Damian fell once more.
The black void of the Valley of Regret swallowed him like it always did, twisting his senses, flattening his perception.
Pain. Agony. Fire, claws, crushing weight… all that he had endured before.
And then: five seconds back.
The world snapped into focus. The mist clung to his skin, dense and choking. The air tasted of ash and iron. The Spirit of Resentment was there—massive, coalescing from the swirling fog, a shadowy monstrosity half-human, half-writhing mist, its form constantly shifting. Its hollow eyes burned into him, and its countless mouths whispered simultaneously, screaming promises of despair and temptation.
Damian breathed. Calm. Hollow. Analytical.
He remembered something crucial: he couldn't destroy it. Not yet.
But he could experiment.
Absolute Return granted him infinite iterations. Every death taught him something. Every fleeting moment of life allowed him to test attacks, environmental hazards, timing, and the Spirit's reactions.
Damian began walking, circling the Spirit carefully. Every step precise, calculated. He noticed the terrain—rocks that were brittle, trees twisted unnaturally, patches of fog denser than others.
The environment can be a weapon, he thought. I just need to bait it.
The Spirit hissed, a sound like hundreds of metal blades grinding together, and lunged. Its claw swept at Damian's chest. He dodged, rolled, crashed into a half-broken tree, and died again.
Five seconds back.
Iteration after iteration, Damian experimented:
He let the Spirit strike certain trees, observing which branches collapsed under pressure. He baited the Spirit over patches of fog that responded violently to its presence, creating small disorienting bursts. He used rocks to wedge the Spirit's limbs, learning how its form responded to solid obstacles. He tested the sword he had found on the ground, poking, stabbing at its material anchor—the fragment of the spirit tied to the mortal plane.
Each death was grotesque. Bones shattered, flesh tore, mist burned through his lungs. But Damian learned.
He could anticipate the Spirit's leaps, the swipes, the reality-warping distortions. His body adapted. His perception evolved beyond reflex: he could see the patterns before they were made, the arcs of strikes before the spirit moved.
Hours—or maybe days—passed in the loops. Damian died again and again. Sometimes the Spirit struck him with its full weight, rending his chest open, smashing limbs, tearing bones. Sometimes it manipulated the environment, dropping massive stones, igniting sudden fire, warping the earth beneath him.
Each time, Damian returned, eyes hollow but burning with resolve.
Eventually, he began indirect confrontation:
He discovered that the Spirit's form was anchored to its shadows in the fog. He struck at those anchors with the sword, stabbing repeatedly at thick mists, watching for resistance. Sometimes, the Spirit shrieked, dissipated partially, and recoiled. It could not anticipate Damian's timing—the iterations gave him perfect synchronization.
He died hundreds of times.
Every death stripped him further of the last remnants of his humanity. He laughed once while falling, blood pouring from gashes that should have ended him. Hollow. Cold. Efficient. Learning.
And yet, he persisted.
Finally, after another death loop, Damian returned five seconds before the fatal strike. He landed, breath ragged but steady. Sophie's voice reached him through the fog.
"Damian… I can feel it," she said softly. "You give off a… different vibe now. So it has come to this…"
The Spirit of Resentment rose, rushing at him in a blur of shadow and wrath, mouths screaming, claws slicing, reality itself warping around it.
Damian did not flinch. He did not step back.
Instead, he waited.
As the Spirit collided with him, he pinned it down, using his own body as leverage. Pain shot through him as it struggled, but Damian held tight. The Spirit flailed, clawing at his chest and legs.
A sudden sickening snap—his right arm tore away under the Spirit's force. Bone, sinew, and blood. Damian screamed—but not in fear. Only in calculation.
He seized the shattered bone of his severed arm. Cold. Hard. Sharp. And drove it into the Spirit's material anchor, the core fragment tethering it to the mortal world.
The Spirit's shriek pierced his mind, its form destabilizing. It dissolved, leaving only shadows that clung like smoke.
But in that moment, Damian felt something else—pain like a void opened inside him. A hole ripped through his chest, black and cold, as the Spirit struggled to maintain its anchor.
And then… he died.
Absolute Return activated.
Five seconds back.
Damian rose. Hollow, black eyes burning with resolve. No fear. No hesitation. Nothing left to hold him back.
The Spirit of Resentment reformed, even larger this time, its form more grotesque, more chaotic, thrashing in the fog. Mouths screamed, eyes blazed, limbs warped impossibly.
Damian's grin returned.
Menacing. Hollow.
Perfect.
He adjusted the sword in his hands. He no longer hesitated. He no longer feared death. Every loop had trained him. Every pain, every scream, every grotesque wound had forged a strategy, a rhythm, a deadly synchronization.
And now… he would finish learning.