Faint footsteps echoed through the pitch-black corridor.
A teenage boy, clad only in thin pajamas, stumbled forward with glassy eyes along the frigid, silent passage. The night's chill and dewy moisture clung to his skin, yet not even the biting cold could halt his unsteady steps. He wandered past the dim, quiet corridor and up a crumbling flight of stairs, finally emerging into an empty grand hall—but still, he did not stop. Right before his feet, the once-smooth stone floor split open without warning, revealing a bottomless void of inky blackness.
A cluster of cyan flames flared to life, cutting through the darkness to reveal a mysterious stone path winding downward into the abyss.
Any ordinary person would have screamed or fled at the sight. But the boy merely stared, expressionless as a wooden puppet. He did not hesitate, stepping onto the path and vanishing into the underground corridor beyond. Behind him, the fissure in the floor sealed shut with a thunderous clang, swallowing his figure like a demon devouring its sacrificial offering.
A cold drop of dew landed on the boy's cheek. He froze, and in that instant, his vacant eyes suddenly blazed with sharp, lucid light.
"Where… am I?"
The boy's eyes widened in shock, his gaze darting wildly across the scene before him.
It was a vast underground chamber, illuminated by flickering emerald-green flames that cast eerie shadows on the walls. Intricate, arcane patterns snaked down from the ceiling to the floor, while stone statues loomed in the corners, their blank faces exuding a sense of ancient, unsettling mystery.
"What in the world is happening?"
The boy shook his head, trying to make sense of it all—only to discover, to his horror, that his body had gone completely rigid.
He felt as if he'd been ensnared by some invisible force, unable to move even a single finger. His mind was sharp and clear, but his limbs refused to obey, frozen stiff as an ice sculpture.
"This… this can't be!"
Panic surged through him at the impossible scene. He gritted his teeth, straining every muscle to break free from the invisible bonds—but it was useless. Desperate, he focused every ounce of his willpower on regaining control of his body, completely oblivious to the shadows stretching across the floor, twisting and coiling like venomous snakes summoned from the dark. Slowly, silently, the shadows crept toward him, then wrapped around his limbs and torso, tightening like iron chains.
A bone-chilling cold seeped into his marrow, wracking his body with agony so intense he could no longer bear it. He opened his mouth to scream—but the shadows erupted in a violent surge, swallowing his entire figure in an instant. His cry died in his throat, snuffed out before it could even leave his lips, as he was dragged into the depths of darkness.
Then, the shadows receded.
The boy still stood in the same spot—but his face was no longer contorted with fear. His once-glassy eyes now held a calm, lazy glint, as if he'd just woken from a pleasant nap. On closer inspection, other changes were visible too: his frame, once thin and scrawny, now carried a subtle, lean strength; his chestnut hair had turned as black as midnight; and the soft, timid features of a boy had been replaced by the sharp, confident lines of a man who knew exactly who he was.
*Not a bad vessel at all.*
Blake flexed his fingers, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as he stared at the faint, flickering wisp of light in his palm—the last remnant of the boy's soul. The original owner of this body, now reduced to nothing more than a fragile spark of consciousness, writhed and wailed, begging to be set free. But Blake had no intention of granting that wish.
"Your part is done. Thank you for the loan."
With a gentle smile, he clenched his fist. The soul wisp flickered once, then vanished into nothingness, silencing the boy's final resistance forever.
Blake stepped out of the hidden passage and gazed up at the dilapidated castle before him, a flicker of helplessness crossing his face. When he'd merged with the boy's body, he'd also absorbed his memories—and with them, the story of this pitiful soul. The boy was the last heir of a fallen noble house. Three months prior, his parents had been tricked by a powerful lord: they'd traded their only remaining asset, a fertile estate, for this desolate plot of land on the kingdom's border. When they'd realized they'd been swindled and tried to confront the lord, they'd been thrown into prison instead. Brokenhearted and humiliated, they'd both fallen ill and died within weeks. The boy, left with nothing but rage and grief, had been "escorted" by the lord's men to this barren fief to eke out a meager existence.
None of that mattered to Blake, of course. He could feel the boy's lingering anger and sorrow, but they were as foreign to him as a stranger's tears. What *did* matter was a fact the boy had never known: this castle, now a crumbling ruin, had once belonged to Blake. And it was no ordinary stronghold—it was the key to his resurrection, a carefully crafted ritual site he'd prepared centuries ago.
The boy had been nothing more than a sacrifice, a vessel to bring Blake back to the mortal realm.
Thanks to the boy's memories, Blake now had a clear picture of the world he'd returned to.
This castle had been one of his many properties in his past life. After his death, it had changed hands several times. The first new owner was a legion commander stationed on the border—but he'd died of a sudden illness just three months after moving in. His family had fled in terror, selling the castle to a wealthy merchant from the capital. Though merchants were forbidden by law from owning military fortifications like castles, the border was a lawless place, and no one had bothered to intervene. The merchant had fared no better than the commander: he'd dropped dead in his study six months later, his cause of death a mystery even to the royal healers. His family had followed suit, abandoning the castle and putting it up for auction.
But this time, no one dared to buy it. A castle where two owners had died mysterious deaths was clearly cursed. Yet as the old saying went, greed blinds all. A newly arrived earl, eager to establish a foothold in the region, had purchased the property, intending to rebuild it as his seat of power. Predictably, he'd met his end four months later—crushed by a loose stone that had fallen from the ceiling.
That had been the final straw. Everyone now knew the castle was haunted, and it had been left to rot for decades, its ownership reverting to the crown. The noble lords who ruled the border region, however, had found a use for the cursed place: it became their dumping ground for enemies they wanted to dispose of without getting their hands dirty. The last two "owners" had been rivals of the lords, tricked into taking the fief and then left to die mysterious deaths in the castle.
The boy had been the latest victim. The lords hadn't wanted to stain their hands with murder, so they'd "generously" given him the cursed fief as a "reward" for his family's loyalty— a gesture that had seemed kind and compassionate to the unknowing public.
Only Blake knew the truth behind those "mysterious" deaths.
He climbed the stairs back to the grand hall, then paused, turning to gaze at the silent, shadowy chamber. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
*Click!*
Emerald-green flames erupted along the walls, illuminating the hall once more. From the shadows, countless wispy black figures emerged—wailing, snarling, and hissing in a language no mortal ear could comprehend. They swirled around Blake like a flock of obedient crows: the castle's guardians, the wandering spirits of those who had died here over the centuries. Bound by ancient magic, they patrolled the halls, hunting down any intruders foolish enough to trespass—waiting, always waiting, for their master's return. Though the scent of living flesh and blood was thick in the air, the spirits did not attack as they usually would. They could feel the overwhelming, terrifying soul aura emanating from Blake's body—a presence that filled them not with hunger, but with bone-deep fear and reverence.
"I'm home," Blake said, his voice echoing through the hall. "Clean this place up. Make it worthy of me again."
He turned away from the spirits, stretching lazily, the bones in his new body popping with satisfying cracks.
*Truly, there's no better feeling than having a body of one's own…*
He thought, heading toward the master bedroom.
*First things first, though—a good night's sleep is long overdue.*