Darkness wrapped around Victor again. The same suffocating black that had swallowed him the first time. No chains this time, yet the weight of the void pressed in just as hard.
His fingers curled against nothing. No floor under his boots, no ceiling above, only the silent emptiness stretching in every direction.
"Fuck." The word drifted away, muted before it even formed.
He dragged a hand across his chest. Smooth skin. No cut. No shattered ribs. But the pain lingered in his nerves, ghost echoes from a body that should have been broken.
Last time, the system had hauled him back. But now his ledger was empty. Nothing left to bargain with.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Not even worth the cost of another resurrection."
A voice seeped through the dark like cold oil, smooth and amused. "You did not die this time, little king."
Victor looked up sharply. A figure stood in front of him, its outline darker than the void around it. Then the eyes opened. Twin golden slits cutting through the black, fixing him in place.
"I am quite satisfied with your progress," the figure said.
Victor bared his teeth. "Grisha was a cockroach. Killing him did not mean a damn thing."
Another chuckle. "Your body is being treated as we speak. So let us keep this short." A hand shifted, more shadow than substance. "Your real life begins now."
Victor felt his pulse spike. "Meaning what."
The golden eyes brightened. The system interface tore open in front of him, not just showing Vice Points this time, but a raw stat sheet.
Force Vigor Agility Focus Charm Arcana
Numbers flickered beside each line, too fast to follow, like the system was rewriting him on the spot.
"Chapter two has begun," the voice whispered.
Victor tried to step forward, but his body stayed locked in place. "What is the goal here."
The silhouette leaned close enough that the golden eyes filled his sight. "You stay on the path you have chosen. Our objectives will meet in due time."
Victor opened his mouth to curse, but the void surged up like a wave and pulled him under.
Everything vanished.
Victor's vision steadied little by little as the world drifted back into focus. Two red pupils hovered above him, sharp as garnets set in a pale face. The man who owned them offered a quiet smile, something practiced and soft, then gestured behind him without breaking eye contact.
Anya stepped into view, arms folded. "You look like shit."
Victor flexed his fingers, testing joints and muscles. No stabbing pain. No torn skin. Just the heavy fatigue clinging to him like damp cloth. "And I feel surprisingly good."
"Thank him," Anya said, nodding toward the red-eyed stranger. "Not me."
The man dipped his head. "Naokage. Street medic." His voice flowed calm and steady. "You can call me Nao."
Victor pushed himself up on his elbows. "How much do I owe you."
Nao shook his head. "Anya paid."
A flicker of surprise crossed Victor's face before he smoothed it away. He looked at Anya. She shrugged. "Your coin. I just spent it for the right cause."
Nao rose, brushing dust from his worn coat. "You are stable enough to move. Avoid tearing the stitches, and you will be fine." He turned toward the exit but paused, placing a small card on the crate next to Victor.
Victor picked it up. Rough parchment. Neat handwriting. Clinic, South Warrens. Ask for Kage.
He snorted. "Medieval business cards. Fantasy logic."
Anya blinked. "What are you talking about."
"Nothing." Victor slipped the card into his pocket. "Where did you get the money."
"Your stash," she said without shame. "Under the mattress." She held up a knife with a small flourish. His knife. The same one he had hidden with the coins. "Figured you would prefer waking up alive over keeping your savings."
Victor's mouth tilted in a crooked grin. "Fair."
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and rolled his shoulders, testing his body. Everything held. No sharp jabs. No trembling muscles.
He was ready.
Victor rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders until the lingering stiffness cracked loose. The room sharpened around him: dusty rafters overhead, the smell of old timber and cheap salve hanging in the air, a lone oil lamp throwing jittery shadows across the walls. Backroom of the Rusty Nail. The little rat nest Marta used for favors and secrets.
His eyes drifted to the corner. Elira sat on a barrel with her legs swinging, her fingers playing with a silver ring she had probably stolen. She watched him quietly, weighing him the same way she weighed everything in the streets.
Anya pushed off the wall with a tired exhale. "She was here when I dragged your half-dead corpse in. Didn't help. Didn't say anything. Just stared."
Victor stepped toward Elira, stopping close enough that he towered over her without quite crowding. "Does that mean you are joining us?"
Elira held his stare without blinking. "Depends. You still offering something better than picking pockets until a guard sticks a bolt through me." She shrugged. "Not like anyone else is lining up to hire a thief."
Victor's mouth curled. "Smart girl."
Anya snorted. "You just picking up strays now."
Victor ignored the jab, grabbed his coat from a hook, and shrugged it on. He palmed the dagger she had left by the crate, tucking it back where it belonged. "We are leaving."
"Where," Anya asked, pushing off the wall.
Victor jerked his head toward the exit. "Got a place. Better than this rotting closet."
Elira hopped off the barrel with light, nimble steps. "You mean Harroway's house?"
Anya froze, eyes narrowing. "The noble you ripped apart."
"The noble whose wife paid me to," Victor corrected. He tapped his coat where Selene's remaining coins rested. "The place is empty. Guards scattered. No one's stepped foot inside since the blood dried."
Anya shook her head. "You are insane."
Victor's grin widened. "Probably. But you are still coming."
He pushed the door open, and both women followed.