The forest was quiet. Too quiet.
Damian's body felt heavy, though he knew it was lighter than it had ever been. Every nerve, every sinew, every muscle remembered pain it had never felt before. Memory of death lingered in his bones, etched into his reflexes like iron in stone.
He knelt on the damp earth, staring at the green-black river that cut through the forest. Its surface shimmered unnaturally, reflecting a twisted version of himself back at him—pale, hollow-eyed, yet smiling faintly.
That smile was new.
He wasn't happy. He wasn't alive. Not really. But he had decided something: he would survive. And he would learn.
Death would be his teacher.
The first attack came without warning.
A shadow lunged from the treeline—a humanoid shape, sinewy, limbs elongated and snapping unnaturally. Its face was a featureless mask, teeth gleaming in the dim light. A jagged claw shot toward Damian's chest.
Pain exploded. His vision shattered. Blood flooded his mouth before he even had time to scream. He fell, broken, screaming, and purgatory swallowed him in fire again.
And then he was back.
Five seconds. Every detail—memorized.
Damian's eyes flicked to the approaching shadow. This time, he crouched, timing his movement with precision. The claw struck the exact spot it had before. His body twisted instinctively, jerking to the side. He felt the air rush past him, smelled the ozone of the shadow's presence, heard the faint tearing of its inhuman sinew. He landed hard, scraping his palms across the dirt, heart pounding—but alive.
A grin, thin and hollow, spread across his lips.
"Good," he whispered. "We're learning."
The shadow attacked again, faster this time. Damian ducked, rolled, dodged a swipe that would have cleaved him in two. Step by step, motion by motion, the forest became a grid, a map, a mechanical puzzle. Every swing, every thrust, every strike repeated itself in a predictable pattern. Damian didn't have martial arts. He didn't have speed or strength. He didn't have stats.
What he had was death.
Every time he died, his body remembered, adapted, and refined. He began to see trajectories as if they were drawn in the air. Every claw, every bite, every lunge carved a path before him, visible to his perception.
It was not skill. It was evolution through agony.
The shadow hissed, limbs snapping violently, and Damian lunged for the first time. His strike was clumsy—a poorly aimed kick that barely grazed the creature's leg—but it was progress. The shadow screeched, lunged, and tore his chest open like paper.
Blood. Pain. Agony.
He fell.
Purgatory consumed him. The green-black fire licked his consciousness, stripping away more of what was left of his humanity. Yet this time, when he returned… he didn't groan. He didn't cry. He didn't flinch.
He smiled.
Back in the forest, Damian's mind was sharp. Clear. Focused.
He watched, waited, measured. He could anticipate the shadow's attacks—not through intuition, not through skill, but through sheer repetition. His body, worn and bleeding, moved before thought. He dodged with mechanical precision, the creature's attacks harmlessly tearing air where his body had just been.
"Step one," he murmured. "Observation. Evasion. Timing."
He struck again. And again. And again. Each blow was sloppy, clumsy, barely connecting. But each time, he learned. He felt the creature's weight, its momentum, the way its claws twisted through the air. Each failed attack built a mental map, a foundation.
The forest became his dojo. The shadow—his opponent. His teacher.
Death came quickly, as always.
A swipe across his leg that he didn't anticipate tore flesh from bone. His chest was rent open. Fingers broken. Teeth shattered. Eyes blurred with blood and terror and the cold fire of purgatory swallowing him once more.
But this time… he laughed.
A sound not of joy. Not of relief. But of resolve. Hollow, bitter, unfeeling.
"Good," he whispered as the green-black flames consumed him. "I'll take it all. Every death. Every pain. Every bit of agony. You're my teacher now. You'll show me how to survive, and I'll carve my foundation from your claws."
Back in the forest, again.
Damian rose slowly. His chest ached. His limbs felt like lead. His hands were red, slick with his own blood. And yet—he moved differently now. No panic. No fear. Just calculation.
The shadow leapt at him again. This time, Damian didn't flinch blindly. He sidestepped, twisted, used the momentum of its own attack to roll behind it. His first strike connected—a sloppy punch to its side—but it tore its flesh open, leaving a shallow gash that hissed and smoked.
Another death came from a claw to the head, tearing his skull. And purgatory swallowed him.
And yet… he returned with a grin.
This was training.
Every death a lesson. Every injury a teacher. Every shred of flesh torn from his body a map to survive next time.
The forest shifted, time stretched, and the shadow attacked with unpredictable fury. Damian began to move with purpose. He started counting. One, two, three… each attack fell into a rhythm. He ducked, weaved, rolled, and even managed to land sloppy, brutal hits—fists against sinew, boots against bones.
Still, he died.
And still, he returned.
By the fiftieth death against this shadow, something had changed.
Damian's body moved faster. Not faster in strength, but faster in perception. He saw the flow of attacks, the arc of motion, the subtle twitch before a swipe. He could anticipate the strike a fraction of a second before it came. Not consciously—his mind had no words for it—but instinctively. Mechanically.
The forest was no longer chaos. It was equation.
He, a constant variable.
Death, the operator.
He struck again, clumsy, sloppy, barely making contact. The shadow hissed, recoiled. Damian died again—yet he returned, smiling.
Because he knew something terrifying and beautiful:
He was learning.
By the hundredth death, his body ached in ways that were no longer physical. Purgatory had stripped him clean, peeling away everything soft, everything human. His thoughts were raw, skeletal, efficient. He no longer considered mercy. He no longer thought of comfort. He only measured. He only survived.
The shadow attacked. Faster. Harder. With feral intelligence. Damian rolled, twisted, dodged. Landed sloppy punches. His body moved with a rhythm that was not skill, not talent, but experience forged in infinite death.
He died again, but smiled.
And then, as the shadow lunged one more time, Damian realized it—he was no longer afraid. Not of death. Not of pain. Not of fire, or claws, or teeth.
Fear was irrelevant.
He rose once more.
Bloodied, broken, trembling—but smiling. Hollow. Cold. Efficient.
"Stage one," he whispered to himself. "Absolute Return. I'll learn. I'll train. I'll survive. No one… will use me. No one… will betray me. No one…"
The shadow lunged. Damian twisted. Landed a clumsy strike. Missed. Fell. Purgatory. Fire. Pain. Humanity stripping away layer by layer.
And yet… he smiled.
The forest was silent once more.
Damian was no longer a boy. Not really. Not the one who had been sold, chained, burned alive.
He was something else.
Something sharper.
Something colder.
Something that would train, die, return, and train again… until the world would have no choice but to recognize him.