It felt like hours.
Bucket after bucket. Cold crashing down, again and again. I lost count.
The chill never faded. But my body had stopped reacting. No shivers. No flinching.
I'd passed that point a long time ago.
Around me, the servants began to whisper.
"Is she dead?"
"She hasn't moved at all…"
"She's nothing like the last one."
But none of them stopped. Not with the noble watching.
I turned them out.
My pnevma stayed inward – on pnevma. I kept the steady flow. My body still ached, by the core was mending. Weak. Not enough to fight.
But enough to survive.
If a window opened, I would take it.
The water stopped.
I opened my eyes.
The noble raised his hand. A silent gesture.
The servants moved instantly. Two of them lifted me from the basin. They laid me down on the stone floor. I didn't resist.
The basin scraped away, dragged out of view.
And beneath me, the full ritual circle was revealed – dark ink against pale stone, etched with precision and intent.
One of the servants approached.
He knelt beside me and took my hand without asking. A small blade glinted in his palm.
I tensed. Too late.
He cut across my skin – quick and clean.
Pain flared. A cry slipped out before I could stop it.
Blood ran down my palm, soaking into the etched lines beneath me. The circle drank it eagerly.
I turned my head. Met his eyes.
He froze.
One look was enough. He backed away in silence, eyes lowered, hand shaking.
The others didn't move.
A beat passed. Then the noble stepped forward, book in hand. He began to chant.
The language was old – older than this manor, maybe older than this faith – but there was no weight in his voice. No reverence. Just rushed syllables, uneven cadence, like a child mimicking something half-remembered.
Sloppy.
Wrong.
But the circle lit up.
A soft white glow crept beneath me, veins of light tracing outward. One line. Then another. Then all at one – the entire circle igniting like it had taken a breath.
"Oh – it worked!" the noble grasped, stunned. He threw his arms into the air and laughed. Loud. Off-key. Drunk with success he hadn't earned.
That was when I knew.
This was his first time.
He didn't understand what he was doing. He had watched it once – maybe not even that. He was guessing.
The air shifted.
The light curled around my limbs, weightless but binding. Like threads woven from breath. Not burning. Just anchoring. Sealing.
I tensed.
If this worked… what then?
Would I be ripped from this body?
Would I wake up in that world again –
– or not wake at all?
The circle pulsed.
A rhythm. A heartbeat –
Not mine.
But the pain never came.
Instead, warmth spread through my core.
Not fire. Not agony.
Healing.
It seeped into me – slow and steady – filling old fractures in my pnevma channels, places long scarred and broken. Like water soaking into cracked earth.
I knew this feeling.
I'd touched it once before, years ago, after a monster raid left me torn open and half-dead. I'd stumbled into a rejuvenation spring. It felt like this.
I smirked.
Maybe I got lucky.
Or maybe the noble truly had no idea what he was doing.
Either way, I wasn't going to waste it.
I drew the pnevma in.
Not just into the old pathways – but into the new ones. The unstable, half-formed lines this body barely understood.
It welcomed me at first.
Then turned.
This energy wasn't meant for humans. Not like this. Not in one rush.
It was wild. Raw. Meant to restore slowly over time, not be consumed all at once.
My body began to shake.
I forced it in anyway.
Something tore.
I coughed – hard. Blood splattered against the glowing floor. It sizzled on contact, dark against the white light.
The noble startled – then laughed.
"The devil will soon perish," he declared, arms raised in triumph as if he'd won something. "It's working!"
He saw the blood and believed it was proof. That I was breaking.
That worked in my favor.
I didn't correct him.
The pnevma surged inside me – dense, volatile. My core strained to hold it. My damaged body couldn't contain the flow. It leaked through every crack in my channels, boiling under the skin.
But I didn't let it escape.
Then the trembling stopped.
I lifted my head and met the noble's eyes.
He froze.
"You should have run when I bled," I said.
He didn't move.
The chains snapped.
Pnevma burst outward – violent and uncontrollable. It cracked through stone and steel, surged through the floor in jagged lines of force.
The guards reacted. Too slow.
I moved.
The world blurred. My hand struck the first in the chest – armor folding inward like paper. The second turned, weapon half-raised.
I was already behind him.
They hit the ground before either could scream.
Behind me, I felt the noble's fear spike. His breathing grew sharp and uneven. He stumbled back, arms lifted like prayer could change the outcome.
Then I called it.
The scythe formed in my hand – solid, familiar.
Black metal. Curved blade. Cold as silence.
I hadn't held it since my last battle in the other world.
But the bond was still there.
They called me Death Reaper for a reason.
Not because of the weapon.
Because when I stepped onto the field – nothing walked away.
The servants stared. Pale, frozen. One dropped to his knees. Another stepped back and pressed against the wall. No one moved to stop me.
No one even breathed.
The noble scrambled into the corner, eyes wide.
"Wh-what are you?" he choked out.
I stepped toward him.
"The devil," I said. "Isn't that what you called me?"
He dropped to his knees.
I stopped in front of him, letting the scythe's curved blade hover just behind his neck.
"Don't kill me," he whispered, trembling.
His hands were clasped like prayer might save him.
But no gods came.
I didn't answer.
I swung the scythe.
His body dropped. Blood spread across the polished floor in widening arcs.
I had used this weapon to kill weapons – creatures twisted by corrupted pnevma, both from storm and death.
This was the first time I used it on a human.
But I didn't call him one.
He chained the girl to the floor and called it sacred.
The girl in this body had begged for her life once.
This wasn't anger.
It wasn't revenge.
It was mercy.
For her.
And for whoever would've come after.
I turned to the servants. They hadn't frozen. Fear had frozen them in place.
"Bring me clothes," I said.
One bolted from the room and returned with a folded set of robes – simple, clean. I took them without a word and dressed.
The others remained silent. None met my eyes.
Servants didn't always carry the sins of their masters.
So I let them live.
This time.
But if I ever saw them do what he did –
There would be no mercy left.
I crossed the room and pushed open the doors.
And for the first time since I woke up in this world –
I stepped out.
Out of the chamber.
Out of the ritual.
Out of hell.