Today was supposed to be special.
I woke up next to my girlfriend, the soft glow of morning light spilling across the sheets. The air was thick with the stale scent of yesterday's arguments, a heavy blanket that even the soft light could not pierce. I leaned over to kiss her, but she turned away, pretending to sleep. Her usual gentle curve of her back was stiff, unwelcoming. We had been arguing a lot lately, but still on my birthday. I, Kintu, a man who once dreamt of simple joys, felt a cold knot tighten in my chest.
I got dressed quietly and left without breakfast. My job was across town, and the train was late again. The usual chaotic rush of the morning commute felt heavier, each jostle and delay a personal affront. By the time I walked in, my manager, a man whose face was usually red with suppressed rage, did not even yell. He just handed me a piece of paper and said I was fired. On my birthday. Little did I know this would be the least of my worries today. The words swam before my eyes, blurring the crisp edges of the layoff notice.
I left the building in a daze, phone in hand, wondering if I could at least talk to someone who still cared. My mother. I had not spoken to her in years was it pride or guilt I don't even know anymore. A dull ache settled behind my eyes, a familiar companion from years of unspoken words. I scrolled through my contacts, the familiar name of "Mom", a strange beacon in the digital expanse and hit her name.
Someone answered.
"Hello?" a woman said.
It was not her.
"This is the nursing home. Are you perhaps a relative of Ms. Mary Rose?"
I stopped walking. The bustling city street seemed to fade, replaced by a sudden, terrifying silence.
"I'm her son."
A pause. A silence that stretched, thick with unspoken dread.
"I am sorry to be the one to have to inform you of this sir. Unfortunately, she passed away last night."
My knees buckled. The concrete sidewalk rushed up to meet me, cold and unforgiving. I sat down right there on the sidewalk, staring at nothing while tears fell. Not just tears, but a raw, guttural cry that never made it past my throat, burning with every lost year. The world tilted, the sound of traffic fading into a distant hum as the triple blow of the day crushed me.
I rushed home, barely breathing. A desperate, irrational hope surged I needed to see my girlfriend, tell her everything, maybe just hug someone.
When I opened the door, the air in the apartment, moments ago thick with their scent, turned to ice. I saw her on the couch on top of someone else. Clothes half off. Her familiar moans, now sickeningly intimate with a stranger, echoed in the sudden stillness. She looked up, her eyes, once soft, now flat, and devoid of recognition, as if I were a stranger who had stumbled into their private show. There was no flicker of shame, no startled gasp – just a faint, almost imperceptible curl of her lip, a silent dismissal. "Get the hell out," I managed, the words tearing from my throat, raw and trembling. The guy, a hulking shadow against the dim light from the hallway, unfolded himself from the couch. He was a mountain of muscle I had not noticed before, and his laugh, a low, rumbling chuckle, seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.
I lunged, a desperate, pathetic rush fueled by pure, unadulterated shock and fury. But he was faster, stronger. A blur of movement, a blinding flash of pain, and then I was on the cold, hard floor, the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth. My ribs screamed with a dull, insistent ache, and my vision swam, the room tilting violently as I struggled for air. Just before they turned to leave, her face, a mask of chilling indifference, hovered inches from mine. Her breath, sweet and cloying, ghosted across my cheek as she delivered the final blow: "I never loved you. I used you. And I took all the money from your account. Happy birthday." Then, the click of the lock. Silence. I lay there, unable to even twitch, the scream lodged somewhere deep in my chest, burning, but refusing to escape.
I crawled to my bed, blood trailing behind me, and curled into the sheets. The familiar scent of my own misery clinging to the fabric. And I cried myself to sleep.
I do not remember how I died. One moment I was in bed, eyes closed, broken in every way. A fragile shell of a man utterly defeated.
The next, I was floating in a place where light shimmered and clouds swirled like smoke. It was quiet. Still. An eerie calm after the storm of my earthly suffering.
Then, she appeared. The shimmering light around me intensified, not blinding, but rather like a dawn breaking within the void itself. She stood before me, a queen not just in title, but in every line of her being. Her skin, the color of rich, dark earth, seemed to absorb and radiate the subtle luminescence of the space. Her hair, a magnificent halo of tightly coiled curls, seemed to shimmer with tiny, captured stars. A gown of pure, flowing golden threads, impossibly bright, cascaded from her shoulders, rippling as if stirred by an unseen breeze, though there was no air. She stood barefoot upon nothing, her posture regal and utterly unwavering, embodying a presence that was both overwhelmingly divine and profoundly terrifying – a quiet storm of cosmic power.
