Victor, slightly shaken from the sudden vision, stood up.
The monstrous, high-ceilinged halls that had tormented him were gone. No more endless echoes. No more impossible architecture stretching into the void. Only silence now—oppressive and alive. He blinked a few times. No shift followed. No melting walls. No crimson sky splitting open above him. Just the present.
The air was thick with smoke and rot. Flies buzzed. Far off, someone screamed, then was cut short. The world around him felt real—ugly, breathing, and very real.
"Where am I?" he muttered, more weary than confused.
His body felt heavier than it should've. He took a breath and ran a hand down his chest. The corruption was still there, faint now, but unmistakable—thin, black tendrils crawling just beneath the skin. It didn't hurt. Not anymore. It felt like it belonged. Not a curse. A companion.
He wasn't wearing his tattered suit anymore. That relic of a life long dead had finally vanished. What remained was a leaner, younger form. He was taller—probably around 185 centimeters now—skin so pale he almost looked dead , lean muscle wrapped around a frame that hadn't felt pain in weeks but had survived plenty of it. The tunic and pants he wore were barely holding together, frayed at the edges, caked in ash and dirt. His cloak was a disaster: riddled with holes, soaked in stains, trailing behind him like the wing of something long dead.
He looked like something dragged out of a collapsed tomb.
"My body's getting stronger… faster than it should," he muttered, crouching and resting on a cracked stone slab.
Around him, the slums stretched endlessly. Crooked shacks made from rusted sheet metal and broken timber clung to each other like dying men. Fires burned in barrels. The alleys were narrow, suffocating. Trash floated in pools of stagnant water, and the air was thick with the smell of decay, mold, and unwashed flesh. Children darted through the shadows, gaunt and silent. A stray dog passed by on three legs, snarling at nothing.
It was a graveyard, not of the dead—but of the living. And yet, Victor felt something unexpected.
He felt… calm.
He didn't understand it at first. But as he sat there, letting the noise of the slums bleed into the background, he realized what it was.
Peace.
Not comfort, not safety—but a strange, primal stillness. Something in this ruined world mirrored something inside him.
For the first time in days, maybe longer, he had the chance to stop. To think.
What the fuck is this place?
Not just the city. Not just the dirt and filth and rot. The world itself felt…. This wasn't the dreamworld he was in before. He could perceive that place was something else entirely—twisted, beautiful, and terrifying. But there, he had touched something. A force that didn't belong to the world he knew. And somehow, he had brought it back.
It's not gone. It's still inside me.
He looked down at his hands, watched the faint shimmer of blackness ripple under his skin.
I died. That much is clear. I was killed—ripped apart. And yet, I woke up here.
So what does that make me?
He didn't have the answer. But something inside him did. Something old. Something cold.
He leaned back against the stone, resting his head.
They used to call me a monster. Behind my back. Sometimes to my face. Said I didn't have a soul.
He smirked.
But the truth is, I had too much of one. It just wasn't theirs. I didn't play by their rules, didn't care about their fragile, bleeding ideals. I wanted control, not comfort. I wanted to own the board, not beg for a seat.
And now—there are no more rules. No corporations. No politics. No civility masking the knives. It's all stripped down to what it really is. Hunger. Power. Will.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the filth.
Maybe this isn't punishment. Maybe this is my reward.
What if this place—this world—is the first honest one I've ever seen?
He opened his eyes again. The corruption flared faintly. Not threatening. Patient.
What if I'm not here to be judged… but to be unleashed?
He stood up slowly, cracking his neck. The noise around him was louder now—screams, laughter, dogs barking, boots stomping through mud. But none of it mattered.
He had already begun to change.
"This time," he whispered, voice low and steady, "I build from the ashes. No more masks. No more alliances. No more pretending."
He looked around once more, taking it all in.
"Let's see what this world does to a man like me."