Persi stared at his trembling hand, the faint glow of the soul-script fading from his vision. The skill was weaker, frayed, like a shattered mirror barely holding together. And yet, it existed. His essence hadn't been erased. Death had failed.
For the first time since he opened his eyes in this strange world, Persi felt something stir inside him. Not despair. Not grief. But hunger—not for food, not for survival. A hunger to prove that the fire inside him had not been extinguished.
Aria tilted her head, watching his strange silence. "You look like someone who just remembered a bad dream."
Persi dragged his gaze back to her. "Something like that."
Her small apartment felt fragile, like it might collapse under the weight of his presence. Peeling wallpaper. Secondhand furniture. A single potted plant on the sill, half-dead. She'd given him her couch, a blanket, soup. In another life, he would have dismissed her kindness as weakness. Now it was the only thing that tethered him from sinking back into despair.
"You should rest," she said, gathering the empty bowl. "You're pale. It looked like you hadn't eaten in days."
Persi almost laughed. Days? Try centuries.
Instead, he rose slowly, ignoring the way his legs shook. "I need to see this world for myself. Sitting here won't answer anything."
Aria frowned. "In your condition? You'll collapse again."
"I won't," he said flatly, more command than reassurance. The old tone of a general giving orders bled through, and Aria blinked, unsure if she should argue.
He made for the door.
The City at Night
The streets beyond were alive in a way different from his world yet eerily familiar. Neon bled into puddles. Vendors shouted last calls for skewers and dumplings. Electric billboards flashed faces of politicians, products, idols. The air stank of exhaust and fried oil.
Persi walked slowly, cataloging everything. Humanity thrived here—but the same patterns emerged. He saw the homeless ignored, beggars swatted aside, wealth gleaming in towers while children rummaged through trash.
Different paint. Same rot.
His jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to strike down those who strutted fat with power while others starved. But he had nothing—no army, no blade, no dominion. Only fragments of his strength lingered.
He turned down a narrow alley, shadows stretching long.
And froze.
The Wraith
Something was wrong.
The air grew cold. Breath misted. A faint static pricked his skin.
Then he saw it: a figure slouched at the far end of the alley. At first glance, a drunk. But its body twitched unnaturally, head lolling too far to the side, eyes glowing faint green.
Persi's pulse quickened. "That aura…"
The creature lifted its head. Its mouth split open too wide, tearing into a gaping maw of smoke and teeth. A low screech rippled through the air.
A Wraith.
Not a god, not a demon—but something born of broken death.
Persi's mind sharpened. So the Reapers spoke true. Death is unchained here.
The Wraith lunged.
Persi dodged, barely. His weakened body moved slower than memory promised. He stumbled into trash bags, the impact rattling his ribs. The creature slashed, claws of shadow rending the brick where his skull had been.
Persi's hand burned, instinct guiding him. He raised his palm—and a flicker of light gathered, forming the outline of a weapon. His old blade. The God-Killer's fangs of steel.
But it was broken. Only half the sword materialized, jagged at the tip, shimmering like an illusion.
The Wraith shrieked, lunging again.
Persi braced. "Even a broken fang can kill."
The First Fight
Steel and shadow clashed. Sparks flew as Persi swung the half-formed blade, parrying the creature's claws. His arms shook from the impact—he was weaker than he had ever been.
The Wraith pressed forward, relentless, claws swiping faster, sharper. Persi weaved between strikes, relying on instinct honed from centuries of war. His feet slid on wet pavement, his chest heaving.
The creature roared, body unraveling into smoke before reforming behind him. A slash tore across his back, white-hot pain flaring.
Persi staggered, teeth gritted. So. That's how it is. You'll make me fight for every breath.
He planted his feet. The broken blade pulsed faintly, feeding off his rage.
The Wraith charged one last time, maw open wide.
Persi met it head-on. With a roar, he drove the fractured blade upward into its skull. Shadow split apart like torn fabric. The Wraith convulsed, screeching, before bursting into smoke and vanishing into the night.
Persi collapsed to one knee, panting hard. His vision swam. Blood seeped from his wound, though shallow compared to what he'd suffered before.
But he'd won.
The God-Killer lived still.
Aftermath
"Persi!"
He looked up, startled. Aria was at the mouth of the alley, eyes wide with terror. She must have followed him despite his orders.
She rushed forward, grabbing his arm. "What the hell was that thing?!"
Persi stared at her, debating how much truth to spill. Her wide, trembling eyes reminded him of faces long gone—the people he'd sworn to protect, who had died believing in him.
"A mistake," he said finally, voice low. "A ghost that never should have walked this world."
She frowned, helping him to his feet. "And you—you fought it like you knew what it was."
He said nothing, letting silence answer.
A Shadow Watching
As Aria led him back toward the glow of the streetlights, Persi felt it. A presence.
High above, on the rooftop opposite, a figure stood still as stone. Cloaked in darkness, watching.
The same aura he had felt the night he died. The betrayal.
The shadow leaned forward slightly, and though distance separated them, Persi swore he saw a glint of silver hair.
The figure spoke, voice carried by the wind like a curse:
"Still breathing, Persi…?"
Then the rooftop was empty.
Persi's blood ran cold. His grip tightened on the broken blade as it flickered and vanished back into his palm.
The betrayer lived, too.
And he was here.