Awakening.
Once more, the tomb loomed around him—unchanged, unbroken. The shattered throne. The fallen god. The eternal silence.
But he was not the same.
He sat up slowly, feeling the weight within him. The magic—that strange, lingering pulse—was stronger now. Not much, not enough to wield freely, but enough to notice.
Enough to use.
He raised his skeletal hand, staring at his own pale fingers. The sensation was not like muscle or flesh, no physical weight or warmth. It was something deeper, something woven into his very being.
Magic.
A memory surface but was burry.
A gift stolen from death itself.
He focused, reaching inward, grasping for that flicker of power. It was slippery, unwilling to obey, like trying to hold smoke in his fingers. But it was there.
And then—
A spark.
For the briefest moment, something shifted around him. The air grew heavier, colder. A faint, nearly invisible shimmer traced along his fingertips—like threads of pale mist curling through the air.
It vanished as quickly as it came.
He exhaled—or at least, the ghost of the action passed through his mind. His body had no lungs, no breath to steady, but the exhaustion was real.
Magic was not easy.
But it was possible.
He curled his fingers into a fist. He needed more. More time, more attempts. More deaths, if that was the cost.
And so he stood.
His empty sockets turned toward the abyss beyond the throne, where Harbinger waited.
He would die again.
But this time, he would take something more with him.
—————-
The tomb felt colder than before.
Or maybe it was just him.
His magic—his magic—was still faint, barely a whisper beneath his bones. But it was growing. Every death had carved something new into his existence, leaving behind something stronger.
And he would carve out more.
His empty sockets turned toward the abyss beyond the fallen god's throne.
Harbinger was there. Watching. Waiting.
He had no delusions of victory. Not yet. The thing had torn him apart more times than he could count. It would kill him again. But death was no longer an end. It was a lesson. A price to be paid.
And he would take his due.
His skeletal fingers curled, reaching inward, grasping for that fragile flicker of magic. He focused, feeling the faint hum in his core, willing it to respond.
The air around him shifted.
Cold mist curled along his fingertips, pale as dying light. Faint. Weak. But real.
His first weapon.
His first step toward survival.
The moment he crossed the throne's shadow, the air thickened.
Harbinger moved.
Faster than thought, a black blur surged toward him. A clawed limb, forged from nothingness, lashed out to tear him apart—just as it always had.
But this time, he was ready.
He threw his hand forward, releasing the fragile wisp of magic.
The mist rippled—a pathetic, feeble thing, barely more than a breath. And yet, when the claw struck him—
Something changed.
The impact still sent him flying. Pain still shattered through his bones. But—
For the first time—
Harbinger hesitated.
A flicker of resistance. A shift in its movement.
It had felt his magic.
And that meant it could be hurt.
Even as he collapsed, even as darkness swallowed him once more, a single thought burned in his mind.
I can fight back.
————-
Awakening.
The silence of the tomb embraced him once more. The shattered throne. The fallen god. The endless, suffocating darkness.
But this time, he awoke with something more.
Harbinger had hesitated.
The thought echoed through his mind, a revelation carved into his soul. It had felt his magic—acknowledged it, if only for a moment.
And that meant he was not powerless.
His skeletal hands trembled as he sat up. Not from fear, not from weakness, but from something he had not felt since arriving in this cursed place.
Hope.
He turned his focus inward, reaching for that fragile spark that had answered him before. The weight of magic—his magic—was still there, faint but real.
He had no teacher. No guidance. Only death and persistence.
But that would be enough.
He lifted his hand, stretching his fingers toward the cold air, and willed the magic to come forth.
The response was sluggish, reluctant—like dragging something half-formed from the depths of a frozen lake. But slowly, painfully, the mist flickered to life.
Pale tendrils curled along his fingertips, twisting aimlessly, fragile as a dying ember.
It was weak. Unstable. Incomplete.
But it was his.
He focused harder, trying to shape it, to bend it into something more than a wisp of mist. The effort sent a dull ache through his being, a deep exhaustion that clawed at him despite his lack of flesh.
And yet, the mist moved.
For the first time, it obeyed.
It shifted, curling along his hand, clinging to his fingers like a second skin.
Closer.
He pushed further, drawing more of the energy from within him. The mist thickened, growing denser, heavier. And then—
It collapsed.
The strain was too much. The magic snapped out of existence, vanishing into the air like a breath lost to the wind.
His body shuddered.
A deep weariness settled over him. His magic was not limitless—not yet. Each attempt drained him, left him weaker.
But he was learning.
Bit by bit. Death by death.
He clenched his fingers.
Next time, when he faced Harbinger again—
He would do more than make it hesitate.
————
The weight of exhaustion lingered, pressing against him like unseen chains. Magic was not infinite. Not yet.
But it was growing.
He flexed his skeletal fingers, feeling the faint memory of the mist that had once curled along his hand. His magic was fragile, fleeting—but real. Tangible.
And if it was real, then it could be shaped.
He could fight.
Harbinger was still beyond his reach—too fast, too powerful. But he was no longer the same brittle skeleton that had first awoken in this tomb.
