Lying in a dilapidated bedroom, the figure of a black-haired young man stared blankly at the ceiling, his pitch-black eyes devoid of life.
The room was barely habitable. Without even a bed, he was forced to lie on the cold, bare floor.
The walls were marred by moist spots, and faded, peeling paint clung stubbornly to the surface. Yet, in their decay, they carried a strange beauty that contrasted with the room's emptiness.
Over the past few months, he had grown used to it. Despite being unworthy of his status, this rundown space had become the only place that truly fit him.
Outside, muffled voices broke the silence.
"I guess he'll be dying soon," a bald man remarked. His tone was blunt, laced with contempt, and devoid of any trace of sympathy.
"What can I say? It's the price he had to pay for shining too brightly," replied another man with buck teeth. He shrugged as if discussing something unimportant. "Are we going to bury him?"
"Although he could've been humanity's savior if he hadn't broken down," Baldy muttered, glaring at Bucktooth. "He didn't do anything useful. A burial is too costly."
"Yeah, you're right," Bucktooth said, smacking his forehead. "What was I thinking? We could just destroy the cottage and let the rubble bury him."
'Damned bastards,' the youth thought, rage burning within him as he listened to their heartless conversation.
"His skin condition is getting worse," Bucktooth pointed out, gesturing toward the thin, fissure-like cracks spreading across the youth's pale, wrinkled skin.
"I guess we won't have to wait much longer," Baldy replied, smirking as he recalled the priest's words about cracks spiraling across the youth's skin before death.
Their annoying laughter echoed through the room, but the youth remained motionless, unable to lift even a single finger.
"By the way, why do you want him dead?" Bucktooth suddenly asked. Looking at Baldy, he added, "For me, it's because he's a threat to my position."
Baldy fell silent for a moment before responding. "I want him dead because he's my son's replacement."
The youth's anger burned hotter, but he suppressed it, knowing there was no one to blame for his circumstances.
Regret gnawed deep within him. His death had been humiliating—Lucian Redrazhalf, the once-untouchable necromancer, brought low by the very power he had spent lifetimes chasing.
Unlike others who died nobly—crushed by trucks, betrayed by comrades, or defending loved ones—his end was far less glamorous. He had died simply because he was too powerful.
At the height of his strength, he had thought to give back to humanity. That was where his fall began. The power he sacrificed everything for—friendships, family, love—had consumed him like dry timber in a wildfire.
As his vision slowly faded into darkness and his body rapidly aged like an ancient tree, Lucian thought, Too bad I couldn't break the curse in this life.
Well, I'll get another chance soon, he thought, hatred surging within him like molten lava. And when I do, I'll curse the bastard who put me through this.
A voice suddenly echoed within his mind, righteous and mocking.
"Let your foul soul be cleansed by the heavenly winds."
Why the hell does the old man sound delighted? Lucian scowled, his irritation immediate and instinctual.
Death was supposed to be silent. But for him, it never was.
The void was supposed to be silent—a blank slate before reincarnation. But instead, he was always subjected to this lecture.
"You've been rehearsing this one, haven't you?" Lucian muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Heavenly winds? Sounds like a cheap cologne."
The voice faltered for a moment, caught off guard by his retort.
Lucian grinned, savoring the fleeting satisfaction.
Holy gods loved their posturing, and ruining their self-important monologues was one of the few joys he had left.
The oppressive heat at his back and the faint hum of divine energy clawing at his existence were easy enough to ignore—for now.
"You dare mock the divine?" the voice thundered, regaining its composure. "Your arrogance knows no bounds, mortal!"
"Mortal?" Lucian repeated, his tone dry and faintly amused. "You're at least a dozen lives late on that one."
Taking advantage of the silence, Lucian asked, "Tell me, which life are you judging me for?"
He leaned into the void, his voice low. "The one where I burned an empire to ashes? The one where I killed everything in a kingdom?"
After a brief pause, Lucian added, "Or maybe the one where I died alone in the dark, cursing your kind for ever existing?"
The voice remained silent, the weight of Lucian's words hanging in the air.
He smirked. He had long since perfected this game—probing, taunting, and finding the cracks in their baseless pride.
It didn't make the chains hurt any less, but it gave him a sliver of control in a Universe that disregarded the weak.
"You are an abomination," the voice spat. "A stain upon the cycle of life and death. Your soul is tainted—an insult to the divine order!"
"And yet, here I am. Still existing," Lucian yawned, feigning indifference. "Do you think an all-powerful deity could fare better?"
The voice erupted in fury, its righteous tone cracking. "Enough! You will face judgment for your sins, Lucian Redrazhalf!"
The void around him trembled as the words seemed to become weights, reality itself fragmenting under the force of divine will.
Cracks spread through the darkness, jagged lines of light seeping into the void. The air grew heavy and oppressive, as if the fabric of reality was preparing to crush him.
Lucian's smirk faded, replaced by a grim expression. "Here we go again."
Chains of light erupted from the void. They coiled through the air like serpents, their pristine white glow radiating false purity.
These were no ordinary bindings but the chains of eternity, forged to shackle abominations like himself to eternal suffering. In his case, eternal reincarnation.
His chest tightened as the chains wrapped around his limbs, their holy aura burning into his skin.
He'd learned long ago that resistance was futile, and defiance was his only form of rebellion.
"These chains will cleanse your soul," the voice declared triumphantly. "You will be reborn, your sins burned away, until nothing remains but purity."
"Purity?" Lucian laughed coldly. "That's what you call this farce? Tell me, where's the purity in torturing a soul for eternity?"
"If these chains really purified those they tortured, I'd be the purest existence in the universe by now," Lucian added, pouring his bitterness into his words.
The chains tightened in response, their grip torturous, but he didn't flinch. His voice grew colder. "You gods are all the same. Petty tyrants with rotting souls."
"Your defiance changes nothing," the voice hissed. "You will suffer until the darkness within you is no more."
The heat behind him rapidly intensified as a portal materialized—a swirling vortex of light and divinity.
Lucian didn't reply. He simply closed his eyes, his resolve hardening as he was dragged into the vortex of light that signaled the beginning of yet another life.
The pull was immediate, dragging him toward his next life with an irresistible force.
But just before the portal closed, the voice boomed, "Face the consequences of your arrogance, Lucian Redrazhalf. May your suffering cleanse the stain of your existence!"
"I'll break this curse! Even if it takes me another thousand lives!" Lucian yelled in response, his voice a manifestation of his anger, hate, and resolve.