Pain.
Blinding, burning pain.
Ryan gasped as cold steel slid between his ribs. Blood rushed up his throat, spilling from his mouth as the world turned gray. Again. He had lost count of how many times he had died like this—stabbed, crushed, eaten, burned.
At least this one was quick.
As his knees gave out, the same numbness spread through him. The final moment. The end. Always the end.
Three days. That was all he ever got. No matter who or what he became—peasant, prince, insect—it always ended on the third day, no matter how hard he tried to survive.
Then, once more, darkness faded into light.
And then...
Pain.
Again.
Only this time, it wasn't the pain of dying. It was the pain of still being alive. Ryan's eyes snapped open. His body ached, ribs bruised, dried blood stuck to his side. He gasped for air, the taste of iron still heavy on his tongue.
He had reincarnated.
Again.
A dry, broken laugh escaped his lips—cracked, weak, more madness than humor.
"Nice one," he croaked. "So here we are again… miserable. Can't even hope to survive with a body this messed up."
He shut his eyes, ready to give up. Again. But then—he felt something.
It was faint. Familiar but distant.
A warmth. No... not warmth. A force. A kind of power.
Magic?
On instinct, he reached for it. A small spark lit up deep inside him—then burst into life. A faint flame danced across his fingertip before vanishing into his skin.
His eyes widened.
Magic. Real, actual magic.
He couldn't even remember the last life where he had magic. Maybe once as an elf? Or was it that dragon-kin life? He wasn't sure anymore. It was rare, in all his countless lives, to be born into one that allowed him to use magic.
Still, the thrill of the discovery faded quickly.
Death was always coming.
But... he had magic now. Maybe he could give it a try?
Even if he didn't make it, at least it would be fun.
Well... not really. Dying was never fun. It always hurt. The pain was always fresh—no matter the body, no matter the species.
Sighing, Ryan lay back down and let his eyes close. He didn't move. Didn't care.
Death was inevitable. It always had been. So what was the point of trying?
For what felt like forever—though time had long since lost meaning—he had been stuck in this nightmare. Reincarnating again and again, into different worlds, only to die within three days. Always three days.
He still remembered how it started.
Earth. He'd been just a college student trying to survive exams and student debt. His life wasn't perfect, but compared to what came after, it felt like heaven.
Then came the mistake.
He saved someone.
A woman? A man? Maybe a kid? He couldn't even remember their face anymore. But he remembered the moment clearly. He pulled them out of the path of a speeding truck, trying to be a hero. Only, he misjudged the angle and...
He was the one hit.
A classic scene, right?
But that's when everything went wrong.
Turns out, the truck wasn't just any truck. It was the weapon of choice for Death's most loyal servant—Truck-kun.
And Ryan? He had messed up "the plan."
So, the God of Death cursed him.
He would reincarnate again and again... and always die within three days.
Forever.
And if—somehow—he managed to live past those three days? The curse would break.
Sounds simple, right?
It wasn't. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined.
Every time he reincarnated, the world seemed to turn against him. Assassins, poison at royal banquets, random storms—death came in every shape and form.
He even tried locking himself in a room for three days.
Didn't work.
Either a meteor hit the house, or an explosion happened, or some bizarre accident occurred. Something always found a way to kill him—painfully.
He once ran away and hid deep in a forest.
A giant centipede came out of nowhere and swallowed him whole.
Yeah.
That was day two.
And that wasn't even the worst part.
The worst part wasn't the death—it was that he couldn't even choose his own death.
He once tried drowning himself before death could get creative. Didn't work. The water just evaporated—magically.
Only, there was no damn magic in the world.
Apparently, all kinds of universal anomalies decided to align at that exact moment, just to evaporate the water and ruin his plan to kill himself with his own hands.
Eventually, he gave up trying.
What was the point of running from something that always found you?
What was the point of fighting something that knew every way to break you?
What was the point of fleeing fate, when every path—no matter how desperate or defiant—led to the same inevitable final destination: death itself?
He chose not to fight anymore—not to play whatever sick game this was.
So he began spending his lifetimes—or rather, each of his reincarnations—chasing pleasures. But deep down, he knew there was no such thing as pleasure for him. He was only pretending. Faking joy.
It was never real. He always knew what waited at the end—death, and the pain that came with it. Pain you never got used to.
Pain was a teacher. And Ryan had been its student a thousand times over.
Even so, he never learned how to stop feeling pain. That was impossible. The only thing he learned was how not to react as much to it.
So when he opened his eyes in this new body—bruised, bleeding, already half-dead—he didn't even bother trying.
Until the spark.
Until the magic.
Should he… try again?
Maybe this time...
No. No, he reminded himself. Hope was the most painful death of all.
He sighed. Still, maybe… just maybe…
"Give me the memories," he muttered to no one in particular.
He knew the one who cursed him was watching.
Of course he was.
His deaths, his suffering—it was just entertainment to that bastard.
And Ryan knew it. That's why, once in a while, he made a request.
It all depended on the God's mood—sometimes he granted them, sometimes he didn't.
But there was one request that had never been denied: the memory of his predecessor.
And of course it wasn't out of kindness.
Why would it be?
The God loved watching him rise up with hope, just to be crushed again. Over and over.
It wasn't mercy—it was amusement.
The moment the words left Ryan's mouth, he felt it.
A familiar agony exploded in his skull. He clenched his teeth as memories—not his own—poured into his mind. Years of life, pain, and identity crashed into his brain in seconds.
Slowly, the pain began to fade. As it did, the frown on Ryan's face deepened.
Of course the situation wasn't good. Not even close. It was worse than hopeless.
He felt the urge to just lie down and wait for death again.
But he had already made up his mind to try.
So he began reviewing the memories he had received.
He was now in the body of eighteen-year-old Theron Underwood, son of Marcus Underwood—the former chief of the Underwood Village, now dead after a recent battle with Vanilia Village.
Apparently, the two villages had always clashed over petty disputes—land borders, water rights, stolen cattle. It had been a cold rivalry—more bark than bite… until a month ago.
That's when Vanilia got bold.
They didn't just raid—they invaded. Their men came armed to the teeth, dressed in better armor, wielding sharper steel than anything Underwood could produce. It wasn't a fight. It was a massacre.
And Marcus, despite all his strength, was killed in the first big battle.
The village mourned him for a day.
Then they turned to Theron.
Barely a man. No experience. No training. No choice. He had to carry his father's burden.
He tried his best. He stood tall. He rallied what fighters were left. But it wasn't enough. They were outmatched, outnumbered, and more lives were lost.
The last skirmish—just two days ago—almost shattered the last bit of hope the village had.
And it almost killed him—well, technically, it did. That's why Ryan was here now.
For two days, the Vanilia soldiers hadn't made a move. They just stayed in their camp.
But Ryan knew war. He'd seen it too many times. He knew the calm before the storm.
The next attack would be the last. The one that would bring the village to its knees.
If he was going to act, it had to be now.
He clenched his teeth in frustration at the weak state of his body. Then looked up—only to see a wooden ceiling. But that didn't matter.
He knew He was watching.
"Bastard," Ryan whispered. Then, through clenched teeth, "Fine. You want a show?"
His eyes flickered with faint power.
"Let's see if I can break your damn curse."