"Welcome, Kintu," she said. Her voice was a symphony, deep and resonating, yet incredibly gentle. "I am Oya, goddess of rebirth."
I blinked. Was this heaven? Or some twisted dream? The pain, the betrayal, it all seemed so far away, yet acutely present.
"You've been chosen for another life," she continued. "You will be reborn in a world called Alkebulan. A world of magic, power, and gods."
Behind her stood a massive stone wheel, taller than any man, etched with glowing symbols lightning, flame, wind, tree, mountain, and at the bottom… a skull.
"This is the Wheel of Blessings. Each soul spins it once. The god you land on will grant you power."
I stepped forward and placed my hand on the cold, ancient stone. It felt rough, etched with the passage of countless souls. I pushed. The wheel groaned, a deep, resonant sound, as if awakening from a long slumber.
The wheel spun, faster and faster, symbols blurring together. My heart hammered in my chest, a desperate plea for a new beginning. It slowed, ticking one by one. It stopped on the lightning bolt.
I grinned. "Yes! That is the strongest one, right?" A surge of adrenaline, a desperate hope for a hero's journey.
Oya raised an eyebrow. A flicker of something I could not quite decipher crossed her divine face.
Then the arrow clicked again. It moved. A soft, almost imperceptible shift.
Now it pointed to the skull.
"Oh," she said, with a soft shrug. The casualness of her tone was unnerving. "Guess it had a little more juice in it."
My heart dropped. The brief surge of hope withered and died. "What does that mean?"
"You've been blessed by Lefu," she said. Her voice was still calm, but carried a new, solemn weight. "God of death. Rank zero."
I stared at her. The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. "My God, is the Death God?"
"Yes. Your path will not be easy. You will be reborn with three gold coins, a sack of food, and access to the system." She handed me a worn leather bag. The leather was surprisingly soft, ancient. "Blink one eye three times quickly to activate the system for the first time."
I did.
A glowing screen appeared in front of me.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Welcome
Blessing: Lefu, God of Death
Rank: 0
Strength: 1
Speed: 1
Stamina: 1
Magic: 0
Defense: 1
Skills: None
"These stats reflect your past life but can be increased by leveling up," Oya said.
I stared at the screen, jaw clenched. The numbers were a stark, painful reminder of my former, useless self. So, this was my second chance. And it already felt worse than the first.
Oya gave me a solemn nod and stepped aside. "It is time."
In front of me, the space shimmered. One by one, glowing doors blinked into existence, each radiating its own powerful hue. Gold like the midday sun. Crimson like fresh blood. Sapphire like ocean depths. Emerald like a dense jungle. Each door pulsed with magic and promise, a kaleidoscope of destinies.
Then, a sound that seemed to scrape against the very fabric of the void itself: a loud, drawn-out groan that echoed like the lament of a forgotten world. At the far edge of my vision, distant from the inviting spectrum of vibrant gates, something began to form. A door. Not of light, wood, or metal, but of utter, absolute darkness. Jet black, a slab of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the meager light, utterly devoid of markings. A cold, ethereal mist, smelling faintly of ancient dust and forgotten graves, curled from its base, slithering across the void like grasping, spectral fingers. The air around it plummeted, a sudden, piercing chill that made my breath bloom in frosty clouds. Oya, her face now an unreadable mask of solemnity, simply pointed. "That is your path."
My blood ran cold. I instinctively stumbled back, the words tearing from me, "No way. I am not going in there! Can't I try another one?" My desperate gaze latched onto the golden door, the one that had radiated such warmth and promise. I sprinted, a frantic, desperate surge fueled by terror and a primal yearning for light. The moment my hand grazed its radiant frame, a violent, invisible force slammed into me. I was flung backward, my ethereal body hitting the unyielding ground with a jarring thud. A sickening static buzz lingered on my skin, a phantom pain.
