There was no sound. No wind. No breath.
Gin Chan floated once again in the still void of Death's domain—a vast, cosmic abyss where stars shimmered faintly above a black stone platform. The air felt too still, like the world was paused mid-thought. He knelt there, still bruised and bloodied from the brutal ambush that had ended his last life. His chest rose and fell slowly, more from memory than need.
Then came the clicking of heels.
Death approached—tall, regal, with silver hair like moonlight and eyes that held eternity. Her black dress flowed behind her, timeless and elegant, and at her side, as always, hung the silver short gun: her chosen instrument of reincarnation.
"You're adapting quicker than I expected," she said, circling him.
Gin Chan looked up, his face still swollen. "That last life... Daehyun... he fought with everything. I felt every ounce of his pain."
Death gave a slight nod. "And yet you stood until the end. A spark of will has ignited."
He rose slowly. "You said I called you... that this is punishment. But what exactly am I supposed to learn here?"
She stopped, facing him. "Now you ask the right question. Welcome to the real game, Gin Chan. It's time you understood the rules."
With a snap of her fingers, the stars above shifted. The void twisted, and suddenly they stood in a circular chamber made entirely of stone and light. Floating symbols glowed in the air—images of lives, fragments of souls, fading in and out like ghosts.
"Every life you live leaves a mark," Death began. "You inherit not just their memories, but their talents, fears, instincts. Everything that made them who they were becomes part of you."
Gin took a step forward, watching images of his past selves—Daehyun, the street fighter; the pickpocket who died in a riot; the blind old man who took his own life in a care center—flash by.
"Why show me this now?" he asked.
"Because you're starting to connect. Each body, each death, each regret—it's all preparing you. But understand this, Gin Chan: you don't have endless lives."
Gin's heart tightened. "What happens if I run out?"
Death's smile vanished. "True death. No more questions. No more reincarnations. Oblivion."
He swallowed hard. "Then how many do I have left?"
She raised a single, gloved finger. "Enough for the truth—but only if you stop running from it."
He paced, trying to make sense of it all. "You said I called you when I died. But all I said was—"
"'Death is nothing but the ending.' Yes. That phrase echoes through time. So many whisper it, thinking they are clever, thinking they are done. But death isn't an end—it's a mirror. And now you must face yourself."
He lowered his head. "So... what's next?"
Death walked forward and placed a cold finger on his forehead. A rush of heat surged through him as more memories unlocked. The stolen skills of every soul he had ever been poured into his veins—language, martial arts, knife tricks, marksmanship, poetry, medical knowledge. It all swirled inside him.
"You're becoming more than human, Gin Chan. But the cost is steep."
He blinked, overwhelmed. "Why give me all this? If this is a punishment, why arm me?"
She met his gaze. "Because punishment without a path is cruelty. I am not cruel, Gin. You were given this curse not to suffer alone—but to either transcend your despair or let it consume you."
Gin stepped back, clutching his head as memories and abilities mingled like wildfire. For a moment, he saw all the lives he'd lived standing behind him, each looking at him with tired eyes.
"What do I do with all this?"
Death raised her silver gun.
"You survive. You search. And you listen. The next life will test not just your body, but your spirit. It's not a matter of strength. It's a matter of truth."
He looked at the gun, then back at her. "Can I win this?"
She gave him a half-smile, and for the first time, it was almost kind.
"That's the wrong question."
She fired.
---
Gin Chan gasped and opened his eyes to a room filled with soft golden light and the scent of incense.
He sat up, blinking. His body felt different—taller, leaner, sharper. He looked down at his hands: calloused, ink-stained. A long scar trailed down the back of his left palm.
Memories flooded in.
This is Iori Takamura. Age: 32. A linguist, codebreaker, and spiritualist. Employed by a secretive research institute in Kyoto. He was found dead in a locked room, no signs of struggle, no clues.
Gin reeled from the sheer shift—from boxer to scholar. Iori's knowledge danced across his consciousness: ancient texts, cryptology, philosophical texts on life and death, quantum metaphysics.
But the most important memory?
Iori was working on something dangerous—decoding a document that was said to contain a forbidden pattern. A pattern that, when fully understood, could "speak to the other side."
And Iori was close to cracking it.
Until someone silenced him.
Gin stood and looked around. He was in Iori's apartment. Books were scattered everywhere, walls lined with notes and diagrams. In the center lay a large board filled with red strings, notes written in multiple languages, and a cryptic phrase circled repeatedly:
"He who speaks to Death must first hear himself."
Gin stepped closer, and something clicked inside his mind. The phrase was familiar. Death had said something similar. This wasn't coincidence.
Before he could delve deeper, the front door burst open.
Three men in suits. No words. Just guns drawn.
Gin ducked behind a shelf as bullets ripped through the air. Iori had no fighting training—but Gin did. From the fighter. From the thief. From the soldier.
He rolled, grabbed a chair, and hurled it at the closest attacker. The man staggered, dropping his pistol. Gin surged forward, punched him in the throat, disarmed him in a blink.
Two left.
One aimed. Gin dashed to the side, felt a graze tear across his arm. He flung a stack of books into the shooter's face, charged forward, elbowed him to the ground, and stomped his wrist.
The last man hesitated.
Gin's eyes burned. "You came to kill a scholar. You found something else."
The man fired.
Gin dodged, tackled him, wrestled for the gun—and turned it on him.
Click.
Empty.
They froze.
Then Gin leaned in close. "Tell whoever sent you this: I'm listening now."
He knocked the man out cold.
Breathing heavily, Gin stood amid the chaos. Iori's memories whispered to him. Something about this life was different. This wasn't just random. This life was a clue.
He turned back to the board and read the circled phrase again.
"He who speaks to Death must first hear himself."
He whispered the words aloud.
And the world began to tremble.
The walls twisted. Light faded. Time slowed. Gin stumbled back into the void.
---
Death stood waiting.
"You found your first echo," she said. "The first life that intersects with your own beyond memory. This was not a lesson. It was a key."
Gin blinked. "Why send me there?"
"Because you needed to remember that this isn't just about suffering. It's about finding meaning."
He looked down at his hands again—still shaking. "That phrase... it's from your world."
Death nodded. "And the more you uncover, the more you'll realize: your end was only the beginning of something far older."
Gin took a breath. "Then let's keep going."
Death raised her gun.
And for the first time, Gin didn't flinch.
Bang.
---