The basement was a pit of suffering, its damp stone walls bearing silent witness to countless torments. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and the lingering rot of despair.

In one of the many cells, one prisoner stood out—a wretched figure slumped against the cold floor. His ears had been severed, his fingers gone, leaving only raw stumps.

Red-hot iron rods impaled his stomach, the flesh around them charred and festering. His left toes had already been cut off.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. A young man entered, flanked by two guards. His posture was calm, his gaze unreadable.

"Speak," he commanded. "Who sent you?"

The captive lifted his head, his swollen eyes dull but defiant. His breath was ragged, each word strained.

"Never... Assassins don't talk. Kill me already."

A heavy silence filled the space, broken only by the distant drip of water. Then, the young man spoke again, his tone casual yet laced with quiet menace.

"If you don't... Aria, was it? She'll suffer for it."

The prisoner's body tensed. A flicker of something—fear, rage—cut through his agony.

"You animal!" he spat, his voice hoarse. "Isn't this enough? I'm the one you want—she's innocent!"

Pain had dulled him to everything, but at the mention of her name, the fire returned. His breathing grew unsteady, his body trembling with fury.

The young man remained unmoved. "Then make a choice."

A long silence stretched between them before the assassin finally exhaled, defeated.

"A swift death," he rasped. "And you spare her."

"A swift death and sparing Aria? Deal."

But the assassin wasn't convinced. His body trembled, not from pain, but from the lingering doubt gnawing at him. He glared up at the young man, his bloodied lips curling in defiance.

"Swear an oath!" he shouted. "Swear it!"

The two guards flanking the young man stiffened, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons. One of them stepped forward, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"How dare—"

A silent gesture from the young man stopped him. He took a step closer to the dying assassin, his voice steady, unwavering.

"In the name of Steven, Fifth Prince of Aetheria, I swear upon the god Kailus—if I break my word, may lightning strike me down where I stand."

For a moment, nothing moved. Then, the assassin let out a wet, rattling cough, blood spilling from his lips.

"It's the Duke," he whispered. "Duke Lionheart."

With the confession made, Steven regarded the assassin with an expression that was neither pity nor satisfaction—just quiet finality.

"A pity," he murmured.

One of the guards hesitated, glancing at him in confusion. "Why pity, Your Majesty?"

Steven shook his head. "Nothing." He turned slightly, his voice cold and detached. "Give him a swift death." Then, shifting his gaze to the other guard, he added, "Go inform Duke Ashwood. Prince Steven desires a chat."

The two guards exchanged a glance before nodding and setting off to fulfill their orders.

The execution was swift. The blade flashed, and the assassin's head rolled to the ground, his suffering finally ended.

The guard who had carried out the task let out a quiet breath. Pressing his palms together in a brief prayer, he muttered, "Please don't haunt me. I'm only following orders." With practiced efficiency, he disposed of the body.

Far from the city, in a secluded hut, another young man jolted awake.

His breath was steady as he scanned the dimly lit room. Alone. He exhaled and then, as if speaking to the air, he murmured,

"System, evaluate my results."

A translucent screen flickered into existence before him.

[C-Grade]

+5,000 Dead Coins received for your outstanding performance.

His brow furrowed. "Why so low?"

He wasn't sure why it had started, but after his death, instead of the fabled heaven or hell, he had awakened in this unfamiliar world.

At first, it had felt like a second chance—new world, new life. But as the years passed, subtle inconsistencies gnawed at him.

The names of the kingdom, the king, the noble houses, the political structure—it was all eerily familiar. Too familiar.

Then, the system appeared.

It had congratulated him. For what? For connecting the dots. And because of that realization, it had awakened.

The truth was undeniable. This world wasn't just similar to something he knew. It was the very same world he had once read about in a novel.

Lynn sat on the ground, exhaling slowly as he opened his inventory.

Every death he experienced—how he died, how much impact it had—all of it was recorded, accumulated, and converted into points. The system rewarded him accordingly, and with those points, he could purchase anything from the system shop.

Simple as that.

[Inventory]

Dead Coins: 13,000

"Purchase the Blessing of Kazat," he murmured.

-10,000 Dead Coins deducted.

You have received another blessing from the God of Illness, Kazat.

[Cursed Immunity Acquired.]

Lynn closed the interface, his gaze shifting to the translucent figure of his new body, slowly taking form within the system's regeneration chamber.

Seven days.

That was how long before he could return, before he could plan his next death.

With a resigned sigh, he stood, dusting himself off. There was nothing more to do here.

As he left the area, his mind was already calculating—searching for the next best way to die.