"I'm here again."
The same oppressive darkness greeted him—the same void he had felt when he died on Earth and was dragged into this hellish realm. But this time, something was off. This darkness... it felt wrong, like it was watching him.
"Ugh, my head hurts..."
Casimir tried to clutch his aching skull, but his hands weren't there—he had no body, no hands to soothe the pain. His mind reeled, flooded with echoes of agony—the screams, the blood, the death. The haunting image of soldiers slaughtered by bone-chained specters, their eyes wide with terror. The carnage was still fresh in his mind. The screams. The pain. Her voice.
"Did she kill me?"
A burst of frustration ripped from his throat.
"Agh! None of this makes any sense!"
"Why the hell am I—"
Before he could finish, an excruciating wave of heat consumed him.
"AGHHH!"
Damian couldn't see it, but he felt it—the searing fire coursing through his veins, the sensation of his very life being dragged back into him. Blood. He felt blood returning to his body, the very substance that was both reviving him and tormenting him. The more it flowed, the hotter it burned, until the pain was nearly unbearable.
And then—without warning—Damian shot upright, eyes snapping open. The disorientation hit him first. Was he still in that blood-soaked hell?
"W-where am I?"
He looked around, frantic.
But... this wasn't the wasteland of corpses and chaos he feared. Instead, he found himself in an enormous room, soft green carpet beneath him, dotted with odd runic symbols. Flickering candles floated lazily in the air. A massive dome-shaped window arched overhead, and the walls were adorned with bizarrely cheerful flowers and hearts. It was... serene.
But behind him? A towering, inky-black shadow.
"It worked! See, I told you, Coraline!"
Damian snapped his neck toward the voice—a high-pitched, girlish sound—and instantly went on the defensive, ready to strike.
"I told you, I told you!"
"Yes, Ms. Persephone, you told me."
In an instant, he was smushed against something soft and warm. His face was buried deep in—in a woman's chest.
"Oh, my little battle slave. You're alive!"
Damian's mind was a blur of confusion and panic.
"Slave?!" He struggled to speak, but his words were muffled. He pushed against her, desperate to free himself.
But when he finally managed to pull back and look up at her, his heart stopped.
"You..."
The woman tilted her head, her gaze both curious and weirdly upbeat.
"Me?"
"Y-You killed me! It's you!"
Standing before him was the same woman who had killed him moments ago. But she was different now—no longer wrapped in blood or bound by bone chains. Her hair, a striking blend of black and white, flowed long and ethereal, nearly brushing the floor. Her eyes glowed a molten gold, radiating an otherworldly intensity, while her skin, deathly pale, gave off a faint, unsettling sheen. Two black, onyx-feathered wings sprouted from her lower back, adding to the unnatural air of her presence. She wore a Gothic Lolita dress—jet-black with a white bow tie adorning her breast. She looked... innocent.
But Damian knew better.
"S-Stay away!"
His mind spiraled into panic as the memory of the bloodshed and screams flooded back. She was the one who had slaughtered everyone. She was the one who had done this to him.
Damian grabbed a floating candle and pointed it shakily at her like a weapon, his voice cracking with fear.
"Who are you?!"
The woman smiled mischievously and tilted her head again, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Without warning, she snapped her fingers. The candles around her began to swirl, flying toward her like a cloud of angry fireflies.
Then, with a theatrical pose, she raised one finger to the sky and placed the other on her hip.
"Who am I?! Well, I'll tell you!"
Her hair seemed to flow with unnatural grace as she spoke, a confident aura radiating from her.
"I am the Queen of Rot! The Eternal Tyrant of Utral! The Weeping Death of Mortals! The Beautiful Witch of Famine! Persephone Von Hellebore!!!"
She snapped her fingers again, her pouty lips turned upwards into a playful grin as she looked straight into Damian's terrified eyes.
"And you, my young servant, have been revived to undertake a mission of great importance!"
Damian staggered back, his candle trembling in his hands. This thing—this monster—was acting like a bratty teenager. How could this be the same entity that had slaughtered him?
"M-me?"
"Yes, you!"
Her grin widened, teeth flashing.
"I made you to serve me, and you're going to help with a VERY important mission!"
Damian's body trembled, and he took a step back, holding the candle like a shield.
"Are you going to drink my blood and play with my brains?!" His voice cracked with desperation.
"I know what you are, monster! Let me go home!"
But her eyes remained fixed on him, blank and unfazed.
"Didn't you hear me? You're my slave now. You can't go home. Silly. That's not how this works."
Damian shook his head in disbelief, every fiber of his being screaming to run, to get away from this nightmare.
"No way. No way!"
He had no choice. He knew that serving her would only lead to more pain, more torment. Every instinct in his body told him that if he stayed, he would suffer beyond measure.
Persephone, clearly annoyed, turned to the small figure standing nearby.
"Mmm, Coraline, this guy's being a pain.
Should I just take away his free will?"
A small girl, no taller than a child, stepped forward from the shadows. Her hair was neatly braided into two Dutch buns, and her single, large, eye was stitched shut with thread. She wore a tiny maid's outfit and gazed at Damian with eerie indifference.
"But, Ms. Persephone, the second task you want of your new servant will fail if you turn him into a mindless puppet."
Persephone pouted, crossing her arms.
"Mmm, true, but he's being SUCH a pain!"
Coraline sighed. She pointed toward a spot in the room where Damian was meant to be standing.
"He's gone, Ms. Persephone."
Persephone turned her head sharply—unnaturally so, like an owl—peering over her shoulder, her neck twisting a full 180 degrees.
"You're right! Where'd he go?"
Coraline glanced toward the massive door at the far end of the room.
"He's trying to open the door."
Persephone's eyes darkened.
"See? What did I tell you?"
Her hand clenched into a fist, and a black, pulsing aura erupted from her body, swirling around her.
Damian's body froze. He was paralyzed—completely immobilized—his mind trapped in a prison of his own making. The only thing he could move were his eyes, which darted around in panic.
"Cursed... that damn door! What is it even made of?! I couldn't move it an inch!"
Then, he heard slow, deliberate footsteps—the clicking of heels on stone—growing louder.
Persephone appeared before him, her cold, soulless eyes staring into his as she sat him upright against the door.
"I tried putting on a more upbeat attitude since all the others got scared when I appeared..."
She glanced at Coraline, her face full of childish annoyance.
"Should we try again?"
Coraline's voice was flat, almost mechanical.
"We can't for a while. You've poured most of your blood into him. But if you wish, I can cut the strings for you."
Damian's chest tightened. He could barely breathe.
"W-wait..."
Persephone stared down at him, her eyes devoid of any empathy, as if he were nothing more than a toy.
"I'll do it. I'll be your slave."
Her expression shifted instantly, as if she had won a victory. Her smile grew wide and bright.
"Oh, you will?"
Damian nodded, defeated.
"Yes. Just... please. Release me. I feel...weird. I landed Uncomfortably."
"Oh! Pardon me!"
Persephone unclenched her fist. Damian's body jolted back to life, though every nerve felt wrong—like he was waking from a dream that hadn't ended yet.
He sat up, looking up at her.
"So... what do you want me to do?"
…
Damian had wanted death in his first life. He had begged for it. But wanting death, and actually achieving it, were two very different things. When death comes, no human is ever ready. And in this new life, he would find that out the hard way.