A few seconds ago…
The world had no right to be this still.
No rustling leaves. No whispering wind. Not even the distant caw of a raven to break the silence. The very concept of sound had been exiled, cast beyond the bounds of existence. And in that unnatural vacuum, in that hollow where the breath of the world had ceased to stir, Sevven hung… or at least what was left of him — suspended within a blinding column of divine electricity was his soul. His arms slack at his sides, legs trailing behind like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Head tilted toward the heavens, eyes closed in a peace too quiet to be natural. The sun crowned him in gold, painting his fall like a saint's ascension. He was caught mid-air like a moment stolen from time… well, stolen from Gojo's iconic pose to be exact, like a portrait painted during its own burning.
But he wasn't screaming. Not yet.
He was smiling.
The lightning bolt faded — slowly, reluctantly — as though divinity itself was hesitating to release its grip. Within a nanosecond his body regenerated, and then, all at once, the energy vanished. He fell.
Hard.
He slammed into the stone platform below with a force that sent a sharp crack echoing through the earth. The surface beneath him fractured in response, spider-webs of rupture spreading from the point of impact. The runes etched into the ritual stone flared, turning red-hot as they absorbed the overflow of celestial force seeping from his flesh.
Sevven twitched.
His arms buckled as he tried to rise. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, vivid against the scorched pallor of his skin. His robe was more ash than fabric now, curling at the edges. Miracle how that survived. His hair stood on end, half-burnt and wild, each strand crackling with static. And deep within, he could feel the weight of what had happened — every particle of his soul had been individually insulted, dissected, and judged by the cruel laws of reality.
Yet still, he laughed.
Not with madness. Not with volume. But with the kind of quiet, inward triumph only earned through pain.
Just… satisfied.
But…
"Phase one?" he muttered, coughing blood, "Contact achieved? How can that b-"
*CRACKLE*
Above him, the heavens were changing.
"Impossible!" Varka shouted.
What had started as a chaotic storm now moved with intent. Clouds no longer swirled in confusion; they spiraled with deliberation. The atmosphere pressed down like a thinking thing, shaping itself into a structure — an intelligence. One eye formed, then a second beside it, and then a third. The storm was watching him, not merely with sight, but with insight — peering into the recesses of his soul, examining not only what he had done, but why.
"No probs" Sevven chuckled.
Good.
He needed it to see.
This wasn't rebellion. This wasn't defiance of mortality. It wasn't even about power.
This was devotion.
True reincarnation — not the diluted, forgetful rebirths known to the ignorant masses — but actual continuity of soul, memory, cultivation, even karmic linkages — demanded more than will.
It demanded seduction.
The Ritual of Unbeing was not a spell. It was not a secret technique passed through whispers in dark halls. It was a binding agreement, a metaphysical contract etched in breath, sealed in agony, and paid for with tribulation. It demanded three sacred elements:
An alchemical vessel — to preserve the self.
A soul brave enough to unmake itself without resistance, not even the slightest.
And a witness — the ultimate judge. The heavens themselves.
The first was complete. The elixir Varka had concocted was a masterwork. Dangerous, yes. Unstable, certainly. It had even temporarily transformed Sevven's left kidney into a chirping birdhouse — a regrettable yet hilarious side effect. But in the end, it stabilized, harmonized, and bound the essence of his being.
The second had already begun.
And now… came the third.
The audience.
The heavens were here. And oh, how they had come to watch.
Sevven rose, slowly, painfully, every joint popping like mismatched pieces of an orchestra tuning for their final concert. His limbs groaned in protest. His spine realigned itself with a symphony of discomfort. But he stood. Unshaken in purpose.
He reached for the clasp at his throat, pulling his tattered cloak from his shoulders and letting it fall. The fabric hit the stone with a hiss — not from residual lightning, but from something far more subtle. His essence was shifting. Not expanding. Not intensifying.
Withdrawing.
Power wasn't radiating from him — it was leaving. What remained wasn't a presence but a vacancy, a sacred hollowness. Not aura, but absence. He was becoming unmade— De-Alchemification, cell by cell, thought by thought.
This was the beginning of the unraveling.
"I am…" he began, then paused.
Not for drama. For precision.
"…no one," he finished.'
