The name hung in the center of the roulette for seconds that stretched into what felt like forever.
Meliodas.
Then, without any fanfare or flash of light, the roulette began to dissolve. Its ethereal edges broke into translucent fragments that drifted away and faded, like mist caught in an unseen breeze. When the last trace vanished, only emptiness remained where it had been—and the silence rushed back into the house, thicker and heavier than before.
Kael didn't move.
His gaze stayed locked on the exact spot where the letters had appeared. The cold sweat on the back of his neck felt like it was freezing against his skin. He drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the frantic rhythm in his chest. Each heartbeat echoed too loudly inside his ribcage, too uneven for a body that, moments earlier, had felt hollow.
Nothing changed on the surface.
No sudden warmth surged through his limbs. No power erupted in the center of his chest. No flood of new knowledge rushed into his mind. The reflection in the dark window remained the same: slightly tousled golden hair, strange red eyes, a lean and pale frame beneath the worn shirt. The house stayed quiet, oppressive, bathed in the purple light leaking through the gaps in the thick curtain.
And yet something had shifted.
A faint, nagging sensation settled at the base of his neck—like an invisible hand had rested there and simply stayed, not pressing, just present. As though the name had slipped inside him somewhere deep and was now waiting, patient, for the right moment to stir.
Kael pressed his palm to his chest again, feeling the fabric of the old shirt under his fingers. Nothing. Only the uneven thump of his heart and the faint, ghostly echo of that gunshot still lingering somewhere in his mind.
He rose slowly. His legs obeyed, but they carried an extra, almost unnoticeable weight. He walked to the kitchen with careful steps, took a cracked glass from the cupboard, filled it from the dripping faucet. He drank in slow sips, letting the cold water slide down his throat. The feeling didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened, as though his entire body had suddenly become more aware of itself.
He sat back down at the worn wooden table. He stared at his own hands resting on the rough surface. Long fingers, short uneven nails, pale skin with faint blue veins visible beneath. Nothing had changed outwardly.
"Meliodas…" he murmured, almost without meaning to.
The word came out quiet, hesitant, like a careful test to see if the name still existed outside the roulette.
Nothing happened.
No flash. No echo. Just his own voice bouncing softly off the bare walls and coming back slightly muffled.
He closed his eyes for a long moment. Fragments of memory surfaced: Meliodas, the demon cursed with immortality, strength that defied understanding, yet trapped in endless cycles of loss and rebirth.
His eyes snapped open. His heart sped up again.
This wasn't a direct copy. It was a mold. A foundation. Something that would shape what he became.
He thought of his girlfriend. Of her desperate, broken cries echoing in the rain-soaked alley. Of the absolute helplessness in that instant—when his human body had failed, when he hadn't been enough to protect her completely.
"Never again," he whispered through clenched teeth.
The words sounded empty in the silence.
Kael stood and walked to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed without bothering to remove his shirt or shoes. He stared up at the cracked ceiling. The purple light filtered through the curtain gaps, painting the room in cold, unreal tones. Shadows stretched and shifted along the walls with every slow movement of the clouds outside. He didn't sleep. He couldn't. He simply lay there, breathing steadily, feeling the invisible weight settle more comfortably in the center of his chest.
Hours passed. Or maybe only minutes. Time in that house seemed to fold in on itself.
At some point, a faint tingling started in his right arm. Barely noticeable at first—like a single vein pulsing harder for a second. He lifted the arm, inspected the skin under the dim purple light. Nothing visible. No mark. No redness.
But the tingling returned. Stronger. It climbed to his shoulder, spread across his bicep, then slid back down to his fingers. It wasn't pain. It was pressure—something probing the inner limits of muscle, tendon, joint. As though a dormant force were testing where it could expand without breaking anything.
Kael clenched his fist. Squeezed hard. Released. Repeated the motion several times, slowly.
The sensation gradually receded, pulling back like a wave retreating into the sea. But it didn't vanish entirely. It lingered, dormant, waiting.