Behind me, the black door did not just open; it groaned again, a sound like colossal bones grinding together, and the darkness within began to churn and twist, a hungry, shapeless maw. From its depths, shadowy arms, impossibly long and slender, stretched out, not reaching but grasping, as if they had been anticipating my arrival for an eternity. I scrabbled backward, my hands clawing at the nonexistent floor, a desperate, futile effort. But there were too many. Icy, ethereal hands, like the touch of pure void, gripped my limbs, my waist, my very soul. They did not pull; they yanked, with an undeniable force, dragging me headfirst into the crushing black beyond. My scream tore from my throat, a raw, terrified sound, but it was swallowed instantly, utterly devoured by the encroaching darkness. Then, only silence.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on stone. Rough, uneven, and ice cold. I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting the sudden re-solidification. The air was heavy with dampness and something ancient, the scent of wet earth and forgotten things. A faint purple flame hovered in the center of the room, casting eerie, shifting light on the walls. The chamber was round, its walls covered in carvings. Skulls stacked in spirals. Chains twisted into symbols I could not understand, symbols that seemed to writhe in the flickering light. Something whispered behind the silence, a language too old for words, a faint, chilling hum in the air.
A voice floated through the air. Soft. Feminine. Childlike. "It's been so long since I've spoken to anyone."
I jumped to my feet. "Who's there?"
From the shadows, something stepped forward. Small. No taller than a child. It wore a deep black cloak with a hood that obscured its face. In its tiny hands, it held a miniature scythe, its blade impossibly sharp even at that size. Its glowing purple eyes pierced the gloom, burning with an ancient wisdom, but it did not speak.
The voice returned. "That is Grimmy. Your guardian. He cannot speak, but he will serve you until the end."
Grimmy bowed low, a deep, respectful gesture despite its size, and extended a bundle wrapped in black silk. "These are your gifts. From me. My name is Lefu, the Goddess of Death."
I hesitated before reaching for the bundle. The implications of being chosen by a "death god" still chilled me. I peeled back the cloth slowly.
The first item I unwrapped was a long, sweeping cloak, a shade of black so deep it seemed to absorb all light, yet strangely, it shimmered with faint, unseen depths. Its fabric felt impossibly light, like spun moonlight, yet it carried an inherent warmth that chased away the chamber's chill. The hood, generously cut, draped deep, ensuring my eyes would always be shadowed, even in the brightest light. I glanced at Grimmy, whose own cloak was a miniature mirror of mine. "Well," I muttered, a dry chuckle escaping me, "Guess we match now."
Next, my fingers brushed against a wooden staff. It was smooth and dark, a solid, ancient wood that seemed to fit my grip perfectly. Bone white runes, stark against the dark grain, twisted up its length like skeletal vines, pulsing with a faint, internal light that hummed faintly against my palm, a steady, quiet heartbeat of power.
Then, a silver bracelet. Its links were thick and intricately forged, cool, and heavy against my skin, resembling an artfully crafted chain, but imbued with an almost tangible weight of purpose. The moment I slipped it onto my wrist, I felt a subtle, magical click, a sensation of ancient power locking into place, binding itself to me.
Lastly, a complete outfit: a close-fitting tunic, durable trousers, and sturdy, knee-high boots. All were the same profound black as the cloak. The fabric was sleek, almost liquid in its movement, yet felt incredibly sturdy and resilient. It looked formal, even regal, but I could feel a faint, electric hum in the stitching, an enchantment woven into every thread. I sighed, a ghost of my old self, "I'm sensing a theme here."
The voice gave a soft chuckle. "Kintu, welcome to your next beginning." Her voice resonated with a deeper connection to my very being.
The purple flame in the center of the room flared, casting the carvings into motion. The skulls on the walls seemed to grin wider, the chains twist tighter. The chains on the walls rattled softly. Somewhere deep inside me, something stirred, a cold, nascent power awakening.
Grimmy tugged gently on my sleeve and gestured toward a nearby doorway. The walls shimmered with moving shadows, and beyond the archway, steps descended into more darkness.
"Where does that lead?" I asked.
Lefu answered softly. "To the training grounds."
I followed Grimmy, my new gear feeling strange but comfortable. Each step echoed in the silence until light finally crept into view.
When we reached the training grounds, I squinted at the pale, early dawn sky. The air here was sharp and heavy, carrying the scent of dust and desolation. The land before me was barren, cracked earth stretching out with little sign of life. A single withered tree stood crooked in the distance, a gnarled sentinel against a bleak horizon.
"Welcome to the training grounds," Lefu whispered. "This is where all death gods first prove themselves."
Grimmy led the way again. Despite his tiny form, he moved with purpose, his small scythe a faint gleam in the pale light. As we walked, faint ruins came into view. Old stone circles, shattered statues, and blackened totems. Each one seemed to hum with something forgotten, a silent testament to a forgotten age.
Suddenly, a notification rang in my head.
