You know… for someone who spent their entire life perfecting the art of death, you'd think I'd have seen my own coming.
But no.
Not like this.
Two daggers buried deep in my gut — delivered by the very organization that forged me into a weapon.
And there, sitting across from me like some ghost from a crueler life, was Olson. My instructor. My mentor. Hell… the closest thing to a father I ever had.
I never thought betrayal would wear such a familiar face.
Funny, isn't it?
I've slit throats in alleyways, toppled syndicates from the shadows, danced with death in every form it could take. I always figured, when my end came, it'd be at the hands of someone who hated me. A rival. A forgotten enemy with a grudge. Maybe even an ambitious subordinate looking to climb over my corpse.
But this?
This was different.
And it stung.
I forced my eyes up to meet his — those cold, calculating eyes that once guided my hand through a thousand lessons. I gritted my teeth. The bastard had the nerve to smirk. Like this was some sick joke only he was in on.
That smirk… it pulled something primal out of me.
With a trembling hand, slick with my own blood, I yanked one of the daggers from my side. The pain was blinding — a white-hot pulse that blurred the edges of my vision — but I didn't care. I lunged.
He moved like a phantom.
A flicker of motion, and then pain — sharp and absolute. My left arm fell to the floor with a wet thud, severed clean at the shoulder. A scream tore from my throat, something raw and animalistic.
"Far too weak," Olson barked, voice devoid of anything resembling the man I once knew. "If you'd stayed on the path I laid out for you… this wouldn't be your end."
The pressure coming off him was suffocating.
An oppressive, crushing weight that made it hard to even stay conscious. I knew then — truly knew — that I'd never stood a chance against him. Not in this life.
But pride's a funny thing.
Even staring death in the face, I couldn't go out kneeling. I wrapped shaking fingers around the second dagger lodged in my stomach, trying to summon whatever pitiful strength I had left.
And that's when his voice cut through the air like a knife.
"I see you still insist on clinging to life," he sneered. "Since you were my student… I'll make this quick."
A flash of steel.
The world slowed.
I looked down to see a sword buried in my chest. The pain… it wasn't sharp anymore. It was dull. Numb. My body began to shut down piece by piece. Limbs heavy. Vision darkening. Blood pooling like ink on the floor.
I could feel the end.
And weirdly… I wasn't afraid.
Everything I'd done, every life I'd stolen — it was catching up to me. Maybe this was always how it was meant to end. Even if given the chance, I'd live it all the same. I'd kill a thousand more if it meant surviving one more day in this world.
This…
This was my karma.
The last thing I remember was the sound of my own breath — shallow, ragged — and then, silence.
Darkness took me.
⸻
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
A thin trickle of cold water tapped against my face. I jolted upright, a sharp gasp escaping my lips. My entire body screamed in protest — weak, brittle, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Where the hell…?
Rock walls. Damp earth. The scent of mold and sweat clinging to the air. A cave. Dimly lit by flickering candles jammed into crude sconces along the walls. The flames barely pushed back the darkness.
I forced myself to move, to piece together my surroundings.
There were others here.
Kids.
Barely older than ten. Some younger. Dirty, gaunt, eyes hollow and half-mad. Though a few still had some fight in them — defiant glares hidden beneath layers of grime.
And then… I looked at my hands.
Small.
Frailer than they'd ever been.
The hands of a child.
Panic clawed at my chest. I hadn't noticed it before — too much adrenaline, too much pain. But the wounds from earlier were gone. Not a scar. Not a mark. As if none of it had ever happened.
What the hell was this?
I took a step forward, feeling the ache of unfamiliar muscles, and made my way toward the other children. I'd been left in the furthest corner — like some afterthought. The walls here were covered in symbols. Not letters I recognized, but they looked… old. Japanese, maybe. Or something close to it. Each mark encircled by intricate artwork. Ritualistic.
A faint light poured from an opening at the far end of the cavern.
And then, they came.
A man strode in through the opening — broad-shouldered, bald, a scar cutting down one side of his face like a jagged canyon. His presence filled the room like smoke. Two figures followed in his wake, masked and cloaked in black from head to toe. Shadows clinging to them like loyal dogs.
The man's voice was a low, cruel growl.
"Listen up, brats," he barked, and the cavern fell silent. "Welcome… to the Cave of Shadow Wraiths."
The words hit me like a punch.
Shadow Wraiths?
Where the hell am I?
The other kids didn't move.
Some flinched.
Some stared blankly, already broken.
But me?
I wasn't like them.
I may be trapped in this frail, unfamiliar body — but I was still me.
Still Damien.
And whoever ran this place…
They had no idea what kind of ghost they just dragged into their den.