He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm.
It wasn't his imagination.
It was the beginning.
Kael rolled onto his side, facing the peeling wall. He closed his eyes.
The tingling in his right arm didn't return during the hours that followed.
He remained lying there, staring at the cracked ceiling while the purple light of the Underworld seeped through the curtain gaps and washed the room in cold, unchanging hues. Time dragged in slow motion; every breath felt deliberate, every blink conscious. His body was exhausted, but his mind stayed sharp, as though it knew any lapse could let something inside him move without permission.
At some point, when the light outside deepened to an even darker violet—perhaps the equivalent of midnight in that eternal sky—the translucent band reappeared.
This time it wasn't subtle.
It materialized directly in the center of his vision, filling his entire field like a screen laid over reality. It didn't flicker. It simply was.
The bar, once incomplete, now stood full and motionless. Below it, lines of cold white text formed one after another:
[System activated.]
[Template integration: Meliodas – 0.7% complete.]
[User: Kael Black]
[Body age: 15 years]
[Race: Low-class demon (confirmed)]
[Current location: Lilith City, Underworld]
[Physical status: Mild malnutrition | Moderate fatigue | Latent regeneration detected]
[Mental status: Residual trauma | Elevated anxiety | Adaptation in progress]
[Critical warning: Partial immortality curse active. The user cannot die permanently. Any lethal damage triggers forced regeneration at high energy cost and accumulating psychological wear. Physical death will be reversed repeatedly until remission conditions are met.]
Kael blinked several times. The text remained.
A new section expanded:
[Basic interface unlocked.]
[Available commands:]
Status Inventory (empty) Missions (none active) Settings (limited)
[Note: The system operates in standby mode until minimum physical maturity or initial template integration is achieved. Forcing premature activations may result in bodily overload.]
The text waited, unmoving.
Kael sat up slowly. His heart raced, but it was a cold, measured acceleration. He raised his right hand and passed it through the air in front of him, as though he could push the words away. They didn't budge.
"Status," he said quietly, almost a whisper.
The interface responded at once.
A more detailed window overlaid the previous one:
Name: Kael Black
Age: 15 years
Level: 1 (locked) Class: Demon (Low) / Template: Meliodas (0.7%)
Strength: 8
Speed: 7
Endurance: 6
Regeneration: Latent (partial activation)
Demonic Energy: 12/100
Active skills: None Latent skills: Full Counter (unlocked) | Assault Mode (unlocked) | Immortality Curse (active – death reversal)
[Observation: Progress depends on combat exposure, damage taken, and adaptation. Attempts to artificially accelerate the process will result in bodily rejection.]
Kael read every line carefully. No emotion showed on his face, but his fingers trembled slightly as they closed into a fist.
He cannot die.
The words echoed in his mind. Not as salvation. As a cage.
He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he murmured:
"Close."
The interface obeyed. The translucent windows withdrew until they vanished into the corner of his vision, leaving only a small, discreet icon—a circle crossed by a diagonal line—floating at the lower right edge of his sight.
Kael stood. He walked to the bathroom mirror. The purple light made his skin look almost translucent. His red eyes seemed more alive now—not from excitement, but from a quiet, contained intensity.
He raised his right arm again. Clenched his fist hard. For a second, a subtle warmth traveled through his veins, as though his blood had grown thicker. Nothing visible happened. No glow. No sound.
But the tingling returned—more present, more aware.
He let out a slow breath.
"This is going to change me," he said to his reflection, voice low and steady. "But it won't break me."
The words weren't for the system. They were for himself.
He returned to the bedroom. Sat on the edge of the bed. Looked at his hands once more.
The system was active.
The template was integrating.
And now he knew: no matter how much it hurt, how much he bled, how many times he was torn apart—he would come back.
He would always come back.
The silence in the house remained absolute.
But inside him, something had begun to pulse.
Slow. Inexorable.
Like a heart that refused to stop.
End of Chapter 2.