The cave narrowed.
Then opened.
Damian stepped into a vast hollow chamber.
The ceiling stretched high above, jagged with long stone spikes that dripped slow droplets of water. Each drop echoed when it hit the ground—sharp, rhythmic, almost like a countdown.
Drip… drip… drip…
At the center—
A pool.
Dark.
Thick.
Filled with bones.
Rotting corpses layered upon one another, half-submerged. Some still had scraps of clothing clinging to them. Others were nothing but skeletal remains.
The air was suffocating.
Heavy with death.
Damian walked forward.
Unbothered.
When his foot crossed the center—
The pool moved.
The liquid thickened.
Dark red.
Then—
It began to rise.
A mass of blood lifted into the air, twisting, folding, compressing—
Forming something.
A spirit.
Its shape was unstable. Faces flickered across its surface—screaming, crying, silent, distorted. Arms reached out from within it, clawing at nothing.
And beneath it—
The bones began to move.
One by one.
Then all at once.
They rose.
Snapping together with wet, grinding sounds. Corpses jerked upright, hollow eyes locking onto Damian.
They rushed him.
Sophie's voice cut through.
"It's a Spirit of Regret. Stronger than the Spirit of Resentment."
Damian didn't move.
"The people who died here were killed unjustly," she continued. "Their souls couldn't pass on. Over time, they merged into one entity—the embodiment of regret itself."
The wave of corpses closed in.
Damian moved.
He stepped forward—
Into them.
A corpse lunged.
He grabbed its head.
Ripped it clean off.
Another swung wildly.
He ducked and tore its spine apart.
Bones cracked.
Limbs flew.
He didn't slow down.
He didn't hesitate.
He carved a path through them with raw, brutal efficiency. No technique. No refinement.
Just adaptation.
Just killing.
He reached the center.
The Spirit of Regret hovered above him.
Then—
A sword formed in its hand.
It moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
The blade flashed—
And Damian was split in half.
Clean.
Diagonal.
Purgatory.
The greenish-black river flowed endlessly.
Souls drifted within it, whispering, dissolving, reforming.
Damian stood at its edge.
Silent.
Then he walked.
Toward Transit.
The abyss yawned before him—endless, devouring, absolute.
Without hesitation—
He jumped.
Five seconds before death.
The sword descended.
Damian saw it.
He moved his head—
Too slow.
The blade struck his shoulder—
Cutting through him diagonally.
He collapsed.
Bled out.
Died.
Purgatory.
Transit.
Jump.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time—
He tried.
Each time—
He failed.
The timing was wrong.
The angle was off.
The movement incomplete.
The result—
Always the same.
A critical strike.
A slow bleed.
Death.
Purgatory -
The river.
Transit.
But this time—
Something was different.
Damian stood at the edge of the abyss.
His eyes—
Empty.
Not calm.
Not angry.
Not broken.
Just—
Hollow.
And yet—
Something fierce burned deep within that emptiness.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No questioning.
Damian has now Lost All His Humanity.
He smiled.
Then jumped.
Five seconds before death.
The sword fell.
Damian moved.
Perfect timing.
He shifted his body—
But not enough to fully escape.
The blade cut through his left arm.
Severed it.
Clean.
The arm spun through the air.
Damian didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't scream.
Before it hit the ground—
He caught it.
With his right hand.
In the same motion—
He threw it.
The severed limb struck the Spirit of Regret mid-motion.
A disruption.
A fraction of a second.
Enough.
Damian stepped in.
Closed the distance.
His leg whipped upward—
A brutal kick.
The impact slammed the spirit into the cave wall.
Stone shattered.
A crater formed.
The spirit's body flickered violently, faces distorting, voices overlapping in a chaotic scream.
Damian stood there.
Bleeding.
One arm gone.
Smiling.
Spirits did not have flesh like humans.
They had spiritual bodies.
Untouchable to normal people.
Invisible.
Intangible.
Only those bound to spirits—
Only contractors—
Could harm them.
Damian stepped forward again.
The Spirit of Regret lunged.
Its hand reached out—
Trying to touch him.
Trying to infect him.
Consume him.
Break him.
Damian moved.
He kicked again—
Driving its head into the wall.
The impact echoed.
But—
The spirit disappeared.
Then reappeared behind him.
Whole.
Healed.
Untouched.
Damian turned.
Still smiling.
No frustration.
No confusion.
Just understanding.
Then he rushed it again.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only action.
The spirit struck.
This time—
He died.
Because to properly pin it down—
To truly restrain it—
He needed both hands.
And he no longer had them.
Darkness swallowed him again.
And still—
He smiled.