System Alert: Training Unlocked
Quest Name: Death's Awakening
Objective: Conquer the Maze of Mourning and claim the Death Flame Core
Reward: Death Flame Core
I stared at the message until it faded. The word 'Immortal' echoed in my mind, a strange comfort, a chilling promise.
"Okay... first quest."
Grimmy pointed to a broken hill in the distance where something glowed faintly beneath the rocks. We set off that way.
Beneath the rubble, a wide stairwell spiraled downward, deeper, and deeper until we reached a stone gate carved with bones and flames. The air grew heavier, colder, the scent of damp earth and decay growing stronger. The system pinged again.
System Alert: Entering Trial Zone
Warning: All monsters inside are lethal. Progression is permanent.
Death is not the end.
I stepped through. The stone door groaned, sealing behind us with a heavy thud, plunging us into oppressive darkness. A foul, damp wind rushed over my face. The maze had no light, just flickering purple runes on the walls, casting dancing, monstrous shadows. Every twist in the stone corridors felt wrong, a tightening coil of dread.
Then, it appeared. A monstrous, giant black spider, its obsidian carapace gleaming sickly in the faint purple light. Eight burning red eyes, like embers in the gloom, fixed on me, and its multitude of chitinous legs clicked with an unnerving rhythm against the rough stone. I froze, my breath catching, every instinct screaming to flee. It did not. It lunged, a blur of dark limbs and venomous intent, impossibly fast and heavy. I raised my staff, a pathetic shield, but it was too slow. A searing pain erupted in my chest as colossal fangs, sharp as obsidian shards, punched through my tunic, through my skin, into bone. Everything went cold, a sudden, blinding darkness as my world dissolved into pure, agonizing nothingness.
Then, smoke. Acrid, black smoke, and the violent, gasping sensation of reforming in the same corridor, my lungs burning, raw from the ethereal transit. Phantom bite marks still stung on my chest, fading even as I coughed.
System Alert: Skill Unlocked
Skill Name: Immortal – Level 1
Effect: You cannot truly die. Resurrection through death gods will activated.
Each death evolves your soul.
Grimmy stood silently, a tiny, solemn observer to my gruesome rebirth. I stared at my hands, feeling the unfamiliar thrum of new power. My stats flashed—Strength: 1 → 2, Speed: 1 → 2, Stamina: 1 → 2—each death sharpening the dull edges of my old self.
It happened again, and again. The maze became my abattoir, a crucible of endless pain and sudden, shocking rebirth. Bone-winged bats, their leathery wings beating a chilling rhythm, descended in swirling cyclones, their razor claws tearing at my flesh, each strike a blinding flash of agony. I would collapse, only to reform, the phantom sting of their attacks reminding me to swing wider, to guard my head. Shadow wolves, amorphous blurs of predatory darkness, would phase through my desperate staff swings, their unearthly howls echoing before their spectral fangs clamped down, crushing bone. I learned to anticipate their phasing, to strike where they would coalesce. Skeletal knights, their rusty armor clanking with every ponderous step, moved with a surprising, deadly precision, their hollow eye sockets burning with ancient malice as their blunted blades cracked my ribs, shattered my leg bones. I would rise, my body throbbing with ghost pain, but knowing their patterns, memorizing the slight hitch in their swing.
But I kept coming back. Stronger. Faster. Smarter.
Strength: 12
Speed: 20
Stamina: 16
Magic: 9
Defense: 18
By the time I reached the heart of the maze, my body felt like it had been shattered and stitched together a thousand times over, a grotesque patchwork of death and resurrection. Every brutal death had sharpened me, honed my senses, carved away the weak parts of my soul. The initial terror that had gripped me with that first spider's attack, the sickening crunch of its fangs, the warmth of my blood, the cold, all consuming nothing that followed—had, through repetition, become a routine. Pain. Death. The acrid taste of smoke. The gasp of rebirth.
Now, I stood before the last door. It was heavy stone etched with deep claw marks, and behind it, I could feel heat. Purple flames licked through the cracks, casting a hellish glow.
I pushed it open.
The room inside was massive. A wide, circular arena built from cracked obsidian. In the center stood a blazing pillar of purple fire, so bright it made my eyes water. But I was not alone.
Between me and that fire, a hulking figure waited. The Minotaur of Mourning stood before me, a beast of muscle and rage, easily three times my height, its thick black fur matted and coarse, bristling with primal energy. Its horns, curved high and wide, formed a cruel, obsidian crown. In its hands, a massive axe, too heavy for any mortal man, dragged across the cracked obsidian floor, leaving gouges as it turned, its molten iron eyes locking onto me. It did not roar. It did not utter a sound. It merely snorted, a cloud of hot, smoky breath billowing from its nostrils, and then it charged. The ground vibrated with the force of its stampede.
