Silence.
The kind that wasn't absence of sound, but absence of everything. No air, no warmth, no body. Only darkness stretching forever, pressing in from all sides.
Persi floated in it, weightless. No blood. No pain. No battlefield. Just the void.
So this is death.
He almost laughed. For years he had slain gods, torn down temples, shattered holy armies—yet here he was, cradled in the same nothingness as every other corpse. Perhaps the gods were laughing, wherever they lingered.
And then the laughter came.
"So proud… so pitiful."
"The God-Killer bleeds like all the rest."
"But not forgotten. No, not you. You amuse us still."
The voices weren't one. They were many, overlapping, distorted, some old as stone, others sharp as thunder. They clawed at his mind like hooks.
"Show yourselves," Persi growled into the dark. His voice was hoarse, yet it carried, echoing as though the void itself mocked him.
"We did. We do. Every time you raised your blade, you were dancing on strings."
His amber eye burned with fury, though he no longer had a body. "Lies. I fought for the people. I chose every strike."
The laughter deepened.
"Chose? No. You simply followed the path we left. Reapers, gods, demons—it mattered not. All pieces. All ours."
Chains clattered in the dark. Faint shapes stirred—towering silhouettes bound in shackles, their skeletal frames draped in cloaks. Their empty sockets glowed faintly, flickering like dying stars.
Persi's breath caught. "Reapers…"
One raised its head. The voice that followed was softer, almost mournful:
"We are not your enemy, God-Killer. We are prisoners… and now, so are you."
The shadows of the gods swelled behind them, vast and merciless. The laughter returned, booming, cracking the void like glass.
"Sleep, Persi. Let us see what you do when death itself is broken."
The world shattered.
—
Persi woke choking on air.
He sat upright, gasping, sweat slicking his brow. His hand clutched at his chest, but the wound was gone. No blood. No blade. Only a pounding heart.
He blinked at the ceiling. Peeling paint. A water stain shaped like a crooked halo. The scent of mold and dust clung to the air.
"What… the hell?" His voice was rough, weaker than he remembered.
Persi swung his legs off the bed. The floor creaked under his bare feet. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, and when he saw his reflection, his chest tightened.
A human.
His horns were gone. His body leaner, smaller. His silver hair streaked with black still shimmered faintly, but dulled. His eyes—one electric blue, one burning amber—remained. That much of him had survived.
He touched the glass, almost expecting it to ripple. "Reborn…?"
Outside, the sounds of life filtered in—car horns, chatter, the thrum of a city that never slept. He stumbled to the window, tugging aside a ragged curtain.
Neon lights. Skyscrapers. Concrete and smoke.
Not his world. And yet—
He watched a man shove past a homeless figure on the street below. Saw a group of youths laughing as they sprayed paint over crumbling walls. In the distance, a protest marched, their chants muffled but angry.
War. Hunger. Cruelty.
Different shape, same disease.
Persi leaned against the glass, shoulders trembling. "…Even here. Even this world rots."
His stomach growled violently, dragging him back to the present. His legs buckled. He hadn't felt hunger like this in centuries. No mana to sustain him, no war rations. Just emptiness.
He staggered into the hall, nearly collapsing down the stairs. The building smelled of mildew and cigarette smoke. Every step was heavier than the last.
Outside, the night air slapped him. Cold. Wet. Real.
Persi wandered aimlessly through the streets. Neon signs blurred past, shopkeepers closing up, the glow of convenience stores and dingy diners. His pride kept him moving, but his body screamed. Eventually, his vision darkened, and his knees gave way.
The last thing he saw was a shadow rushing toward him, arms reaching.
—
When he woke again, it was to warmth. A blanket. The smell of soup.
Persi opened his eyes to find a small apartment, neater than the one he'd woken in earlier. A young woman stood by the stove, her back turned, stirring a pot.
"You're awake," she said softly, glancing at him. Her eyes widened slightly at his mismatched gaze but softened quickly. "You nearly collapsed in the street. You should eat."
He sat up slowly, wary. "Why help me?"
She blinked, surprised. "Because you needed it. Isn't that enough?"
Persi studied her. Plain clothes, tired eyes, but a kindness he hadn't seen in lifetimes. He almost laughed. "In my experience, kindness is never free."
She placed the bowl before him, steaming hot. "Then consider it my gamble. Eat."
His pride told him to refuse. His hunger overruled it. He ate in silence, each bite grounding him.
The woman smiled faintly. "I'm Aria."
Persi hesitated, then: "…Persi."
Her brow furrowed. "Strange name."
"Strange world," he muttered.
As he finished the bowl, something tugged at him. Instinct. Muscle memory. Without thinking, he whispered an incantation under his breath.
The world flickered.
Aria's name appeared above her head in glowing script only he could see. Beneath it, a faint outline of her soul shimmered—fragile, human, but burning with quiet resilience.
Persi froze.
His hand shook. "Impossible…"
Aria tilted her head. "What's wrong?"
He leaned back, a grin spreading despite himself. His heart raced—not with fear, but exhilaration.
His skills had followed him.
The God-Killer lived still.
S