The library was quiet in a way that felt dangerous. It wasn't just silence—it was a weight in the air, thick and unmoving, as though every breath drawn within these walls peeled back a layer from an ancient, buried truth. The scent of rot and old leather lingered like a warning, and the dim light from scattered wall torches cast uneasy shadows that danced slowly across shelves upon shelves of forgotten knowledge.
He stood frozen, breath shallow, not from exertion but from something deeper—something primal. This place didn't belong to the world he knew. The laws of reality frayed here.
He stepped forward cautiously. His fingers reached toward a thick tome that stood slightly out of line, but before they could touch it, a low murmur swept through the room. It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive.
He turned slowly.
And saw it.
A creature, nearly three meters tall, stood watching him from the dark aisle between two towering shelves. Its form was coated in glistening black slime, pulsing faintly as if breathing. The stench that rolled off it was unbearable—like corpses left in the sun, forgotten and bloated. It had no face. Where a head should've been was a pit of absolute darkness.
"Who are you?" the creature asked, its voice dragging through the air like it was pulled from a well without end.
It sniffed once, sharply. Then added:
"Silver blood... and yet... not quite. Your soul is fractured. Tainted. You do not belong here."
It didn't wait for an answer.
With a roar that cracked the silence like glass, it lunged forward.
He ran. His feet slipped against the cold stone floor as he fled through the twisting rows of bookshelves. The sound of the creature behind him was monstrous—flesh dragging, limbs cracking, a sound that echoed in the bones. He scrambled up the narrow stairs toward the ground floor, heart pounding like a war drum, vision swimming.
He burst into the kitchen, wild-eyed, searching. His eyes landed on a familiar object—a rusted kitchen knife, long-forgotten but still faintly gleaming beneath years of dust.
He grabbed it.
When he turned, the creature was already there.
The battle that followed was chaos incarnate. Roars. Grunts. The slice of metal into flesh. His shoulder tore open under the creature's strike. Blood sprayed. Pain blinded him. But he didn't stop. He stabbed, again and again, until the knife plunged deep into the monster's chest—right where its heart should be.
The world went still. The creature froze.
And then—smiled.
It wasn't a smile of defeat. It was triumph.
Its body dissolved into black smoke, slipping like ink through the cracks of the room, only to reform behind him.
He had no time to scream.
The knife fell from his hand. So did hope.
He crawled backward, dragging his injured leg, breath short and desperate. The creature walked now—slow, assured. It was no longer hunting.
It was claiming.
It crouched in front of him and said, voice a mere whisper:
"Who you are... doesn't matter."
Then it raised the blade.
And began to cut.
It didn't slice cleanly. The knife was dull, jagged, chewing through his throat with unbearable slowness. His screams came out broken, drowned by gurgling blood. His legs kicked wildly against the stone floor like a slaughtered animal. His hands, bleeding, reached for anything—anything to make it stop.
But nothing could.
His entire body lit up with pain. But the true agony was not physical.
It was in the soul.
He could feel it—his spirit wasn't simply leaving. It was being torn out. Dragged. Hooked from every angle, like claws digging into what was most sacred. He wasn't dying.
He was being punished.
Punished for escaping death the first time.
Punished for entering a body that wasn't his.
Punished for belonging neither to the living nor to the dead.
And just before the world slipped away, he heard his own voice inside his head:
"Death is terrifying for those who've never tasted it... but what of those who've already died once?"
He awoke screaming.
His chest heaved. His face soaked with sweat. His limbs convulsed.
He was in the room. The same room. The same moment.
He looked to the floor. The bottle of pills was still there, exactly where it had been the first time.
His gaze shifted to the small table near the wall—
The monocle was there. Unmoved.
He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Fear clamped his spine like ice. He gripped his throat. No wound. No blood. But the pain still lingered, vivid and cruel, as if the blade had just passed through.
He pressed harder, needing confirmation he was still alive.
It only hurt more.
He collapsed before the pills, swallowed a few—not for death this time, but to silence the pain.
And then he passed out.
When he woke again, time had lost meaning. No windows. No sun. Just endless dark.
But his clothes had changed. Or rather… reverted.
He was wearing the same ones he'd worn when he first woke in Roman's body.
"As if time really did reset..."
He stood, shaky.
He turned toward the corner of the room—toward the place where the monocle had first appeared.
It was there.
Untouched.
He picked it up with trembling fingers. As he brought it to his eye, he paused.
On the lens, a single drop of blood—small, bright, and vivid—shimmered like a ruby trapped in shadow.
It hadn't been there before.
Or maybe it had.
He couldn't remember.
But it felt important.
Like a warning. A curse.
A reminder that this was no ordinary tool.
This was an heirloom bound to Roman's cursed soul.
He placed it against his eye. Then turned toward the mirror.
No question marks this time.
Above his shoulder, glowing faintly in red script, were the words:
"Acquisition of the final ability before my death."
He froze.
And then… he smiled.
A twisted, terrible smile.
His eyes wide.
Horrified.
Empty.
He wasn't the same.
Something else stood there in his place.
Something that had crossed through death…
And come back with something more.
Or maybe...
He had left a piece of his soul behind.
[To be continued...]