Damian moved through the fog of the Valley of Regret.
But he no longer thought.
No questions, no hesitation, no fear. His humanity had been stripped away piece by piece with each loop, each death, each grotesque trial. What remained was instinct and purpose. A human shell with a single drive: kill, survive, adapt.
Pain meant nothing. Blood, broken bones, lacerations—none of it registered as suffering. His mind didn't wonder why anymore. It didn't care about how or what it wanted.
He simply moved.
The Spirit of Resentment shrieked across the valley, a massive coil of shadow and fury, its form shifting constantly. Its eyes, countless and hollow, scanned Damian. And yet… it hesitated.
Something about Damian unnerved it. Something human should not have been able to endure—let alone remain void, unshakable, relentless.
The clash began again.
Damian swung his sword. He punched the Spirit directly with his left hand—breaking his own knuckles. It didn't matter. Pain had no meaning anymore. The Spirit recoiled, screeching, and kicked Damian in the right foot.
A strike? A fraction of agony? He didn't flinch.
He drove the sword into its abdomen.
The Spirit screamed—a shriek that rattled the valley—and Damian felt a small, hard object under the steel: a core.
Instinctively, he jabbed again. The core was resistant, pulsing with the Spirit's rage. Blood, ectoplasm, and shadow smeared across his hands and face.
The Spirit dissolved.
Two minutes passed.
Longer than any loop had ever lasted.
It reappeared.
Its gaze locked onto Damian. It moved faster, claws and shadow swirling, fire crackling like lightning, intent on obliteration. And it succeeded—killing him.
Absolute Return activated.
Five seconds back.
Damian landed. Hollow, voided, unmoved. His eyes black and empty—but now, something else: anticipation. Excitement, or at least its closest approximation in a human without emotion.
He looked up at the Spirit.
And laughed.
Eerily. Hollow. Reverberating across the miasma.
The Spirit of Resentment shivered. Its form flickered, shadows trembling. For the first time, it recoiled. Damian exhaled slowly.
"So it's like that," he said. "You have a core. And I found it. So… let's continue our fun battle."
The Spirit surged forward recklessly, swings wide and erratic, mind uncomprehending. It could not fathom a human standing against it. Paranoia seeped into its movements. Damian noticed every overextension, every mistake.
He moved with the rhythm of death itself. His body was honed by loops, aware of attack before it landed, using mistakes to his advantage.
Damian stabbed the Spirit in its abdomen.
He reached inside.
Fingers curling around the core. He yanked. Pulled. The Spirit screamed, writhing violently. Shadow and fire spat in every direction. Damian's hands were slick with ectoplasm and blood. His face, coated, unmoving, unfeeling, showed only the grin of predation.
And the Spirit dissolved.
Sophie's voice was calm. Distant but present.
"Well… that's done."
Damian looked down at the core in his hand. Blood dripped over his knuckles. Shadow swirled around his wrists and arms, remnants of the Spirit.
"So… what do I need to do with this?" he asked, voice hollow, detached.
"Swallow it," Sophie said. "The core will dissolve inside your body. You will awaken at Stage Three. But… you're still Stage One in terms of physical skill and martial training. You'll skip Stage Two entirely. Absolute Return grants you the basics of Stage Three inherently, so you'll survive, but I should warn you—it's… painful."
Damian looked around the foggy valley, scanning for possible threats. Then, without hesitation, he swallowed the core.
"How long?" he asked.
"Two hours at most," Sophie replied. "It's about to start any minute."
And then the agony began.
Damian fell to the floor. He couldn't move a muscle. Every fiber of his body screamed in protest, every joint and bone twisting, snapping, reforming, reshaping. The core burned inside him like molten iron, rewriting his body from the inside out.
Pain had returned in a way he could perceive—not like injury, but as a total, existential restructuring.
Bones broke. Reformed. Ligaments tore. Muscles ripped. Nerves screamed and healed. Tissue rearranged. Every second stretched into eternity.
Damian did not cry. He did not scream. His face was blank, black eyes staring, mind stripped of unnecessary thought. He did not resist. He only endured.
Two hours passed in agonizing cycles. Every loop of pain sharpened him, hollowed him further, and rebuilt him in the image of Absolute Return fused with Stage Three power.
Finally, his body fell still.
Unconscious.
Void.
Hollow.
And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Damian was truly ready.