The world went black.
Pain no longer mattered. His body was gone, his breaths and heartbeat extinguished, yet the echo of betrayal reverberated in him like a bell in a tomb.
He remembered the captain's words, each syllable sharp and deliberate:
"Your service is recorded and will be honored. But a tool that has broken is not repaired. Sentiment is a luxury for the strong."
His mind clung to fragments, searching for an explanation. This must be a test. The captain… he is testing me one last time. He will call me back. He will praise me. I… I cannot fail him.
But no voice came. No warmth, no hands, no command. Only the void.
The MC struggled against the nothingness, as if sheer will could pull him back to life. He could feel his memories fraying at the edges—the laughter of comrades, the scent of pine after a rain, the warmth of the captain's hand offering water years ago. Each memory faded like ink in running water.
No… I will not lose them… I will not…
The void offered no comfort. No logic. Only a voice—deep, resonant, cold as the night wind on the cliffside.
"Do you wish to live?"
He wanted to refuse, to sink into oblivion, to rest after a lifetime of servitude and pain. And yet, the betrayal burned in him. The memory of that final, perfect cruelty, the steel sliding into his chest while the captain recited doctrine, set fire to his soul.
"Yes," he whispered, though he had no voice, no lungs. "I… I will live. I want… revenge."
A crimson sigil flared in the void, searing him from the inside out. He screamed, though there was no air to carry it. His mind fractured under the sensation: agony, confusion, and a strange… clarity.
When the pain subsided, he was no longer in the void.
The first thing he noticed was the cold. Cold not like the mountain winds, not like the bite of his broken armor. This was a frozen stillness, a silence that pressed against his chest like the weight of a tomb. He opened his eyes.
He was lying on black stone. Obsidian pillars rose around him, etched with glowing runes that pulsed like the heartbeat of some enormous, unseen creature. Shadows writhed in the corners of the hall, though they held no form.
At the far end of the chamber sat a figure. Not human. Not completely demonic. A silhouette wreathed in fire and shadow, perched upon a throne carved from black crystal. Its eyes glimmered like molten silver.
The Demon Lord.
The MC's first instinct was fear. The second was disbelief. The third was a fragmented, instinctual hope: perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps the captain's betrayal had been punishment in the afterlife, and somehow he had survived.
The figure's voice echoed without moving lips. "Another soul plucked from the jaws of death. You are… Orthodox. Loyal, yes. But your loyalty is flawed. It clings to obedience rather than choice."
He struggled to sit, to speak, but his voice failed. His limbs felt both heavy and insubstantial. "Where… am I?" he managed.
The Demon Lord leaned forward slightly, a motion both casual and predatory. "Here, or perhaps nowhere. You have died… and yet you have chosen to speak. That is the first sign of potential."
The MC's mind spun. He could feel the absence of blood, the absence of air, the absence of pain—but somehow every sense was amplified. He could smell the faint tang of iron lingering in the air, remember the coppery taste in his mouth from his final moments. His memories were fragmented, but still sharp, like splintered glass pressing against his skull.
This is impossible. I am dead. This is death. And yet… I feel.
"Potential…" he whispered.
"Do you wish to live?" the figure repeated, its tone softer this time, almost a murmur against the echoing hall. But there was no warmth in it. No guarantee. Only possibility.
Yes, he thought, shivering. I want to live. I want… to become strong. To surpass them. To make the Sect pay for their betrayal.
A black flame erupted from the throne, coiling around him like a serpent. He felt his very essence stretch, tearing at the edges, reshaping, folding into a form both new and terrifying.
Pain.
The MC's eyes widened. It was not physical in the traditional sense. It was a deep, gnawing, soul-deep ache, a sensation that seemed to demand sacrifice. Every memory of the Orthodox Sect, every scrap of his old life, felt fragile and ephemeral under the pressure.
And then the system spoke.
[System Initialization…]
[Binding Complete]
[Welcome, Disciple.]
[System Name: The Echoing Void System]
[Host Status: Mortal. Strength: Insignificant.]
[First Task: Survive the Rebirth. Success = Begin Training.]
A prompt flashed again, more insistent.
[Warning: Rebirth Process Will Inflict Severe Psychological and Spiritual Stress. Mental collapse possible.]
[Choice Required: Accept or Refuse.]
The MC gritted his teeth, feeling as if his soul itself was being pressed into a mold. Accept. I will accept. I have no other choice.
The pain intensified, a searing clarity burning away the last of his previous innocence. Memories of kindness, camaraderie, moments of laughter with fellow disciples, they slipped through his fingers. Each one that faded brought a pang, but he forced his mind to endure it.
I survive. I endure. I will become strong.
The system did not offer comfort. It did not reward. It merely recorded each failure, each sacrifice, each painful choice. Its voice was cold, precise, cruelly efficient.
[Task Update: Host has endured Rebirth. Initial potential recorded.]
[Next Task: Stand before the Demon Lord and survive the first evaluation.]
The MC rose to his feet, legs shaking, body both weightless and heavy. The Demon Lord's eyes held him in place, judging, calculating, waiting.
"Orthodox dog," the figure said finally, its tone almost approving. "You have survived your death. That is the first step. Many die here. Many will never return. You… are not yet strong. But perhaps, in time, you might surpass even your masters."
The MC swallowed, tasting nothing but the memory of coppered blood and something darker.... possibility, and fear.
And then, from the shadows, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper:
"Do not forget… loyalty can be redefined."
A figure stepped forward. Eyes silver in the dim, unblinking, measuring. He felt an unexpected pulse in his chest—a flicker of curiosity, of caution, of something else entirely. The Demon Lord's daughter.
Not an enemy, he thought, confused by the sudden warmth she seemed to radiate. Perhaps not a friend either.
The system chimed again, monotone, unwavering.
[Task: Stand. Train. Endure. Your path is only beginning.]
The MC nodded. There was no voice, no room for argument. Only the cruel, exacting weight of the system, and the ambiguous, dangerous mentorship of the Demon Lord.
For the first time in his life, he realized loyalty was not obedience. It was choice.
And he would choose to endure, He would become the instrument of their ruin.