The war was over, and the world demanded its due.
He stood shackled in chains of blessed iron, each link forged with divine spite, biting into his wrists, his ribs, his spine.
Kings and popes flanked him, their silks and scepters gleaming, their faces pale despite their victory.
Once, they'd paid him in gold and souls, whispered his name in shadowed halls, begged for his blade to carve their enemies.
Now, they stood as judges, their eyes darting, afraid to linger on him too long.
The crowd roared outside the sanctum, a sea of voices baying for justice, for blood, for a villain to bury their sins.
Clerics chanted of redemption, their voices shrill, incense choking the air.
Soldiers gripped their spears, knuckles white, trembling not from cold but from the weight of his presence.
Because they knew what he was.
Not a man.
Not a hero.
Not even a villain.
A weapon.
Forged in shadows, honed on betrayal, dipped in the blood of nations.
He was the blade unleashed when words failed, when treaties burned, when gods turned their backs.
With three whispered lies, he'd collapsed empires.
Turned brothers against kings.
Burned sacred groves until ash choked the sky, poisoned rivers until fish floated belly-up, skinned saints while their followers wept.
He'd served them all—gods, tyrants, cults, heroes.
Whoever paid, he delivered.
Gold, secrets, or souls, it didn't matter.
He won.
Always.
But peace came, slithering like a thief.
Peace needed martyrs.
Martyrs needed a monster.
And he was the perfect fit.
So they gave him to the gods.
The altar was soulsteel, unyielding, cold as a dead star.
Chains pierced his flesh—through ribs, ankles, spine, tongue—each link hissing accusations that echoed in the vaulted chamber.
Traitor.
Blasphemer.
Killer of the Innocent.
Breaker of Oaths.
Architect of Ruin.
Murderer of Hope.
He offered no defense. No pleas. Only silence, heavy with rage that had no shape, no outlet.
His eyes, unblinking, burned through the assembly, locking on each king, each pope, each trembling soldier. They flinched. He didn't.
The gods descended, cloaked in gold, fire, and false virtue.
Their presence crushed the air, made knees buckle, made hearts stutter.
The crowd fell silent, faces pressed to the stone floor. He alone stood, chains creaking, blood dripping from where iron met flesh.
"Do you beg for forgiveness?" the God of Judgement thundered, his voice a hammer on anvil.
He smiled, lips cracking, blood welling. "If you were capable of fear, you wouldn't be asking."
The gods didn't flinch, but their light dimmed, just for a heartbeat.
They didn't kill him.
Death was too kind, too final.
Instead, they cursed him.
"You will not die," the God of Judgement intoned, his eyes like molten iron.
"You will be bound," said the God of Order, chains tightening until bones creaked.
"To the weakest dungeon," snarled the God of War, his blade grazing the air.
"No system. No leveling. No purpose. Just pain," hissed the God of Light, radiance burning his skin.
"Every death inside you will be your own," cooed the Goddess of Mercy, her smile a knife.
The Goddess of Memory stepped forward last, her voice soft, venomous.
"You will scream through every monster you birth. You will feel every trap dismantled like limbs torn from your body. You will suffer, forgotten, until the world erases your name."
They reached into his soul and tore it free.
Pain beyond flesh, beyond reason, consumed him. His scream was silent, swallowed by the void.
When he awoke, he was no longer a man.
He was stone and slime and darkness.
A cracked crystal core, pulsing faintly in a rotting chamber.
His limbs were collapsing walls, splintered wood, rusted spikes.
His voice—gone.
Around him, a single room, pathetic, laughable.
Slimes with no teeth, oozing aimlessly.
Wooden traps that misfired, snapping uselessly. Loot worth less than a beggar's crust.
A tutorial dungeon.
The first room every adventurer sees.
The first thing every child kills.
No exit.
No levels.
No system.
Just pain, endless, intimate.
Every arrow through a slime was a needle in his core.
Every blade through a trap was a bone snapped.
Every looted coin, a strip of flesh peeled away.
The curse had no escape.
No loophole.
No end.
He was not meant to grow stronger, to fight back, to be anything but a punching bag for eternity.
So he screamed silently, for four hundred and seventeen years, each death a fresh wound, each laugh a lash.
He felt it all—the boots on his walls, the fire in his traps, the glee of children carving his monsters.
And he accepted his fate.