Chapter One

The moon hung low over the blood-soaked battlefield, casting long shadows that twisted and writhed like the demons themselves. The smell of burning flesh and the acrid stench of sulfur lingered thick in the air, choking the breath from those who still lived. It was a soundless world now, as if the very heavens had turned their backs on the carnage below. In the heart of the battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of his fallen comrades and the grotesque forms of the demonic invaders, Raymond stood alone.

His sword, a jagged and cracked thing of rusted metal, felt heavier in his hands with each passing second. The weight of it seemed to mirror the crushing weight of failure that had settled deep in his chest. His body trembled, but not from fear. No, fear had long since abandoned him, replaced instead by an unbearable weariness, the kind that comes from knowing that no matter how many times you fight, no matter how many lives you throw away, you are always bound to lose.

The demons, grotesque and twisted mockeries of life, advanced toward him, their fiery eyes gleaming with malice. They were not as numerous as they had once been, but they were enough. Enough to finish what they had started years ago.

Raymond lifted his head, the scars of countless battles etched across his face like a map of lost hopes. His heart, once full of fiery resolve, had become a hollow thing, weighed down by years of struggle and futility. Yet even now, with the end drawing near, there was one thought that refused to leave his mind.

Not like this.

His breath was ragged, his body broken, but the curse had not yet consumed him entirely. The weight of it was palpable in the back of his mind, a presence, a whisper—always watching, always judging. And above all, always amused.

"You are dying again, I see," Nyxthid's voice echoed in his thoughts, the ancient deity's cruel amusement cutting through his fading resolve like a blade.

Raymond closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the last remnants of his identity. His mind felt stretched thin, as if the curse was slowly unraveling him, tearing away his memories, his emotions, his very self. Every death, every regression, had chipped away at the person he once was. Who was he now?

A flicker of thought. No. I am not this broken shell. Not yet.

With the last of his strength, Raymond clenched his fist, and his Soul String snapped into place within his chest. The air around him rippled with the surge of power as his Soul String unraveled, stretching outward like a tendril of raw energy. A soul-born weapon, forged from the depths of his being, materialized in his hand—a long, jagged blade of ethereal light. It hummed with a vibrancy that was far too bright for the darkened world around him.

But it was too late.

The demons were upon him now, their claws reaching for his flesh, their mouths gaping wide to feast on the remnants of his soul. His vision blurred. His breath came faster, shallow. The cost of wielding his soul in such a desperate act was heavy, and he could feel the strings of his essence slowly fraying, snapping under the strain.

One last strike. One final attempt. Then, nothing.

He swung the blade with all his remaining strength, carving through the closest demons. The light of the blade flared brightly, cutting down two of the creatures with a single sweep. But as he did, his Soul String began to unravel further, and the force of his blow left him staggered, unable to stay on his feet. He fell to his knees, the world around him dimming.

It was no use.

The blade fell from his grasp, its light flickering out like a dying star. He could feel the curse clawing at him, wrapping its tendrils around his very soul, threatening to pull him into the void where nothing remained but the echo of his name. The demons were already closing in, their vile laughter echoing in the distance.

"Not again..." he whispered, his voice barely a breath. He had failed once more.

A cold silence settled over him, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world was finally lifting. But then, there was a presence. A whisper in the dark.

The curse was far from finished.

Five years, it whispered, the words cold and final. Five years before the destruction begins again. Will you be ready, Raymond? Or will you fail once more?

The ground beneath him trembled as his soul began to fragment, pieces of his memories bleeding away, but the words cut through the fog of his mind. The feeling of dying again was so familiar now, yet each death felt like the first—painful, irreversible.

The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole was the faint flicker of a new dawn, the promise of another chance.

The world spun violently as Raymond was torn away from the battlefield. His soul felt as though it were being yanked through the fabric of reality itself, a ripping sensation that left him breathless and disoriented. His body, already weakened by the battles and the strain of the curse, could barely endure the shock.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, everything stopped.

He gasped, his body jerking upright, his mind reeling as reality snapped back into place. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, but there was something different. He wasn't in the same place. The familiar pain of being near death was gone, replaced by an unsettling, eerily calm sensation.

The world around him was... not right. It was bright, vibrant, and calm, but there was a sense of heaviness to it. The air was thick with a strange energy—he could feel it pulling at him, tugging on the edges of his soul.

Five years.

The words echoed in his mind, and he suddenly realized: he was back.

Five years.

Another chance. Another cycle.