Chapter Two

The world returned in pieces.

A rough, uneven surface dug into Raymond's back, cold and damp. His breathing came shallow and slow, his body aching as if it had been torn apart and stitched back together with crude, invisible hands. A gust of wind rolled over him, carrying the scent of damp earth, rotting wood, and the faintest trace of something sweet—wildflowers, maybe.

Above him, the sky stretched endlessly, a vast canvas of muted blues and grays, the morning sun barely cresting the horizon. The air was crisp, fresh, untouched by the smoke and blood he had become so used to. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Raymond's fingers twitched against the dirt, clenching into the soil as reality settled into his bones. He wasn't dead. No, he was something much worse.

Again.

His throat burned as he exhaled, forcing himself upright. The familiar ache in his chest remained—phantom pains from wounds he no longer bore. His body was whole again, but that didn't mean he was unscathed. The wounds of the past clung to him, deeper than flesh.

He sat in a clearing at the edge of a familiar forest, the gnarled roots of ancient trees coiling through the earth like veins. Birds chirped in the distance, their songs untainted by fear. A far-off stream murmured softly, winding through the underbrush. The world was peaceful. Untouched. Unaware.

It had been years since he last saw it like this—before the sky turned black, before the rivers ran red, before the world was swallowed by hellfire and ruin.

Five years.

That was all he had.

Raymond pressed a hand to his chest. Beneath his ribcage, beneath flesh and bone, something stirred. The faintest pull of energy—his Soul String—was still there, fragile but intact.

Seven times he had done this. Seven times he had fought, bled, died. And each time, Nyxthid had sent him back, shackling him to another cycle of failure.

"You are dying again, I see."

The memory of the voice slithered through his mind, cold and mocking.

Raymond clenched his teeth. His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

This wasn't like the first time. He no longer had the luxury of hesitation, of disbelief. The weight of six failures sat heavy on his shoulders, but he refused to crumble beneath it.

He knew what was coming. He knew how this story ended if he didn't change it.

There was no time to waste.

With a sharp breath, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his worn clothes. His legs trembled, but he forced them to hold. He turned toward the dirt path winding out of the clearing, leading back to a place that hadn't yet learned to fear the dark.

The town was waiting.

The demons were coming.

And this time, he would be ready.

Raymond moved with purpose, ignoring the distant hum of morning life as he entered the town.

The streets were as he remembered—narrow and uneven, lined with crooked wooden buildings. The smell of fresh bread and livestock filled the air, mingling with the salty breeze rolling in from the coast. Merchants called out their wares, children ran through the alleys, and blacksmiths hammered steel into shape.

It was almost comforting.

Almost.

He knew how quickly it would all disappear.

Five years from now, this town would be nothing but ruins and ash. He had walked through its corpse before, had seen its people torn apart and devoured. He had stepped over their broken bodies and fought on streets slick with their blood.

Not this time.

Raymond cut through the crowds, making his way to the training grounds without pause.

The worn dirt field lay behind the barracks, sparsely populated at this hour. A few mercenaries and guards were locked in lazy sparring matches, their movements sloppy, undisciplined. He ignored them.

He found an empty stretch of land at the far edge of the grounds and exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

Then, he began.

Closing his eyes, he reached inward.

His Soul String pulsed within him, the very essence of his being coiled like a tightly wound thread. He pulled at it carefully, unraveling just enough to let its power flow outward.

A thin strand of energy flickered into existence, weaving between his fingers like an ethereal thread.

He focused.

With a sharp pull, the thread twisted and coiled, shaping itself into something tangible—a blade, jagged and unstable, barely holding form.

Raymond didn't hesitate.

He swung.

The energy carved through the air, striking the ground with a force that sent dust and dirt flying. The blade flickered, threatening to break apart, but he pushed it further, pouring more of himself into the weapon.

Again.

The blade hummed as he struck again, the force splitting a wooden training post clean in half.

Again.

His vision blurred at the edges. His breath came ragged. The strain of unraveling his soul clawed at his very being, but he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His body was weak. His soul was frayed. But neither of those things mattered.

Because five years from now, this world would burn.

And he refused to watch it happen again.

From the shadows of the barracks, someone watched.

They had seen this before—this relentless drive, this obsession.

But this time, there was something different in the way Raymond moved.

A sense of finality.

As if, for the first time, he truly believed he could win.

The watcher remained silent.

For now.

But soon, they would make themselves known.

And Raymond's path would change forever.