Damian sank into the worn kitchen chair, the hum of the refrigerator filling the small apartment. He unwrapped the sandwich he had found in the freezer, the bread slightly stale, the cold ham stiff and indifferent to his touch. He chewed mechanically, eyes wandering across the room as if seeing it for the first time. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and dust, with the lingering aura of someone long absent. Books were stacked haphazardly on the desk, papers crumpled and scattered. A shard of broken glass glinted from the windowsill, catching the dim light like a silent warning.
He swallowed slowly and let his gaze settle on his own hands, the right one wrapped neatly around the sandwich, the left… missing. The memory came unbidden, slicing through the fog of confusion like a blade.
The former Damian Lockley had lost his left arm to corruption — not just flesh, but mana itself had rotted, leaving his body a ticking corpse. And the mana core… it had been destroyed, leaving him incapable of progressing in the world he now occupied. The man had been orphaned by the same rift break that had claimed his family, a catastrophic event in the middle of nowhere where the world itself seemed to tear apart for a moment before healing. And in the end… he had given up. Suicide had been the only release from the slow, insidious death the abyss had inflicted.
Damian swallowed again, chewing more slowly this time, letting the bitterness of bread and truth mix in his mind.
No. He shook his head, almost violently, pushing the memories of despair away. This was not him anymore. He had a chance now. A chance to live, to survive, to take control. He had Damian's body, his life — and, more importantly, all of Damian's memories. He knew the path, he knew the consequences, and he knew the abyss wasn't something to underestimate.
The sandwich forgotten, he leaned back and whispered to himself. "Status."
A holographic projection materialized above the table, its blue light flickering like a candle. Names, numbers, and symbols danced in the air.
Damian Lockley – Grade 1 Novice – Subrank 1
Abilities: Electrokinesis (dormant potential)
Relics: None
Contracts: None
He blinked at it, the soft hum of the system pressing on his ears. The status interface was essentially the world's regulator of mana, a record of all mortals' ranks, abilities, relics, and unique skills. It was neutral, objective, and cold, designed to prevent waste and overreach, to track everyone's potential and progression.
Grade 1 Novice. Subrank 1. He was at the very bottom. A single spark away from irrelevance. Yet the irony was not lost on him — he had died, truly died, and now he was here, staring at the confirmation of his new limitations.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus, letting the memories of the novel flood him. In this world, unique skills were everything. The latent power that defined one's progression. And in the original timeline, Damian's body had been incapable of awakening further skills because the destruction of his mana core had blocked the process. He remembered the rules clearly: train a skill until it reached its threshold, and a new unique skill could awaken. Each human was limited to three, and only five external abilities could ever be absorbed in a lifetime. Mismanagement of this power didn't just fail — it killed.
Damian's jaw tightened. That was not going to be him.
But first, the arm. He clenched his right fist, testing the muscles and nerves. It was… normal. Functional. Fully his own. But he knew the truth. The left arm had been amputated physically, but the soul residue remained. Even amputated, the corruption in that arm had not been purged — it was an abyssal remnant, a shadow inside him that would consume his mana core and his life if he did not intervene.
Medical science was useless here. Even if someone replaced the flesh, the mana corruption would kill him from within. He had read enough. He had seen enough. Only one solution could work: a relic, a powerful, soul-bound artifact capable of replacing what was lost and purifying the corruption.
His mind raced as he considered his options. The mana core had to be stabilized first. Even a partially corrupted core could not support progression in Mentalism — the only path in this world.
He let his hands hover over the table, imagining threads of energy, feeling the hum of mana in the room. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Like electricity dancing beneath the skin. The room itself pulsed with residual energy, remnants of what Damian had once known and studied. Books on mana theory lay open across the desk, scribbled notes in margins, sketches of energy flow and spiritual pathways.
He picked one up — a slim volume on mentalism principles — and flipped it open. The words almost seemed to move, shifting subtly as though the book itself was alive, aware of his presence. The Principle of Mentalism… The All is Mind; the Universe is Mental. He let the phrase echo in his mind, feeling it vibrate against the nerve endings in his skull.
He closed the book and exhaled. Control. Stability. Observation. Patience. Mentalism was the only path. Everything else — physical strength, brute force, even raw Electrokinesis — was useless without it. If he wanted to awaken new skills, reclaim his arm, stabilize his mana core, and survive, he had no choice.
A thought came to him, and he smiled, a small, almost bitter smile. He had always been meticulous. He had always planned.
Why not now?
He pulled a clean notebook from the drawer, the paper crisp and inviting, and set it on the desk. He grabbed a pen and let the first line fall naturally:
This journal will contain everything — plans, discoveries, observations, and records of every significant event. Nothing will be left to chance.
He paused, looking around the apartment one last time, cataloging every item in his mind. The shard of glass, the books, the papers, even the faint burn mark on the corner of the desk where an old candle had once sat. All of it would matter. Observation, he reminded himself, was the first step to survival.
He scribbled furiously, noting the rules of progression, the limits of unique skills, the dangers of corruption, and the steps required to reclaim his left arm. Even if he failed, at least he would leave a record — a guide to prevent another from suffering the same fate.
Hours passed, though he did not notice. The sandwich had long been forgotten, the apartment silent save for the scratching of pen on paper and the quiet hum of mana lingering in the walls. He wrote lists of potential relic sources, hypothesized methods for purifying corrupted mana, and outlined early exercises in Mentalism — simple tasks like visualizing sparks of energy and moving small objects.
By the time he leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, he felt a strange sense of calm. The world had not changed. The abyss had not vanished. He was still at Grade 1, Subrank 1, and alone. But he had a plan, a path, and most importantly, he had control of his mind — the first and most essential tool in a world that demanded survival.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the faintest spark of exhilaration stirred. He was no longer Ethan Vale. He was Damian Lockley now — and this time, he would not die