Chapter 5
The Betrayal
Issac had always been good at reading people. It was one of the first lessons his wife, Maya, had drilled into him before everything in his first life had fallen apart. But this… this betrayal, he hadn't seen coming.
His teammates—those he had trusted to have his back—had sold him out. As the mercenaries closed in, Issac realized too late what had happened. The mission had been a set-up from the beginning. The lab they were supposed to destroy? Just a cover. They wanted him. The government had grown wary of him, of his power, and his growing influence.
And now they had their opening.
"You should've stayed out of it, Issac," one of his so-called comrades sneered as they watched from the shadows. The mercenaries surrounded him, weapons drawn, Esper suppression technology humming ominously.
Issac's breath came in sharp gasps. His power flared around him, wind gusting violently in all directions, but something was wrong. His corruption was spiking faster than usual. The betrayal had triggered a surge of red miasma. His control was slipping.
Alfred… he thought, his mind racing. We need to get out of here.
"Already on it, boss," Alfred responded. "But if you don't calm down, you're going to go full red before we even make it to the door."
Issac gritted his teeth. There wasn't time to think—he needed to move. With one last glance at the traitors, he blasted out a powerful gust of wind, scattering the mercenaries and creating a gap in their perimeter. Without hesitation, he darted into the alleyways of the city, moving as fast as his legs and powers could take him.
---
Jaren had been patrolling the sector when he spotted Issac tearing through the streets like a man possessed. His heart sank instantly, recognizing the signature corruption flaring from Issac.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Without a second thought, Jaren chased after him. He had heard Issac talk about how regular Guides' cleansing hurt him, how none of the traditional methods worked anymore because of what he had gained—what the miasma had done to him. But that didn't stop Jaren from worrying. Issac might have rejected guidance in the past, but right now, he needed someone, anyone, to stop him from tipping over the edge.
The night air was thick with tension as Jaren kept his distance, watching as Issac darted in and out of alleyways, his wind powers lashing out at anything in his path. It was only when they reached the edge of the city that Jaren finally saw his opportunity to close the gap.
"Isaac!" Jaren called out. "Wait!"
Issac stopped for a split second, turning to face Jaren. His eyes were wild, glowing with that unmistakable red tint of corruption. He was holding himself together, but just barely.
"You can't help me, Jaren," Issac said, his voice strained, pain etched into every word. "The Guiding… it hurts too much. It's not for me."
"I'm not here to force you into anything," Jaren replied calmly, edging closer. "But you're spiraling. You're—"
Before Jaren could finish, a sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
Jaren barely had time to react as a dart struck him in the side of the neck. His vision blurred, his body slumping to the ground as a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He tried to call out to Issac, but his voice wouldn't come.
---
Issac's heart sank as Jaren collapsed, the dart still embedded in his neck. The mercenaries were back—and this time, they weren't messing around. Issac felt the telltale hum of Esper suppression tech buzzing in the air, the invisible weight of it pressing down on his powers.
He turned, prepared to unleash whatever energy he had left, but before he could react, something sharp dug into his back.
Another dart.
His knees buckled as the numbing agent spread through his veins. He staggered, trying to summon a gust of wind to push back the attackers, but his powers faltered under the suppression field. The world tilted, his vision darkening as the red miasma swirled violently within him.
"Alfred… I'm not… ready to… restart," Issac thought, his consciousness slipping.
"Hang in there, Issac," Alfred's voice was faint, barely audible through the haze of corruption and drugs. "This isn't your end."
But Issac knew better. The moment the darkness swallowed him whole, the reset would come.
---
Issac's body crumpled to the ground next to Jaren's, the world around them falling silent as the mercenaries closed in. With precision and efficiency, they gathered Issac's limp form, carefully avoiding triggering the dangerous red miasma that still lingered in the air.
One of the mercenaries looked down at Jaren's unconscious figure. "What do we do with him?"
"Leave him," another responded coldly. "The government only wants Stross."
The group disappeared into the shadows, leaving Jaren behind. He lay there, vulnerable and unaware, the effects of the sleeping dart holding him in place.
Issac had been betrayed, and now he was lost in the cycle of time once again. The corruption was spreading, and the forces against him were growing stronger.
But it wasn't over. It was never over—not for Issac.
-----
Issac jerked awake, drenched in sweat, heart racing as the familiar rush of memories crashed into him. His hand instinctively reached for his back—the place where the tranquilizer dart had struck him—but there was nothing. He blinked in disbelief. The room was all too familiar. It was his childhood bedroom. The faded wallpaper, the broken ceiling fan that never worked, and the scent of his father's cigarettes that seemed to cling to the very walls.
But he wasn't 25 anymore. He was back at 18, the day his Esper powers had first awakened.
"Oh, welcome back," Alfred's voice rang out, filled with dry sarcasm. "Ready to screw this up again?"
Issac ignored Alfred, his mind still racing. This wasn't the first time he had died, but it felt worse each time. The memories, the pain, and the betrayal all came flooding back like a tidal wave. This time had been different, though. The betrayal by his teammates, Jaren's helpless figure falling to the ground, and the mercenaries... They had planned it all.
But it didn't matter now. He was back. Again.
He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar surge of power in his veins, far stronger than it should have been for an 18-year-old just awakening. The wind responded to his will, swirling faintly around him. But then there was the miasma—the ever-present corruption that he couldn't escape.
