Samael threw himself backward the moment he heard Elizabeth's scream.
But he was too slow.
Something struck him.
He felt the heat first.
Scalding.
Unnatural.
Even within that frozen hell, his left arm was engulfed by a searing sensation, as if it had been plunged into molten metal.
The serpent was still moving.
Instinct overpowered pain.
Samael charged forward.
He gathered everything he had left in his body—strength, rage, fear—and drove his sword into the creature's head.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He kept going.
Stabbing in desperation, ignoring the cold, ignoring the body that no longer obeyed him properly. Each strike was heavier, more uncoordinated, yet filled with pure murderous intent.
Until—
The resistance vanished.
The colossal body of the serpent trembled… and then collapsed, motionless.
At the same instant, a voice echoed in his mind.
Cold.
Impartial.
Absolute.
[Congratulations. You have slain a Fallen Devil: Albino Serpent of the Far North.][You have obtained an Echo.]
Samael struggled to breathe.
The world felt distant, muffled, as though submerged underwater.
Then he tried to brace himself against the ground.
And failed.
He frowned, confused.
Looked to his left.
His arm… was gone.
Where flesh should have been, there was only ruin.
The shock lasted a single second.
The pain followed immediately.
All at once.
As if the entire world had collapsed onto him.
— AAAAAAAH!
The scream tore through the frozen air.
It was absolute pain.
Overwhelming.
A pain that erased thought, memory, and time—leaving nothing but raw suffering echoing endlessly within his mind.
Samael dropped to his knees.
The cold burned.
Blood spilled.
Victory rotted in his mouth.
He had survived.
The world spun.
The pain was too much.
Far too much.
— Hey… Sam… breathe… a distant voice tried to reach him.
He barely heard it.
Barely felt anything beyond the pain.
His world had been reduced to a single thing.
Pain.
— Stay conscious… the voice insisted, growing fainter.
But Samael couldn't.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He awoke in a black space.
A place he recognized.
He had been there twice before.
And once again, there was a light ahead.
Samael walked toward it.
When he reached it, he found himself.
But this time… something was different.
The moment their eyes met, memories exploded inside his mind.
[Aspirant. Welcome to the Nightmare Spell.][Prepare for your first trial.]
The world rebuilt itself around him.
He stood in a coliseum.
The air was thick, saturated with an unbearable stench of blood.
Fanatical screams echoed from every direction—a frenzied mass, hungry for death. People howled, laughed, demanded more violence.
At the center of the arena, beings slaughtered one another brutally.
It was loud.
Chaotic.
Unbearable.
Time began to rewind.
Scenes unraveled and reformed, spinning backward like a film played in fast reverse.
Until Samael found himself… inside a body.
The body of a slave.
Identical to his own.
His wrists were shackled.
Beside him, a woman cried silently, murmuring apologies between sobs. Her face was carved with despair.
She was chained as well.
From her posture, her closeness…
She seemed to be that slave's mother.
Samael watched her.
Her eyes were deep.
Hollow.
He said nothing.
Did not comfort her.
Did not respond.
That woman was not his mother.
His mother had abandoned him.
She had chosen to stay with his father in that so-called "paradise," leaving him behind in this world.
She had chosen to die… rather than remain with him.
Strangely, Samael felt no anger.
No sadness.
Almost nothing at all.
Only emptiness.
Long ago, he had stopped feeling human.
Perhaps… this was the Spell's way of telling him that.
After all, he had been thrown into a place where people were less than animals.
They were entertainment.
Disposable flesh to satisfy a thirst for blood.
There was no dignity.
No honor.
No humanity.
Only death.
And applause.
Samael was dragged across the ground.
Chains rattled, nails scraped against stone, and something—human or not—shoved him into a narrow cell.
The door slammed shut with a dull bang.
The space was small.
Suffocating.
The walls were covered in scratch marks—deep, chaotic. Some were far too wide to be human. Others… were not. All carried the same despair, as though those who had been there had fought until their final breath.
Dying in agony.
The stench of rot was overwhelming.
Old blood. Sweat. Filth. Decaying flesh.
Samael took a breath—
And instantly regretted it.
In one corner of the cell sat a bucket with murky water. It likely served both for drinking and washing. The thought alone was revolting.
Still, he approached.
When he leaned closer, he saw his reflection ripple across the filthy surface.
A fourteen-year-old boy.
Hair mixed in shades of gold and white, unkempt. Golden eyes, still bright yet exhausted—far too deep for someone his age. Dark circles spoke of sleepless nights… or something worse.
His face was empty.
No fear.
No anger.
No hope.
At that time, Ethan did not exist.
There was no reader.
No fusion.
No external voice to share the burden of consciousness.
There was only Samael.
A wounded, exhausted teenager, cast into a hell where people were not people.
They were less than animals.
They were entertainment.
He looked away from the bucket.
Perhaps… he thought vaguely… this was the Spell's way of speaking to him.
Of showing.
Of teaching.
It had thrown him into a place without dignity, honor, or compassion—where death was spectacle and suffering was currency.
Samael remained there.
Hours passed in absolute darkness, wrapped in deep silence—broken only by sounds from the other cells.
Screams.
Pleading.
The sound of nails scraping stone, voices begging for something that would never come.
He did not react.
Did not move.
He sat with his back against the cold wall, eyes open, staring into nothing.
Time lost all meaning.
When they finally came for him, two days had passed.
The same guard returned.
He said nothing.
Simply pulled him by the chains and dragged him through the corridors of the coliseum.
The farther they went, the louder the sounds became.
Screams.
Countless screams.
Human.
Ahead, a massive iron gate loomed. Its surface was scarred with deep marks—scratches, dents, broken nails embedded in its seams.
Despair etched into metal.
Before the gate, his shackles were removed.
Then something was thrown into his hands.
An iron sword.
Simple. Worn. Far too heavy for a fourteen-year-old boy.
Instructions were given—cold, mechanical words, repeated so many times they had lost all trace of humanity.
Samael barely listened.
Then, he was shoved forward.
The gate opened.
The noise struck him like a wall.
Deafening roars erupted from the arena. A maddened crowd screamed, laughed, demanded blood.
— Kill!— Kill them!— Kill each other!
Samael took a few steps into the arena.
The ground was stained dark red.
On the opposite side, another gate began to open.
Slowly.
A woman emerged.
She was crying.
Her hands trembled as she held a sword. Her eyes were swollen, red, stripped of hope.
When she saw him—
Her world collapsed.
The sobbing stopped. Her breath caught. Her eyes widened.
— Son…? she whispered, her voice breaking.
In that instant, everything became clear.
She was the mother of the slave whose body Samael now inhabited.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was calculated cruelty.
One of the coliseum's organizers had chosen this deliberately—a sick spectacle meant to rip out reactions, to turn human bonds into entertainment.
The crowd erupted even louder.
Samael remained still.
His golden eyes met hers.
There was no hatred.
No mercy.
No hesitation.
Only emptiness.
The Spell did not merely want to test him.
It wanted to break him.
And the coliseum waited, starving, to see which of them would fall first.