His very first sensation was pain.
Not sharp, like having a broken bone, not sudden like being punched in the gut, but it was heavy, like the feeling of having worked out, or like the feeling of having been in a fight, like the weight of a stone pressing against every inch of his body. His ribs ached when he drew breath, and his skull throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, pounding as though someone was hammering nails into the inside of his brain.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, all he saw was darkness, and for a short moment, he panicked, but calmed down instantly as his eyes adapted to the darkness.
The air was stale, cold, and damp; it clung to his skin like wet cloth. Slowly, he tried to move, only to realize that every limb screamed back at him in protest. His arms were bruised, his legs stiff, his body battered as though someone had beaten him and left him to die, to rot in this god-forsaken corner of the world.
Then came the strangest realization of all.
His hands. They were small. His body — lean, fragile, the bones not yet fully hardened. His breathing shallow, like a child's.
"I… what…?" His voice cracked when it left his lips. It was high-pitched, unsteady, the sound of a boy's voice.
One very annoying thought struck him like lightning: I'm not who I once was.
But who am I?
Memory fragments danced at the edges of his mind — sparks and pieces of memories that faded before they could take shape. One thing he realized with horror was that he was losing his memories; he knew nothing of his past, nothing of his name, his family, his home. Only one thought clung to him, stubborn and bright amidst the haze: I wished for this and I agreed to this myself.
I wished to be here.
I gave my memories willingly.
That was the only certainty; he was a hundred percent certain that this was the case.
And for some reason, he felt happy despite the world around him, feeling broken, and smelling like blood, this world was not alien. It was familiar to him, too familiar.
He could vaguely feel that he was once dreaming of transmigrating into this very same world, despite the world being a shit hole by all accounts.
*Sigh*
The walls of the room pressed in with silence. His breathing echoed louder than it should to his ears. Moonlight slipped through a crack high above, spilling pale silver into the black. His body shivered as the chill of the night crawled into his skin.
And just when he was about to get overwhelmed by panic and the feeling of being overwhelmed by his own thoughts, when his breath hitched and his mind threatened to spiral out of control, he noticed something stirring in the shadows.
It coalesced in the thin stream of moonlight — a figure neither solid nor smoke, but somewhere between. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, yet translucent. His outline flickering faintly like an ember in the wind, an imitation reminiscent of a force ghost.
The figure tilted its head, and eyes like hollow lanterns met his.
"Ah," it said, voice deep, resonant, and soaked in weariness. "You are awake at last. Good. I would have been rather embarrassed if you hadn't managed even surviving the takeover and died before I could arrive."
The boy's lips parted. He wanted to speak, to ask who — or what — this apparition was. But he decided to shut up and listen, because his instincts were screaming at him to shut up.
The figure smiled. Not kindly, not cruelly — just with the vague amusement of someone knowing shit that you did not know, and then the figure decided to introduce itself, or rather reintroduce depending on the point of view.
"Hey Zabuza, do not look at me with such wide eyes. We have met before. I am Bailed. The Failed God."
The words struck him harder than the pain in his ribs. He blinked, confusion swirling. "Bailed…? Failed… God?"
"Yes," the ghost said simply, clasping phantom hands behind his back. "The one who offered you this chance. The one who opened the door when you begged to step into a world not your own. The one who whispered: 'Do you wish to live again?' And you said yes."
The boy swallowed hard. There was no memory of what the being said, but he felt a faint emotion stirring within him, like a deja-vu kind of sensation.
"I… I don't remember," he admitted, voice small.
Bailed's grin widened. "Of course you don't, Zabuza. Each deal I offer has a price, and sadly mortals are such fragile creatures. You decided to improve your odds by paying a price, all your Memories. But it does not matter. What matters is this: I gave you a promise. A second life, yes — but no life survives long in this world without being armed with a weapon."
He raised a hand, pointing one translucent finger directly at the boy.
At Zabuza Momochi.
The name surfaced from the depths of his soul without permission. He knew it, even though he should not. Zabuza. That was him. The boy who would one day be the Demon of the Mist. A name soaked in blood and steel. But who was Zabuza Momochi, and what does Demon of the Mist even mean?!
"Here's your gift," Bailed said softly, "you bargained for this very power of a Toshin. The physiology of an ancient beast, a god-devourer. The Ancient Ogre, his knowledge, and all his other forms."
The words were scarcely finished when agony split his world apart.
It wasn't a wound, nor a burn. It was worse. His blood caught fire. His bones twisted. His muscles screamed, tearing and knitting themselves back together in ways that no human body should endure. His throat ripped open in a hoarse, animal scream, echoing off the stone walls.
"Pain is inevitable," Bailed mused, voice calm, steady, as though lecturing while watching a storm. "Ogre's form and power were not meant for human flesh. His biology is completely different compared to a mortal's, he has an echo of divinity, and the old world's predators. You will learn to wield it, or it will devour you from the inside out."
Zabuza fell to his knees, clawing at the stone floor with trembling fingers. His nails cracked, his skin split. Every nerve screamed. His vision blurred into streaks of red and silver.
Make it stop. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP.
Yet beneath the torment, images began to flood his mind, memories. Decades worth of memories, centuries worth of experience about fighting, about bloodshed, about how to best kill and destroy a human body.
A burning temple beneath the stars. The clash of warriors against a towering figure of scales and flame. A beast with wings, with claws, with a face both godly and monstrous. Every strike, every hunt, every victory carved into his flesh and memory.
Knowledge poured into his brain like molten iron. Martial forms, ancient rituals, languages older than human tongues. The instinct to hunt, to consume, to grow stronger. The physiology of something far beyond human understanding, the regenerative flesh, the primal power, the terror that even gods amongst men once feared.
He collapsed fully, body shuddering, sweat soaking his torn shirt. Yet even as pain consumed him, he understood:
I will make this mine. This power. This curse. This gift. I will make it mine.
Through gritted teeth, his voice rasped: "Why… me? Why give me this?"
Bailed's form leaned closer, eyes flickering with faint, ghostly light.
"Because you wished it," the Failed God whispered. "Because you longed for a life greater than the mediocre one you lost. Because only someone who has faced and seen how cruel life truly is, and has nothing left to cling to can bear the weight of becoming something monstrous, of shedding his humanity to become something that can stand up to face this world."
Zabuza's breath caught. His body trembled as he looked up at the specter. "Then… what am I supposed to do with it? What's my purpose? I am not who I once was!"
The room seemed to darken further. The air grew heavy, crushing, as if the shadows themselves bent under Bailed's words.
"Your purpose, child," the Failed God said, voice low and sharp as a blade with a small flicker of amusement, "is to stand up and change the fate of this accursed world. To tear it apart, to defy the script."
A pause.
"Your purpose," Bailed finished, "is to ensure that the tale of this world is never the same again."