I gripped my staff, a new resolve hardening in my chest. I was not that broken man anymore; death had been my cruelest, most effective teacher. My stats glowed, a testament to endless rebirths:
Strength: 100
Speed: 100
Stamina: 100
Magic: 100
Defense: 100
Skills:
Immortal – Level 1
This time, I did not hesitate.
The minotaur moved like a force of nature, a living avalanche. The first time it connected, I barely even registered the axe. It was a blur of steel and furious motion. One swing, a sickening, pulverizing impact that felt like a mountain collapsing on my chest, and then I was gone. Blood, bone, dust—then the familiar cold oblivion. I woke up on the stone floor just outside the arena, gasping, the phantom pain of my shattered sternum lingering. Again.
I re-entered. Dodged left, the axe splitting the obsidian floor behind me with a thunderous crack, but the beast's horn, sharp as a spear, caught me in the ribs. I heard them snap, felt the splintering agony. Then, a new horror: the minotaur's entire body burst into crackling, crimson flames, and it rushed me, faster, more furious than before, a living inferno. A searing heat enveloped me, and the second swing was even quicker, more devastating. A second death. And then a third, a fourth, a tenth, a twentieth. I stopped counting after thirty. My staff cracked, splintering with each desperate block. My cloak burned and shredded, only to reform with me. My body shattered, melted, crushed, but always, always returned. My hands, initially trembling with residual terror, learned to steady themselves. I learned. I memorized every lumbering step, every furious swing, the almost imperceptible tell in its shoulder before a downward chop, the feint before an uppercut. Still, I died. Forty-three. Forty-seven. Fifty.
On the fifty-first time, something within me snapped, or perhaps, finally clicked into place. I stood, my reconstructed body half-broken again, barely able to hold the staff upright, fatigue a heavy shroud. The minotaur stormed toward me, its molten eyes burning with an unholy fire, its axe wreathed in the same infernal flames. My vision blurred, my legs threatened to buckle.
Then, I saw it. Not with my eyes, but with a deeper sense. A flicker in the air, a nascent swirl of darkness, a thread of smoke coiling around my fingers, a cold presence that was both familiar and utterly new. The staff, now an unnecessary weight, slipped from my grasp. I raised my arm, not in defense, but in command. From the coiling smoke, from the very essence of my death blessing, a weapon formed. Not solid, not ethereal mist, but a perfect, impossible blend of both scythes. Black and endless, curved like a crescent moon, its edge sharp enough to carve silence from the air. I swung it. Not with strength, but with a fluid, terrifying grace that felt pre-ordained.
One clean, effortless cut. The minotaur, mid-stride, froze. Its flaming eyes widened for a fraction of a second, reflecting the impossible blade. Then, with a silent, unnatural sigh, its massive body cleanly split into five perfect pieces, sliding apart like carved stone. The crimson flames died instantly, vanishing as if they had never been. The massive axe clattered to the floor, a mundane echo in the sudden, profound silence. I had won.
I looked at the scythe in my hand. It pulsed once, a final beat of dark power, then vanished like breath on a mirror.
The system's voice returned.
[Skill unlocked: Reaping Slash – Level 1]
I walked toward the pillar of fire. It no longer burned wildly. It waited. Like it had been watching.
I reached out and placed my hand into the heart of the flame. It did not hurt. The fire curled around my arm, slid up my chest and into my mouth. It filled me with a new power. My breath came slower and steadier. Power thrummed beneath the surface of my skin like a heartbeat. A system notification glowed before me.
Status Update
Strength: 10000
Speed: 10000
Stamina: 10000
Magic: 10000
Defense: 10000
Skills:
Immortal – Level 1
Reaping Slash – Level 1
I clenched my fists. Nothing hurt anymore. No fear. No hesitation. The arena that had once been my tomb now felt small, like a room I had outgrown. Ash drifted from the air as I turned to face the door that had opened. It pulsed with faint violet light, waiting.
Lefu's voice whispered one last time. "You have endured death more times than most do in lifetimes. You burned, bled, broke, and returned. My blessing is complete. The world beyond this door is Alkebulan. The world to which all doors connect. Your first task will be to head to the nearest city in order to begin your newest life."
The light from the door washed over my cloak as I stepped forward. I stepped forward. Not because I was ready. But because I was not afraid anymore.