Damian Leviticus woke up choking.
Cold water flooded his mouth and nose, soaking through the thin blanket beneath him. He jolted upright, gasping for air as the empty bucket clattered across the floor.
"Get up."
His father's voice was flat. Not angry. Not loud. Just tired—like Damian was an inconvenience that refused to disappear.
Damian wiped water from his eyes, his short black hair plastered to his forehead. The room was dim, the walls cracked, the smell of damp wood and old resentment thick in the air. He was nineteen years old, five-foot-eleven, lean from years of hunger and stress, brown-black eyes dulled by disappointment—but there was still something sharp behind them. Something that refused to break.
His mother stood by the doorway, arms folded.
"Get dressed," she said. "We're going somewhere."
Damian didn't ask where.
He never did.
He pulled on his clothes in silence, hands trembling slightly from the cold. His older brother and sister—both spiritualists, both gifted—were nowhere to be seen. They never were when things like this happened.
As always, Damian complied.
The carriage ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
When they stopped, Damian frowned. This wasn't any place he recognized. The air smelled wrong—metallic, dirty, heavy with something unseen.
His mother stepped down first.
A man approached. Tall. Scarred. His eyes lingered on Damian the way one inspects livestock.
"Healthy enough," the man said. "Charismatic face. He'll fetch a good price."
Damian turned slowly.
"What…?"
His mother didn't look at him.
Coins clinked.
The sound echoed louder than any scream.
Chains snapped shut around his wrists, ankles, and neck.
"Mom—?"
She walked away.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't look back.
That was the day Damian Leviticus learned exactly how much he was worth.
The black market was cold.
Stone floors. Iron bars. Cages stacked like coffins waiting to be filled. Damian sat chained against a wall, knees pulled to his chest, lips trembling—but no sound came out.
He cried without tears.
Questioned without words.
Is there a god?
And if there is… why me?
Days passed.
No food. No water.
His lips cracked. His throat burned. His vision blurred. When a slave trader passed by and noticed him still breathing, irritation flashed across the man's face.
"Tch."
The kick came without warning.
Then another.
Pain exploded through Damian's ribs. His head slammed against stone, and the world went dark.
When he woke again, something was different.
He didn't cry.
He didn't ask questions.
He simply stared at the ceiling and waited.
The explosion shattered the market.
Stone walls collapsed. Screams filled the air. Blue and red spiritual energy tore through cages like paper.
Spiritualists.
They moved with purpose. Power radiated from them, crushing and absolute. Fire spirits. Wind spirits. Blades of light.
Damian's heart pounded.
I'm saved.
He lunged forward as far as his chains allowed.
"Help me!" he shouted, voice raw. "Please—!"
No one looked at him.
Not once.
The leader raised his hand. "Clear the area. Burn everything."
Damian froze.
Something inside him snapped.
"You have power," he said, his voice steady in a way it had never been before. "Power that could help. But you use it to destroy."
The spiritualists paused.
"Why did I even ask?" Damian continued, clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms. "You're just like everyone else. Selfish. Greedy."
A few of them laughed.
"But don't worry," Damian said softly. "I'll take today to my grave. Burn it into my skull. And when I resurface—"
His eyes lifted.
"I'll take everything down."
The laughter grew louder.
"You?" one of them scoffed. "You're weak. You'll die with nothing but regret."
Damian laughed too.
"Good," he said. "I don't want to be like you. I'll be my own inspiration. I don't need bastards like you."
A hand lifted.
A spirit flared.
Fire swallowed the black market.
Damian sat in his cage as flames closed in.
"So be it," he whispered, staring upward. "I'll make it by myself."
The fire reached him.
Pain consumed everything.
And then—
Silence.
Damian opened his eyes.
He stood in a translucent realm where reality felt thin and unfinished. A greenish-black river flowed endlessly beneath a dim sky. On the edge of the land sat a woman, legs dangling into nothingness.
"Who are you?" Damian asked. "I'm dead… right?"
She smiled—but her face remained hidden.
"You want to die that badly?" she asked.
"Isn't that better," Damian replied, sitting beside her, "than living in a world full of people like them?"
She hummed thoughtfully.
"Will you be true to your vow?"
Damian clenched his fists. "How can I? I have no talent. No sight. No hearing. No feeling of the beyond. I can't even make a contract."
He sighed.
She laughed.
"I like your weird straightforwardness," she said. "I'll contract with you."
She turned.
Her name tried to form in his mind—then vanished, censored by something greater.
"Oh right," she said cheerfully. "Just call me Sophie."
Her smile widened.
"I am a high spirit. An ectoplasm spirit. My abilities include Devour, Matter, and Embodiment."
She leaned closer.
"But your first stage will be a curse."
Damian didn't hesitate. "I accept."
Sophie blew gently into his eye.
Damian woke up in a forest.
Three interlocking circles glowed behind him like a fading portal.
"Welcome back, Damian," a voice said.
"Sophie?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm here."
As he began to walk, Damian looked up at the sky.
"No one will beat me. Use me. Or betray me again."
"How do I train?" he asked.
Sophie's voice turned calm.
"You only have one ability for now."
Absolute Return.
"No power. No strength boost. Every time you die, you return five seconds before your death."
Damian stopped walking.
"And it won't stop," Sophie continued, "until you surpass that death."
Damian smiled faintly.
"Sounds fair."
Spiritualist Stages
Stage 1 — Absolute Return (Curse Stage)
Infinite death. No power. Only learning.
Stage 2 — Partial Embodiment
Ectoplasm coats parts of the body. Painful. Dangerous. Attracts spirits.
Stage 3 — Devour (Stability Threshold)
Consumes weak spirits or residual death. Ends the infinite loop.
Damian stepped forward.
At death's door—
He had finally arrived.