The cell hadn't changed.
Same gray stone.
Same rusted bars.
Same corner — where the knife still waited.
Ken stood over it, staring in silence.
It used to scare him.
It used to make his hands shake.
Now?
He picked it up like it was just part of him.
He sat in the middle of the cell, brought the blade to his neck, and sighed.
"Let's try again."
The cut was clean.
Soul Reset activated.
He woke up.
Same cell. Same knife.
He did it again.
Soul Reset activated.
Again.
Soul Reset activated.
Again. Again. Again.
There was no time. No hunger. No pain.
Only death. Over and over.
After the first hundred resets, he stopped crying.
After the first thousand, he stopped hoping.
After ten thousand?
Ken didn't even blink anymore.
He just pressed the blade into his throat, or heart, or stomach — and vanished.
Each time he came back, the knife was still there, waiting for him like an old friend.
Soul Reset activated.
Eventually… he stopped.
He sat against the wall, body trembling, vision swimming.
He dropped the knife beside him and let his head rest against the stone.
"There's no way out," he mumbled.
His voice was raw.
His eyes were dry.
He closed them and let himself sleep, unsure if he'd ever open them again.
And then…
Light.
Ken blinked as footsteps echoed in the hallway.
He sat up slowly, expecting the silence again — the stone, the knife.
But this time… someone was there.
A guard. Tall. Unfamiliar face. Armor with the city's crest.
The man looked at Ken like he was just another petty thief.
"You've been in here long enough," the guard grunted. "Come on."
Ken didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just stared.
Is this real?
The cell door creaked open. The guard reached for his arm, pulling him up.
"Don't cause any more trouble, kid. And don't go threatening people next time."
Ken blinked, dazed.
"You're… back," he whispered.
The guard frowned. "Huh?"
Ken stumbled into the light.
For the first time in ten months, he stepped outside the prison gates.
The sky was real. The breeze touched his skin.
The sun burned his eyes.
"I'm free…" he whispered.
And then louder — with a cracked, trembling voice:
"I'm free."
The city hadn't changed. People walked by. Markets buzzed. Bells rang in the distance.
But Ken… he had changed.
He wasn't the same person who had begged for bread in the desert. Or scrubbed dishes with shaking hands.
He was tired.
But alive.
And then, as if fate couldn't resist mocking him, he saw him.
Vando.
Walking down the street with a bag of groceries.
Ken's breath caught.
"He's alive…"
He approached slowly, nervous. Vando didn't recognize him. His eyes passed over Ken like he was just another stranger.
"Excuse me, sir," Ken said softly. "Do you… need any help at home? I could wash dishes, clean the house. I don't have anywhere else to go."
Vando hesitated.
Then gave a small nod.
"I suppose I could use an extra hand."
The house was just as Ken remembered.
Warm wood. Stone walls. The faint smell of stew.
Vando handed him a bowl of food.
Ken ate quietly, the silence between them heavier than it was last time.
"What's your name?" Vando asked as they sat at the table.
"Ken," he said. "Ken Arai."
"You from around here?"
"Yeah."
Lie.
"How old?"
"Seventeen."
Vando nodded and got up.
"You can sleep in the guest room. Chores start in the morning."
Ken looked down at his hands.
They were trembling — not from fear. From memory.
He nodded.
"Thank you."
The next two days passed the same way they had before.
Ken washed dishes. Cleaned the house. Ate dinner with Vando.
And when he went to sleep, he stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering…
Would he wake up here again?
Or would the prison call him back?
He didn't know.
But for now — even if it was a lie…
He let himself feel safe.