Roman's consciousness felt like it was drifting on black water. The last thing he remembered was the chaos in the training grounds — the clash of steel, the golden and black aura erupting from his sword, and then… nothing.
A suffocating heaviness pressed on his chest, making even breathing feel like an impossible task.
Somewhere far away, muffled voices began to leak into the darkness.
"…His condition is unstable…"
"…Two magical cores… in one body…"
"…If the body rejects the fusion, he could fall into a lifetime coma… or worse."
He knew that voice. The healer.
Another, deeper voice cut in — Duke Jacob's. "Can it be stabilized?"
The healer hesitated before answering, "If his body can't adapt, there's nothing we can do. Not even the finest magic in the empire will save him."
Silence. Then the Duke's voice, cold and unreadable: "Do what you can. Lyra, watch over him."
Footsteps faded. The door closed. The air became still.
Roman wanted to answer. To tell them he could hear everything. But his lips wouldn't move, his fingers wouldn't twitch. His body was a prison, and he was the only prisoner inside.
Then, like a knife cutting through cloth, a cold chime rang in his skull.
> [System Alert: Task Failed.]
Penalty: Immediate transfer of soul to the Darkness Dimension for punishment.
"No—"
The word was trapped in his mind as the world tore away from him. The room, the bed, the faint scent of medicinal herbs — all ripped apart and replaced with crushing black.
It was not ordinary darkness.
It breathed. It pressed against his skin, cold and damp, as though he had been thrown into the lungs of some great, slumbering beast.
Somewhere, metal scraped on stone — long, slow, deliberate.
A faint vibration traveled through the ground beneath him, each step heavier than the last.
The sound stopped.
The air stilled.
Then… a voice.
Low. Layered with countless echoes, as though a thousand throats were speaking in unison.
> "Still weak… still chained… and still pretending you're the real one."
Roman's gaze darted into the black void, searching. At first, there was nothing. Then… two faint lines of gold, slitted like a serpent's eyes, appeared in the dark. More followed — scattered, blinking into existence at different heights. Dozens of them. Each one glaring at him with ancient, seething hatred.
The owner of those eyes stepped forward. Shadows peeled away like reluctant veils.
A colossal figure emerged — massive shoulders, a powerful stance — terrifyingly familiar.
It was his own body.
But wrong.
So very wrong.
Twenty… no, thirty heads crowned its shoulders. Some human, others bestial, all twisted into masks of mockery. And there, among them, a face Roman knew too well — Allen's. His brother's expression, warped into something cruel and mocking.
The creature's voice rumbled like thunder in a tomb.
> "Hey, you doppelganger… I am the real Ronald. You… are the cheap copy."
Roman's chest tightened. He didn't need to be told — every word was true in its own way.
> "I killed everyone who dared to stand in my way. And now… I will devour you too. You think you came here as a savior? No. You're a tyrant. A merciless butcher who kills allies, friends… even your lover, Ruth."
The name struck him like a hammer.
For a moment, the darkness felt colder.
Inside his mind, he whispered back. I know. I know my ways were wrong… but I only wanted peace.
The monster laughed. It was not humor — it was mockery sharpened to a blade.
> "Peace? A tyrant cannot and will not achieve peace."
Then the monster lunged.
Steel hissed through the air. The blade — long, jagged, and brimming with a sickly black aura — carved across Roman's incorporeal form. Agony exploded through him, raw and unfamiliar. He tried to move, to raise a weapon, but the darkness had him pinned.
The Allen-head sneered.
> "My dear brother… I'm glad you got another chance. But you will fail again. As always."
The creature's other heads joined in, overlapping in a chorus of laughter that shook the black dimension.
Something in Roman's chest burned — not fear, but fury. Yet his body still refused to obey.
Then, for the first time since he arrived, the system's cold tone returned.
> [Special Task Initiated: Survive and Destroy All Enemy Heads Before Sundown.]
[First Objective: Regain Movement.]
[Failure to complete will result in permanent erasure of soul.]
Roman's breath steadied. His eyes locked on the many heads of his twisted reflection.
"I'm not done yet," he whispered to himself.
Meanwhile, in the physical world, his body lay unmoving on the bed.
Sweat drenched his skin, and the faint shimmer of two magical cores pulsed beneath his chest.
The healer frowned.
"This condition… if it worsens, he won't wake again."
Lyra, standing by the bedside, clenched her fists. "Then I will not let it worsen."
But deep inside, she had no idea that Roman's real battle was only just beginning.