Consciousness returned in the darkness.
Not in pain.
Not in cold.
Just — in emptiness.
Charles lay there, feeling no body, and thought that this was probably what real death looked like.
No light.
No sounds.
And that was exactly why the memories came first.
His mother was smiling.
Even then.
When the handcuffs closed around her wrists, she looked at him as if everything was going according to plan.
His father laughed. Loudly. Madly.
He shouted that they would live forever.
That their god was omnipotent.
That he never abandoned his followers.
If I had been older.
Stronger.
Smarter.
The thoughts looped endlessly.
If I had been more decisive…
I wouldn't have let them take my sister.
He still believed it.
And he hated himself for that belief.
He missed her.
So much that the feeling had survived even death.
"Do not grieve, child…"
The voice was soft.
Warm.
Too kind.
Charles flinched.
"Get the hell out of here, you third-rate angel."
The second voice was different.
Rough. Mocking.
It sliced through the darkness like a knife.
"You… what are you doing here?!" The first voice cracked into a shout. "You're supposed to—"
Charles didn't hear the rest.
He woke up.
The world was burning.
An enormous space flooded with fire, lava, and crimson light.
Souls screamed.
Their cries came from every direction — never merging, never fading.
And the strangest thing was something else.
He didn't feel hot.
He looked at his hands.
They were whole.
Why aren't my thoughts melting along with my brain? he thought distantly.
Far ahead, on a raised platform, someone who resembled a human sat enthroned.
The throne was black.
Its figure was crowned with bursts of flame, as if the very air bowed before him.
Charles walked forward.
Every step was heavy — not for the body, but for the mind.
As if the space itself pressed down on him, testing: are you worthy?
He already suspected who it was.
Too many books.
Too many myths.
Too many coincidences.
But he wanted to hear it spoken aloud.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Are you a demon?"
The figure on the throne laughed.
The laughter was loud.
Heavy.
It crashed down like a blow.
"Me? Compared to some low-grade demon?
Ha. Ha-ha-ha."
The pressure became almost unbearable.
If Charles had had an ordinary body — not forged in pain, fear, and hatred — he would have died again.
Just from those words.
But he stood firm.
Fear?
After his first life, that was a trifle.
"Kid," the one on the throne spoke. "You've got guts.
I like that."
The fire around them flickered.
"Very well. I'll give you a second life.
The one you dreamed of."
Charles frowned.
"What's in it for you?
And why give me a second chance at all?"
The smile widened.
"Why…" he drawled. "Maybe there isn't any special reason.
I just like your fate.
And the way you lived."
He leaned forward.
"And when it comes to profit… I only crave one thing.
But you'll learn about that when you get stronger."
His voice turned cold.
"And know this: if I don't like your new life…
I will personally kill you."
He laughed again.
"Fun, right?"
The pressure returned.
But Charles was already thinking.
A second chance.
The thing he had dreamed of.
Yes, it was given by a demon.
Yes, he never did anything for free.
Yes, it was a trap.
But…
Even a trap was better than nothing.
He was about to ask more questions.
A lot of questions.
"Stop, stop, stop," the demon interrupted. "Questions later.
I'll install a system for you.
It will explain everything."
He smirked.
"We don't want this to turn into one of those clichéd manhwa, do we?"
"Uh…" Charles blinked. "What's a manhwa?"
"Oh, right," the demon waved a hand. "I forgot.
You only read religious garbage and a bit of science."
He rose from the throne.
"Never mind. You'll find out later.
Arrivederci."
"Wait! Hold on! I still have so many questioooons!"
The world collapsed.
He inhaled sharply.
The air was cold.
His lungs — small.
His body — weak.
Alien.
Somewhere nearby came the sound of crying.
Not a cry of pain.
A cry of birth.
And just before the darkness closed in again,
a mocking whisper sounded in his head:
"Don't disappoint me, human."