was simply there, demanding an answer.
The question echoed in the void of his thoughts, insistent and unyielding. "What do you wish for?"
Michael's lungs burned as blood filled them, each breath a struggle against the inevitable. Yet, even in his weakened state, he understood the significance of the moment. It was as if the absurd luck stat he had been cursed with had led him to this altar, to this voice, at the precise moment when his life hung in the balance. Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he forced a single, desperate word from his lips: "Power."
The response was immediate. A status menu, unlike any he had ever seen, flickered before his eyes. But this was no ordinary menu; the usual mundane details were replaced by something far more ominous:
—
"God of Death #073 wishes to change your class to 'Death Angel.' Do you accept? [Yes/Yes]
"God of Death #073 wishes to sacrifice all your levels to fulfill your wish and grant 'Optimal Race Change + Full Heal.' Do you accept? [Yes/Yes]
"God of Death #073 wishes to alter your status menu. Do you accept? [Yes/Yes]
Failure to select an option will result in the default choice [Yes] being selected for all options.
Time remaining: 12 seconds.
—
The choices were stark, the implications chilling. But as quickly as the options appeared, the brief surge of adrenaline that had kept him conscious faded. His body, battered and broken, could no longer endure the strain, and his mind slipped into the welcoming void of unconsciousness.
Had he been able to remain awake for just a few moments longer, he would have witnessed the profound transformation that was about to unfold. The altar, responding to his whispered wish, began to glow with an unholy light, the statues around it bowing as if in reverence to the god who now claimed Michael as his own. His body, once frail and human, would soon be reshaped into something far more fearsome—a reaper, born not of choice but of necessity, destined to become the scourge of those who had wronged him.
And so, in the silence of that ancient chamber, the once-accidental summon was reborn. The God of Death #073 had granted Michael his wish, and with it, the power to carve a path of vengeance through the world that had cast him aside.