He had changed.
And he would keep changing.
His empty sockets turned to the abyss beyond the god's throne. The creature was waiting.
This time, he would not simply walk to his death. This time, he would test his magic.
He moved forward, each step slow, controlled. The weight of the tomb's silence wrapped around him. The moment he passed into the darkness, the air thickened.
A whisper of movement. A shift in the void.
And then—Harbinger moved.
It was always faster. A blur of shadowed limbs and unnatural stillness, a hunter made of shifting death.
The claw lashed out—but he was already moving.
He threw his hand forward, forcing the magic to rise. Not as a mist. Not as a whisper.
As a barrier.
The mist flared to life—thin, weak, but there.
The claw tore through it. The force sent him crashing backward, bones splintering as pain flooded his being.
But for an instant—a single, fleeting instant—the attack had slowed.
Not stopped. Not deflected. But weakened.
A fraction of resistance.
He collapsed, vision breaking apart as death reached for him once more.
But even as the darkness took him, a single thought remained.
It worked.
Awakening.
The tomb. The god. The cycle.
And the magic still there.
Stronger than before.
His hands clenched into fists.
Harbinger could be slowed. His magic could resist.
And if it could be resisted—
One day, it could be defeated.
——-
Awakening.
The weight of the tomb pressed down on him like a familiar shroud. The god's corpse remained slumped upon its throne, unmoving, unchanging. The silence was absolute.
But within him, something had changed.
The magic lingered—not just as a flicker, but as an undeniable presence. Each death carved more of it into his being, strengthening what had once been frail.
His skeletal hands curled, mist already beginning to coil at his fingertips. It was faint, unstable, but it answered him faster.
He was learning.
And if he could learn, then he could win.
This time, he did not hesitate.
He strode forward, past the god's broken throne, past the countless scattered remains that had long since become part of the tomb's silence.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the air thickened.
Harbinger stirred.
A flicker of movement in the abyss. A shift in the unnatural void.
Then—it struck.
The clawed limb tore forward, faster than thought.
But he was ready.
He thrust his magic outward, forcing the mist to rise—not as a scattered breath, not as a fading whisper, but as a wall.
For an instant, the world froze.
The attack met his barrier, and the impact sent a tremor through the air. His magic shuddered beneath the force, fragile, desperate—
But it did not break immediately.
Not instantly.
For the first time, he had not just slowed Harbinger. He had stopped it.
Even if only for a heartbeat.
That moment of resistance sent something surging through him—not magic, not power, but certainty.
He could do this.
Harbinger withdrew, the shadows shifting. It did not retreat. It did not hesitate. It simply adjusted.
Then, it struck again.
His barrier shattered.
Pain ripped through him as he was torn apart, bones snapping, vision crumbling—
But this time, as death swallowed him whole, he did not despair.
Because he had stopped it.
And if he could stop it for an instant, then one day, he could stop it forever.
Awakening.
The tomb. The throne. The silence.
His body restored. His magic stronger.
And for the first time since his endless deaths began—
Harbinger no longer seemed so far away.
———-
Awakening.
The cycle continued, but he was no longer bound to it as blindly as before.
Each return brought change. Each death left something behind, and in its place, something new took root.
Harbinger had been stopped.
Not permanently. Not long enough to truly fight back. But for the first time, he had placed even the smallest barrier between himself and the thing that had killed him more times than he could count.
And that meant he could do it again.
He did not waste time.
The moment his bones knit themselves back together, he reached inward, grasping at the flickering power within him.
The mist answered.
Faster than before, stronger than before.
He let it swirl around his hands, watching as it curled and flickered like dying embers. It was still weak, still barely more than a breath against the abyss, but it was his.
Now, he needed to shape it.
His first barrier had been instinct. A desperate wall thrown up in the face of death. But magic was more than instinct—it was will.
And he would bend it.
He spread his fingers, focusing. The mist trembled, shifting in the air. It wanted to scatter, to drift apart like fog beneath the morning sun.
But he would not allow it.
Hold.
The mist hesitated. For a brief moment, it gathered, forming something denser, something more.
Then, the strain snapped.
The mist unraveled, vanishing into the air as if it had never been there at all.
The exhaustion came next. A deep, aching drain that settled into his bones, pulling at him like unseen chains.
Magic had a price.
And he had not yet learned how to lessen it.
But he was closer.
He flexed his fingers, the remnants of mist still lingering at the edges of his being. It would take time. More deaths. More failures.
But that was the one thing he had in endless supply.
He turned toward the abyss.
Harbinger was waiting.
He would die again.
—————-
Awakening.
The tomb loomed around him, unchanged, eternal. But he was not the same.
His magic lingered.
It no longer flickered aimlessly, no longer threatened to dissipate the moment he reached for it. It obeyed. Not entirely, not without struggle—but enough.
And that meant it could be shaped.
He sat before the shattered throne, skeletal fingers outstretched as the mist curled around them.
He willed it to hold.
The mist thickened, swirling into something denser. No longer a breath in the wind but a weight in his grasp.
A form.
