"No… please, no…" Oliver whispered. But nothing listened.
When it was done, the beast grunted—a sound of mild satisfaction. With a jerk of its head, it flung what remained of him—discarded flesh, dust—into the blackness.
And then—
A soft glow.
Letters etched into the air like breath on cold glass:
Welcome…
Do you wish to continue the journey of death?
Y/N
The words pulsed with quiet menace. His incorporeal form hovered before them, paralyzed. He didn't want to know what would happen if he chose Y.
His hand—if it could still be called that—reached forward. Trembling.
He chose N.
The world collapsed.
A rush of wind. The sound of thousands of wings flapping backward. Time retracting. Light folding in on itself.
Then—
He stood.
Feet on grass. Body whole. Breath in his lungs.
The air was humid. Alive.
He looked around.
The tree was gone.
The exact spot he'd fled to in humiliation—the place where his feet had pounded the earth in shame—was where he now stood. But the tree that had once whispered comfort, shelter, mystery… was no longer there.
As if it had never existed.
His hands trembled. His knees buckled.
And for the first time, he realized—
He wasn't the same man who had run here.
Not anymore.
For a while, he couldn't understand what had happened. His face felt cold, distant—like a mask he no longer recognized. He turned, again and again, searching for the tree.
Nothing.
Then—
A whisper against his ear.
His body went cold.
He turned—not toward the trees, not toward the sky—but toward the people who had humiliated him.
And he heard it again.
Not laughter. Not cruelty.
Cheers.
They weren't cheering for him. Not for his return.
But for something else. Something hidden among them—something sitting beside the fire, or maybe the fire itself.
Curiosity dragged him forward. No hesitation. No breaks. Just movement.
He walked slowly, as if part of him resisted—while another part, something deeper, something changed, forced him onward.
Voices called in the distance. Not one. Two.
Familiar.
Was it Leo?
Or the woman—the one whose presence still burned in his memory, even after the crowd had swallowed him whole?
And as he moved, something tracked his steps.
He didn't notice at first—too focused on the voices ahead.
But high in the trees, something shifted with him.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
Just… mirroring.
A shadow waiting for the perfect moment.
"Is that all…?" Play another one for us…"
The melody ended. A deeper voice rose—masculine, commanding.
Oliver froze.
"Wait… Why am I here again?"
His eyes darted.
And then—
He saw him.
The one who had caused the humiliation.
The one he'd been told to kneel before.
Yama.
The name wasn't spoken here—it was feared like a blade at the throat.
Rage.
It wasn't him moving now. Something else had taken over.
His body circled, predatory.
What would've happened if I had felt this way before?
If he'd known this fury was buried inside him all along?
His fist clenched.
Veins bulged like wires beneath his skin. Knuckles cracked, bones pressing against flesh. His arm looked mechanical. Inhuman.
And then—
A flicker.
Light shimmered beneath the skin of his right shoulder.
A pulse of energy traveled—fist to shoulder, shoulder to fist, over and over.
He tried to relax his grip.
Impossible.
It was like lifting a train from the ocean's depths.
Every time he forced a finger open, it snapped back into a fist.
Every time skin touched palm, the light burned brighter.
It became a war. A battle only he could see.
His arm was no longer his.
It had a soul of its own.
A heart of its own.
Twenty agonizing minutes passed before he finally pried his fingers open.
The light dimmed—flickering, vibrating beneath his skin like a dying engine.
When it faded, he saw it.
A black mark.
Star-shaped.
But beneath each sharp point—something else. Symbols. Claws. Something buried.
He leaned in—
Pain exploded through his palm.
Right where his fingers had pressed into his own flesh.
Something warm oozed out.
He staggered.
Red?
Blood.
But why?
How?
Then—
Another melody.
Deeper. Heavier.
Its notes dripped with sorrow and awe.
It gripped his soul.
And in that moment—
He forgot.
The cave. The tree. The beast.
All of it.
Gone.
Wiped clean as the music filled him.
He moved, hypnotized. Drawn like a moth to a flame.
As he rejoined the crowd, eyes turned toward him.
At first, he thought they were looking at him.
But as he passed the third person—
He realized.
They weren't.
They were looking past him.
At something else.
Something far worse than anything he'd just survived.
Then he turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of what held their gaze.
But the effort was futile. As soon as he turned, their eyes also turned.
"Huh! There is nothing behind me, so why are they all staring, afraid, and frozen all at once?"
He giggled, sighed, and turned again towards the source of the melody.
As he moved, he kept shaking his head, trying to forget about their eyes. But they saw something following his steps. It wasn't his shadow; no, something else was taking over his shadow.
It was hiding its form in his shadows.
Meanwhile, he just walked like nothing was there. Then, he did it again. This time, he didn't just step on his foot—he crushed it.
Immediately after he passed him, the man became very furious. He ripped off his shirt, stormed toward Oliver, grabbed him by the collar, and hoisted him into the air. That's when everyone saw his body. Veins bulged. Burn marks crisscrossed his skin. Symbols and words were carved into his chest, back, and waist—etched deep, like ancient warnings.
"Hey! Yama! Put the boy down!"
Nearly punching Oliver in the head, a voice broke out. Commanding. Heavier and sharper. Tree branches began swinging brutally. Leaves tore from the branches and fell like rain. His voice wasn't just a normal voice; it was soul-binding. The voice alone could make a hibernating volcano ignite.
Due to the rate at which the voice came, Yama's fist couldn't touch Oliver, but it was just an ant-size away from his nose.
The punch never landed, but Oliver felt its force—the raw energy radiating from Yama's fist.
If it wasn't the man who spoke, he would have faced death again.
"Who is that?" someone gasped.The entire crowd turned toward the source in fear.And when they saw him—their faces blanched, as if death itself had appeared.