The Line Between Strength and Madness

At first, I tried to ignore it.

I kept pushing forward, kept testing my limits. I sought out fights in the worst parts of the city, let myself get stabbed, shot, drowned only to wake up stronger, faster, better.

But the more I died… the worse the visions became.

I would wake up in my bed and see things flashes of that ruined city, echoes of voices I didn't recognize.

And the shadow…

It was getting closer.

Every time I blinked, every time I died and came back, it was there waiting.

Watching.

One night, I decided to test something.

I had to know if it was all in my head.

So I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly my knuckles turned white. My reflection stared back at me sharper, stronger, but still me.

For now.

I exhaled slowly.

Then, without hesitation 

I grabbed the knife on the counter and slit my own throat.

Pain.

Cold.

Darkness.

And then 

I woke up.

Gasping. Drenched in sweat. My throat was perfectly fine. No wound. No blood.

But the mirror was broken.

Not cracked. Not shattered.

Bent.

Like something had melted the glass.

Like something had been there.

Watching me.

I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at my warped reflection.

And then, in the corner of the glass 

A shape moved.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Just my empty apartment.

But my pulse was racing now. My hands were trembling.

Because for the first time since all of this started…

I felt fear.

And for the first time since all of this started…

I wondered if maybe just maybe 

I had made a mistake.

---

Dying wasn't the problem.

Coming back was.

At first, it was simple. I'd die, wake up stronger, and move on. No complications. No questions. Just pure, undeniable progress.

But now?

Now, every time I woke up, I felt like I was losing something.

Something important.

It started small.

I'd wake up from a death and forget what day it was. Or I'd stare at my reflection and feel like a stranger was looking back.

Then it got worse.

I started forgetting faces. The cashier at the corner store? The neighbors I'd seen a hundred times? Gone. Like my brain had wiped them clean.

And then, one night, I forgot my own mother's name.

I sat there, gripping my phone, staring at her contact like it was some kind of cruel joke.

I knew I had a mother. Knew I had grown up in a normal house, gone to school, lived a normal life.

But her name? Her face?

Blank.

I nearly smashed my phone in frustration.

Something was happening to me.

And I needed to figure out what.

I stopped killing myself for a while.

Two weeks passed without a single death.

I thought maybe, just maybe, if I gave my brain some time, things would settle. That my memories would stop slipping through the cracks.

But the strength I had already gained didn't fade.

Even without dying, I was still faster than before. Still stronger. My reflexes were still razor-sharp.

That should have made me feel relieved.

It didn't.

Because something else was happening, too.

I was changing in ways I couldn't explain.

I could go days without eating or sleeping and feel fine. My wounds healed faster than they should.

And worst of all 

I stopped feeling pain.

I tested it one night.

I took a knife, pressed the tip against my palm, and pushed down.

Nothing.

The blade sliced through skin, through muscle, but there was no pain. Not even discomfort.

I watched, fascinated, as the wound slowly stitched itself back together.

No death. No stat boost.

Just… healing.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at my hand, my mind racing.

I had never noticed before, but now that I was thinking about it—

When was the last time I had felt hungry?

When was the last time I had felt cold?

Or tired?

A sick realization crawled up my spine.

I wasn't just getting stronger.

I was becoming something else.

Something that wasn't even human anymore.

I needed answers.

So I did something I hadn't done in a long time.

I went looking for a fight.

Not some back-alley mugger. Not some random thug.

No.

I wanted someone dangerous.

Someone who could push me.

Someone who might actually kill me.

Because I had to know.

Had to see how far this went.

The underground fight scene was exactly what I expected—dimly lit warehouses, illegal betting, bloodstained floors.

I walked in and signed up without hesitation. No name. No history. Just another idiot looking to get his face caved in for cash.

The guy at the sign-up desk barely glanced at me. "First fight in fifteen minutes," he grunted. "Hope you brought a mouthguard."

I didn't.

Because I wouldn't need one.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood in a ring of sweaty, screaming spectators.

My opponent?

A six-foot-four ex-con with knuckles like bricks and murder in his eyes.

Perfect.

The bell rang.

He came at me like a truck, fists swinging.

I dodged. Easy.

He swung again faster this time.

I caught his wrist, twisted, and drove my elbow into his ribs. Something cracked.

He staggered back, coughing, eyes wide.

The crowd roared.

But I wasn't done.

I stepped in, lightning-fast, and slammed my fist into his jaw.

His head snapped back. He dropped like a sack of bricks.

Silence.

Then the announcer yelled, "WINNER!"

The crowd erupted. Money changed hands.

But I barely noticed.

I was staring at my hands.

I didn't even try.

That man was bigger, stronger, more experienced. He had probably fought a hundred street fights.

And I had dropped him in ten seconds.

I should have felt proud. Should have felt powerful.

But all I felt was a growing, gnawing emptiness.

Because now, more than ever, I was starting to realize something.

This power I had this ability to die and come back stronger 

It was turning me into something else.