"Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."
His body—what was left of it—felt shredded, torn into ribbons. He saw visions, flashes. The condemned dragged ahead of him, their necks meeting the guillotine, blood painting the wood.
"The soul of torment has no rights. I was born of mold and pain. I return to dust."
"I have no place in this world. I am not needed."
"A Hexant, I am not."
"This world does not love me. I was born of necessity, a vessel to produce more failures. I am not me. Me is who? I do not know."
"Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain."
He spoke in bursts, uncanny and fast-paced, his voice unhinged. The words didn't feel like his. It was as if something puppeteered his throat, forced nonsense from his lips. He didn't understand what was happening.
He had been beheaded. He had died. That should have been the end.
Right?
"No."
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
He screamed.
"I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to dieeeeeeeee!"
His soul writhed, clawing, begging—pleading with every fiber of its being for another chance. To go back. To try again.
And the Shaytan laughed.
Not cruelly, but with a joy that echoed in a thousand directions. As if amused. As if entertained. And then—he showed him.
"You will rise again. And again. Until you kill, slave."
Visions poured into Zad's skull, hot and relentless. yet again.
A Crown.A Coin.A Hanging Man.A Tower split by lightning.A Moon, weeping blood.
Tarot-like fragments, carved into his memory with molten fire.
Then came the flood. Information surged—unasked, unwanted, unstoppable. Was it the Shaytan? Was it instinct? A gift, or a curse?
Among the flood was knowledge of Zero Point.
A strange domain between moments, a realm outside time. Here, he could see the final seconds before his death, reflect, and prepare. This was the domain he was in now.
His instinct knew it belonged to him, though he had no idea where the name came from.
The Shaytan hadn't appeared again. Not after speaking in that ancient, broken tongue. No form. No face. But the knowledge remained.
"So I really did die," Zad whispered at last.
"Again."
Once in Riyadh. And now again, in this cruel new land he'd transmigrated to.
"How truly awful."
The despair returned, heavier this time. Before he became Zad, it had nearly crushed him.
And now it came back like a wave.
but at the very least, he knew, it's not over
"Will I come back now?" he whispered into the dark.
The thought alone made his chest tighten. According to the flood of information still pulsing through his mind, the answer was yes. He could return. Somehow. This power — this curse — let him come back to life.
But...
"The trauma of my head being cut off is all too real."
Even here, in this empty realm of thought and soul, he couldn't feel his head. Yet the memory of pain clung to him, vivid and fresh. That final sensation — the chill of steel, the rush of blood, the way everything just stopped — it lingered like a scream he couldn't forget.
"Death hurts."
It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't poetic. It simply hurt.
He trembled.
"Is there a price for this power?" he asked aloud.
The silence in Zero Point gave him nothing in return.
"Death is not a game. I'm no god."
He held himself, folding inward, terrified. The overload of information, the visions, the blood, the madness — it hadn't even been a full day since he transmigrated. He hadn't had a single moment to breathe, to understand this world, and now... he'd already died again.
"Ha... ha..."
His breath shook.
He remembered the voice — the Shaytan's voice — those ancient, haunting syllables still echoing through the cracks of his skull:
"Agri no mgrora, kiki sigul, romantics hetsingai.Conrila boks, meksikls dosa mekail regabrai.Anata, seko kam agil argons."
"What is the meaning of those words?"
He bit his lip.
"I can't figure them out..."
There was something there, something hidden beneath each sound. He could feel it. Like puzzle pieces just out of reach. He wanted to understand what the Shaytan meant — what those words sealed.
"At least here, I can come up with some kind of plan. I can finally catch my breath in Zero Point."
His tongue was already growing accustomed to this domain, this ability — whether it was truly his, or just the Shaytan playing with him.
"I can use this time to think strategically... or, well, to not die again, I guess."
But suddenly, a shift.
He felt it.
The pull.
The resurrection was approaching.
Point of resurrection. Just fifteen minutes before his execution. Confirmed.
"Already? I don't even have time?! And how did the save point of my return even get chosen like that? Is there a condition for it?"
This power definitely wasn't controlled by him. Someone — or something — could pull him back whenever it wanted.
Panic raced through him. Whatever this gift was, it wasn't limitless. He could feel that. He couldn't rely on the Shaytan to keep bringing him back forever. If he wanted to escape, if he wanted to live, it had to be by his own hands.
"I need to do something."
He clenched his fists.
"I will ensure we survive the execution."
Images flashed in his mind, the small slave girl with golden eyes, the boy who stood by her, and the witch, Emil. That bitter smile just before the blade fell. it stayed with him.
"I won't let them die again. Even if I barely know them. Even if I don't understand this world."
Naive? Maybe. But it didn't matter.
Back when he was Ali, he'd made a vow to himself — to never let those around him fall when he had the power to protect them.
"I won't let them die again," he said, firm.
Then — something shifted. The fabric of Zero Point cracked.
A red eye.
It opened in the distance. Gigantic. Ancient. Watching.
"Huh? What's happening—"
The pain hit. Bells rang. Not in his ears, but in his soul. A divine toll. The weight of judgment. A voice echoed through dimensions, fracturing reality like glass.
"Agrabian ko mesonis."
"Go back, slave. If you die again, you shall find another answer."
"The card I gave you... hold it well. Aha... ahaha..."
Zad screamed.
His voice broke. Split. It echoed through a thousand versions of himself, each howling with terror.
Light.
A blinding light.
Then—
"Aghhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
He gasped.
His lungs burned as air rushed in. Sand filled his mouth. He was coughing. Panicking. Alive.
The world was too bright. Too loud. Too real. He felt every grain of sand against his skin, every beat of his heart.
"Huh...?"
"Yo, big bro! Are you okay?!"
A voice. Familiar.
He looked up — wide-eyed.
It was her.
Amal. Alive.
Still in chains. Still in line.
Still smiling that sharp, tragic smile.
"I'm back..." he whispered.
"I'm alive...?!"