The words struck the stone platform like a bell. The runes absorbed them, then glowed, acknowledging the offering. A name willingly surrendered. An identity dissolved.
Silver light etched itself into his skin—whatever was left of it, threading across his body — chest, limbs, spine — forming a glowing tapestry of lines. Not decoration. Not wards. A blueprint. A schematic of deconstruction. The map of a man in the process of ceasing.
A rune beside him pulsed — Varka's pre-recorded voice crackled from it, smug and unapologetic:
"The pain will be exquisite. You're welcome."
Sevven chuckled. "You mad bastard."
And then the wind shifted.
Not a breeze. Not a gust.
A singular pull — upward, spiraling, focused — like the breath of some vast god inhaling. The world responded. Leaves danced against gravity. Dust swirled in reverse. Far away, birds flipped mid-flight, flying upside-down with no understanding of why.
This was no longer meteorology.
This was divine adjudication.
Sevven knelt at the center of the circle.
This should be it. The line. The final step before the fall.
He pressed both palms flat against the stone platform. Beneath his skin, the alchemical binder Varka had prepared activated, interfacing with the carved glyphs. Threads of pure soullight unfurled from his chest, stretching outward, interweaving with the ritual's lines. The entire array lit up from within, like a living city viewed from orbit.
Then came the tearing.
Not abrupt. Not cruel.
A gentle unweaving, like someone undoing stitches sewn too tight. His essence began to separate faster— not from his body, but from itself. Each thread of identity, each layer of consciousness, peeled away like paint under celestial scrutiny.
And he welcomed it.
"Burn it all," he whispered, eyes closed. "Everything I was."
Visions flashed before him — not illusions, but truths. The raw tapestry of his life laid bare: his earliest memory, his years of training, the first time he lost someone he loved, the first time he took a life. Each moment presented itself, demanded acknowledgment, and then… faded.
This wasn't escape.
This wasn't cowardice.
This was tactic.
He wasn't reincarnating to abandon the fight.
He was reincarnating to reposition.
A new angle. A new path. A new weapon.
Even now, something deeper — more sacred — lay buried within him. A secret so potent, so dangerous, that he hadn't even told Varka. It hovered within his unraveling soul like a shard of unspoken destiny.
He reached inward.
Pain lanced through his chest as his existential core — once the very heart of his strength — began to dismantle itself. It didn't explode. It didn't shatter. It simply… unmade. Like a puzzle being gently solved in reverse.
Light poured from his body.
The wind screamed.
The storm's eye widened.
And then it came.
The second bolt.
Not thunder. Not sound. Just a silent verdict wrapped in white flame. It didn't crash — it descended. A judgment disguised as light. The platform cracked beneath it. The mountain trembled. Time itself shivered — just for a moment.
And Sevven screamed.
Only once.
The platform flared. Runes ignited. Then — silence.
Everything was gone.
Only he remained.
Not flesh. Not form.
Souldust — silver, translucent, incomplete. He floated above the stone like an idea awaiting expression. His features glowed faintly. His eyes were lit from within. His face, calm.
He had done it.
The Ritual of Unbeing was complete…
But the tribulation was not.
Above him, the storm hesitated.
It blinked — if such a thing could blink.
This was wrong.
A soul should not survive this.
It should have been obliterated. Eaten by karma. Erased for daring to preserve its selfhood without ascending.
Instead…
It found a loophole.
A soul without weight. Stripped of identity, yet burning with purpose. Free of history, but full of intent.
The storm didn't strike again.
It recoiled.
Then it narrowed its focus.
It changed… target.
The lightning dissolved into something else. The clouds shifted shape. The air distorted. Space warped. Reality bent. In lands far beyond the mountain, birds fell from the sky. Trees forgot how to grow. Gravity lost its bearings.
For the first time in a trillion ages…
The heavens rewrote the rules.
And then—
A voice.
Not sound. Not language.
Just meaning. A thought so pure it became real.
An Edict.
{{You shall not pass untested.}}
Sevven said nothing.
He simply nodded.
Above, the sky began to fold again.
Lightning gathered once more.
But this time, it wasn't random.
It was designed.
A third bolt began to form.
Sharper.
Quieter.
Personal.
And Sevven — who had died properly — waited for it, ready to face the final truth.
It never came…