A crude dagger—thin, jagged, unstable. It flickered, barely holding together, but it was a weapon nonetheless.
His first weapon.
It wavered, but it did not shatter.
His sockets fixed upon it, empty but focused. He tightened his grip, pouring more of his will into the magic.
Change.
The dagger shifted.
The mist stretched, reshaped. The blade lengthened, the edges sharpening, the hilt solidifying beneath his grasp.
A sword.
The sight of it sent something through him—not pride, not relief, but a simple, undeniable certainty.
I am learning.
The weapon was unstable, flickering at the edges like a dying ember. But it held.
Now, he needed to test it.
He let the blade dissolve, mist unraveling back into the air. Then, he called it again.
The magic responded faster. The sword formed stronger.
He dismissed it. Called it again. Faster.
Again. Sharper.
Again. Lighter.
The magic no longer simply obeyed. It was becoming refined.
His first creation. His first tool.
But a weapon was only useful if it could strike.
His sockets turned to the abyss.
Harbinger had always killed him before he could lift so much as a finger.
This time, he would strike back.
——————
The mist coiled around his skeletal hand, twisting and shifting with his will. The sword formed once more—sharper, denser, more real than before.
He could feel it. Not in the way flesh and blood felt weight, but in the way magic settled into his very being. This weapon was his, crafted from his own existence.
Now, it was time to use it.
He stepped beyond the god's throne, into the abyss where Harbinger waited.
The air thickened immediately, the oppressive weight of the creature's presence pressing down on him.
Harbinger stirred.
A shadow darker than the void itself moved within the abyss, shifting toward him. This was the moment. The first moment of every attempt.
The moment he had always died.
Not this time.
The claw lashed out, a blur of absolute blackness slicing through the air.
He moved.
For the first time, he did not simply brace for death. He did not raise a fragile barrier in a desperate attempt to slow the inevitable.
This time, he countered.
The mist-forged blade cut through the air—toward Harbinger.
The moment they met, something changed.
The instant his sword struck the darkness, a crack split the silence of the tomb. The impact sent a tremor through the abyss, rippling outward like a shockwave.
Harbinger staggered.
Only for a heartbeat. Only for a fleeting, almost imperceptible moment.
But it reacted.
For the first time since his countless deaths began—Harbinger was forced to react.
A shudder ran through the void. The claw withdrew, shifting, adjusting. Harbinger recognized his attack.
And that meant it was no longer untouchable.
He had left a mark.
A second attack was already coming, faster, sharper, more vicious. His body was still slow, his magic still weak, his movements still far from enough.
The claw tore through him, shattering bone, scattering mist. Painless yet absolute.
Death reached for him again.
But this time, as the darkness swallowed him, he did not feel the bitter weight of another failure.
Because he had not just died.
He had fought.
Awakening.
The throne. The god. The silence.
His body restored. His magic stronger.
And Harbinger—no longer an unstoppable force.
For the first time, he had left a scar upon the abyss.
And he would make more.
—————-
Awakening.
The throne. The silence. The tomb unchanged.
But he was different.
Harbinger had felt his blade. The void had shuddered beneath his strike. It was still far beyond his reach, but he was no longer helpless. He had touched something he once thought untouchable.
That meant he could push further.
He flexed his fingers, mist curling at his fingertips, responding faster than ever before. His control was improving, his magic taking shape more easily.
But it was still just a weapon.
And weapons alone would not be enough.
His empty sockets swept across the tomb.
Countless bones littered the chamber, remnants of those who had fallen here long before him. Skeletal remains were scattered across the stone, broken and forgotten, just like he had been upon his first awakening.
But now he had magic.
And magic could make the dead move.
He knelt beside one of the more intact skeletons, its form half-buried in dust. It was lifeless. Empty. A shell long since abandoned.
But he had something to fill that emptiness.
He placed his hand upon its ribcage and focused.
His magic answered.
Mist curled from his hand, seeping into the skeleton's form. It was different from shaping a weapon—less solid, less controlled. The magic did not wish to hold. It scattered, resisting, slipping through the gaps between the bones.
But he refused to let it vanish.
He willed it downward, deeper, inside.
The mist shuddered, hesitated—then sank in.
The skeleton twitched.
A faint rattle of bone. A flicker of unnatural movement.
Excitement surged through him.
He pushed harder, feeding more of his energy into the lifeless form. The mist thickened, settling into the bones, binding them together.
Then—the skeleton moved.
Its hand jerked. Its fingers twitched. Its skull tilted.
Slow, unsteady, but real.
His magic had worked.
For the first time, he was not alone.
He had created something.
A servant. A soldier. A piece of himself, given form.
The magic drained from him, exhaustion settling into his being. This process was different from shaping a weapon—it took more.
But it was worth it.
The skeleton sat up, empty sockets mirroring his own. It had no will, no thoughts of its own. It did not yet understand its purpose.
That would come next.
He reached out, testing the connection.
The skeleton obeyed.
A crude command—move. And it did.
It was weak, barely more than a puppet held together by fragile threads of magic. But it was the first step.
And he would only grow stronger from here.