It was stronger now, coiling beneath his skin, darker than the first time he'd felt it. It hadn't reset with time, unlike his memories. This was going to complicate things.
"You've got a lot of power for a kid who just 'woke up' again," Alfred commented. "But the miasma, Issac… that's new. That's not going away, is it?"
Issac didn't respond. He knew it wouldn't. He could feel it clawing at him, getting stronger with every death, every reset. He had to move quickly. If he stayed in this house, in this life, he knew what would happen. His father would come through the door any second, yelling, fists raised, and Issac wasn't going to wait around for that.
---
The next five years were a brutal cycle of survival, dungeon-diving, and constant betrayal. Issac had learned early on that trust was a luxury he couldn't afford, especially with the life he now lived. His powers—those far beyond an 18-year-old Esper—made him a target. But he couldn't afford to reveal his full strength. Not yet.
The streets of the city were his home for most of those five years. He slipped through alleyways and found refuge in abandoned buildings, always keeping a low profile. At first, he barely scraped by, relying on his wind powers to steal food or outmaneuver local thugs. The constant strain of survival wore him down, but the miasma wore on him more. Every dungeon dive seemed to feed the corruption, pushing it deeper into his soul.
And then there was the issue of Guides.
Issac knew that cleansing—something most Espers sought out—was agony for him. Every time a Guide attempted to cleanse the miasma from his body, it felt like his insides were being torn apart, razor blades slicing through his veins. After a while, he stopped seeking out their help altogether. He relied on machines instead. The machinery was far from perfect, taking hours to do what a Guide could do in minutes, but at least it didn't cause unbearable pain.
During this time, Issac built a reputation in the underground. He worked with rogue Espers, diving into dungeons for loot or resources. The group he ran with changed constantly—some were in it for the thrill, others for the money. But none of them stayed loyal for long. Espers were hunted, feared, and regulated by the government, and in a world where every move was scrutinized, betrayal was inevitable.
One by one, his allies turned on him. There was the time a dungeon team had left him behind in the bowels of a transforming dungeon, where traps shifted with every step and monsters twice his rank stalked the shadows. Issac had barely survived, using every ounce of power he had to escape.
But he survived. He always survived.
By the time he turned 25, Issac had become an expert at keeping one step ahead of everyone. The miasma, though, was becoming harder to control. It had started to show—his eyes darkened with the creeping corruption, and even the wind around him felt tainted. He was no longer the wide-eyed 18-year-old who had first awakened. He was something far more dangerous.
---
Issac had managed to find a team he thought he could trust—or at least work with for more than a few dives. They had been successful, raiding dungeons and laboratories where unethical experiments on Espers were rumored to take place. The last raid had brought them closer than ever to uncovering something big—a government lab experimenting on captured Espers. The payday was supposed to be enormous.
But as always, things went wrong.
They had broken into the lab under the cover of night, navigating through the maze of sterile halls and hidden rooms. The team split off, each member assigned a specific task, while Issac kept watch at the central hub, waiting for the signal to collect the data they came for.
He should have known. The silence was too perfect, the plan too smooth. Then, out of nowhere, government mercenaries stormed the lab. The exits were blocked, and his so-called allies turned on him, revealing themselves as informants. Issac barely had time to react before the tranquilizers were fired at him.
Jaren had followed him, of course. Issac had sensed him tailing him from a distance, probably out of suspicion. Jaren, the righteous S-rank Esper/Guide, had always seemed to show up at the worst possible times. And this time, Jaren had chosen to intervene.
Issac saw him appear just as the fight broke out, his ice and water powers slicing through the mercenaries with ease. But the odds were stacked against them. The government forces had come prepared, and Jaren's power, though formidable, wasn't enough to deal with the technology they had brought.
Issac watched, powerless, as Jaren took a tranquilizer dart to the neck, his body collapsing almost instantly.
In the chaos, Issac tried to fight back, but the corruption surged. The miasma, pushed to the breaking point, threw him into a near-red state. His wind powers became erratic, the air around him twisting violently. He was on the edge of losing control.
But then, without warning, a blow from behind sent him crashing to the ground. His head slammed into the cold, tiled floor, and his vision blurred as the world around him spun.
---
Issac's vision faded as the last moments played out in front of him. The mercenaries closed in, and one of them kicked him over, muttering something about 'the dangerous traitor.'
There was no gun this time. Just the cold feeling of a blade pressed against his throat.
And then, darkness.
For the third time in his life, Issac felt the sharp pull of death. But this time, there was no surprise, no panic. He had been through this before, and he knew exactly what was coming next.
---
Issac's body collapsed lifelessly onto the floor of the lab, but his consciousness didn't stay. Just as it always did, his mind was ripped from the moment of death and thrust backward through time.
When he opened his eyes again, the familiar scene greeted him.
His childhood bedroom. The stale scent of his father's cigarettes.
He was 18 again.
The miasma coiled beneath his skin, unchanged, and the memories—every betrayal, every death, and every fight—played fresh in his mind.
Alfred's voice echoed in his head. "Well, you really blew that one."
Issac sighed, sitting up in bed. The cycle continued, and he would live through it again. But this time, things would be different. He wasn't the same person who had been betrayed and hunted. He was more powerful than ever. And soon, he would make sure that every person who had ever crossed him paid for it.
But the question remained: how long could he survive before the corruption took over completely?
And would he be able to stop the betrayals this time, or was he doomed to repeat them?
---
What would come next would be more dangerous, more chaotic, and far more personal.