Who would've thought…
Her end would begin with the words:
"You're right. It would be much better if you disappeared forever."
Divonne's eyes widened in disbelief—her breath caught in her throat.
Jovita Herzmin, her aunt by blood and executioner by choice, stood at the top of the mansion's grand staircase, her face twisted in unfiltered hatred. And then, without hesitation, she shoved her.
Divonne's scream echoed through the empty corridors as her body crashed violently down the spiral stairs. Bone met marble. The world spun. Pain laced through her spine—until everything went still.
At the top of the staircase, Jovita looked down at the broken body with a cold, venomous grin.
"Rest in peace, daughter of a whore," she muttered under her breath, turning away without remorse.
The light in Divonne's eyes faded to black.
Somewhere Beyond Death
In the silence beyond life, a realm untouched by time began to stir.
A radiant, formless figure cloaked in navy-blue light emerged from the shadows of the void. Its voice, calm yet ancient, echoed in the emptiness.
"Master… I have waited centuries for you. I am here to serve."
At the sound of the voice, Divonne's eyes snapped open.
She found herself suspended in an ethereal space. The atmosphere shimmered like fractured glass, the ground shifting beneath her feet though she wasn't falling.
She blinked rapidly. "What… where am I? Is this… the afterlife?"
She turned toward the voice. Before her stood a glowing figure draped in a hooded cloak—no face, no form, only presence.
Her eyes narrowed. "Did you just call me Master?"
The entity nodded. "Yes. You have awakened your power. You are now the ninth Spirit Master of the Empire of Anachebol."
Divonne recoiled slightly. "Spirit… Master? What is that supposed to mean?"
The being spoke calmly, patiently, as if it had done this before—ages ago.
"A Spirit Master is born once every four hundred years. Since the founding of Anachebol, they have been called the Empire's last hope—its Trump Card. Chosen by the gods, Spirit Masters are mortals capable of traveling through spiritual dimensions, commanding divine spirits, and communicating with entities unseen by human eyes. They are born to stop the forces that seek to consume the empire from beyond."
Divonne's confusion began to give way to wonder. "Why only once every four hundred years? That seems like a long time to wait for help."
The spirit paused. "Because the first Spirit Master's fate ended in tragedy. The gods chose to limit the burden. One Master. Every four centuries."
It raised its head slightly. "I am one of the three primary spirits that serve the Empire. I am the Spirit of Death. And from this moment on, I belong to you."
Divonne exhaled shakily. "I've read stories about Spirit Masters… but nothing could've prepared me for this."
Her voice dropped. "Wait… if I'm here, then I must really be… dead?"
"Yes," the spirit answered softly. "That is how all Spirit Masters awaken. Powers are only unlocked in the face of death—whether through old age, sacrifice, or… betrayal."
Silence stretched between them. Then she chuckled bitterly.
"Well, betrayal it is then."
She looked up, her tone shifting to something firmer. "If I'm dead, how do I use this power?"
"You've been granted a single privilege," the spirit replied. "A one-time regression. You may go back in time to any point in your life… except your adult or old age. Those are forbidden by divine law."
Divonne fell quiet. Her hands trembled slightly as the realization settled in.
One chance.
One moment to choose.
One life to rewrite.
"Understood," she finally said. "Then I want to return to the night after I turned twelve."
The Spirit of Death bowed respectfully.
"As you wish, Master. We—myself and the other spirits—will be with you when you awaken. You won't face this alone."
Light consumed the realm. The air began to ripple like water. The boundaries of time bent around her will.
And just like that…
The afterlife vanished.
And time was rewritten.