In that vast expanse, Cyn braced himself for the wave of fog drifting toward him, now only a few meters away.
He had no idea what he was supposed to do in this endless space, but he felt—somehow—that he was connected to this mass of fog.
The moment he stretched out a finger and touched it—
"A—Aagh!!"
His entire body ignited in agony.
Burning—burning alive—as if fire had swallowed him whole.
Hellfire poured into every part of him: his muscles, his bones, even his internal organs melted.
His heart, his mind, his eyes—everything twisted into a hideous disfigurement.
All he awaited now was death.
The punishment of hell for sinners and the damned.
There was no one to free him from his suffering.
No one to forgive him.
Only his screams echoed in that space—until even his vocal cords dissolved in a gruesome scene.
His blood dried up. His flesh shriveled, burned, and turned black like charcoal.
Death hovered over him, waiting for his soul to leave his body.
He burned to ash.
Cyn felt death for the second time—but this time, the pain was unbearable. To die by fire… it was the cruelest agony any being could endure.
But in the moment that followed—
He found himself back in the same place.
And the pain… was gone.
As if everything had been nothing more than a dream.
Yet in his line of sight, once again, the fog had returned—surrounding him, closing in.
Cyn swallowed hard, thinking deeply.
Damn it?! What was that—
His fingers trembled on their own.
He didn't want to remember it… but fear forced him to.
"Pain…" he whispered.
Then under his breath, "Don't tell me it's coming again? Again?!"
He looked around frantically, searching for a way out.
He tried jumping, running—anything.
He punched the glass-like floor until his hands bled.
But nothing worked.
The fog tightened around him… and touched him again.
The torment repeated.
Another death by burning.
He melted like butter.
Once more.
And again.
And again.
There was no escape—only the sensation of death drawing nearer… and the beginnings of resignation.
It felt far too real to be a dream.
He wondered about his unconscious body in Xyrene's suite—why hadn't he woken yet?
He tried hitting himself, but it didn't help.
He was going to accept death at this rate.
His muscles trembled; his whole body shook.
Cold sweat streamed down him—even though moments ago he'd been engulfed in flames.
A chilling cold seeped from within his bones.
Yet in the midst of all that, he noticed something!
For the first time in this space… the fog took longer to appear on the horizon, longer to reach me. But now—each time I die and return, it takes less time. It appears closer!
Cyn thought rapidly.
If this continued, he would drown in the fog entirely.
He would die instantly every time—with no time to think, no chance at escape.
Only agony and death awaited.
Is this my chance to atone for my sins? Atonement… for what? Why did I come into this world? For this?
Should I accept my situation?
Maybe I have to endure this torment for a chance at release.
Maybe this is the solution. Yes… this is my trial.
To endure.
To resist the pain.
But… can I really endure it? Truly?
Can I maintain my composure?
I don't know… My body can't take it.
My will—will break.
This pain isn't something I can handle, even if I want to.
Just imagining facing it longer makes me despair…
These thoughts spiraled in his mind.
Cyn felt hopeless—terrified of that unbearable agony.
Why did he keep returning to this point with every death?
Was it only to die again?
Or… was there something he was meant to do to escape the pain?
But what?
What could he possibly do?
He had nothing.
No tools, no weapons, no abilities.
He possessed nothing that could help him…
And then something struck him like lightning.
He remembered—
"Wait! The Scar… Yes, it's the only thing that can get me out of here! I'm here to awaken it… but how?"
He recalled the idea: using pain as fuel to awaken it.
But what kind of pain?
He had already suffered—many times.
Maybe… it wasn't enough.
Maybe a few more cycles would be enough to awaken his Scar.
Which meant he had to endure death by burning.
He had to withstand the agony until his Scar responded.
But what if it didn't?
What if it took too long?
What if he died before that?
His mind churned with conflicting thoughts.
Whose fault was this?
His?
Xyrene's?
The reason he came to this world?
A demon?
His sacrifice?
His gamble?
Pain had always been the only thing that cleared his mind…
And this time, it cleared it again.
The fog touched him once more and hurled him into another endless cycle of horror—
death after death.
The fog's circle grew smaller each time.
Closer.
Tighter.
Each revival gave him a minute—maybe two at most—before it reached him again.
He felt his heart throb. He pressed a hand to his chest.
His Scar was pulsing.
Then the fog struck him yet again.
Another cycle of agony.
Over and over he thought he was nearing the Scar's awakening—
but nothing changed.
It only grew worse.
The fog drew so close he barely had seconds left.
Burning. Melting bones.
But this time—
his mind sharpened.
For the first time, he saw his reflection in that glass-like sky beneath him.
His face was distorted, melting, steam rising from evaporating blood…
But that wasn't what captured his attention.
His Scar.
In the reflection, his Scar wasn't there.
Yet he could clearly see it on his real body.
This wasn't a normal mirror—its sky didn't match the one above.
This was another sky.
Another layer of the world.
A sky that reflected everything—except his Scar.
What should I do…? The fog is coming…
Just as the fog was about to touch him again—
Cyn heard something.
A voice from within the thick fog.
Calling him.
A voice he hadn't heard in decades.
As if centuries had passed.
"Gian!"
The sound of that name froze him.
Even as the pain swallowed him again—
his mind stopped.
The agony no longer reached him.
His thoughts drowned.
And he died—without making a sound.
Again.
And again.
The voice kept calling him.
From beyond the fog.
Cyn drifted, hollow, as if he no longer existed.
As if his soul had been stripped away, leaving only a body dying and reviving—over and over—
with no soul left to feel the pain.
But his feet began to move.
Step by step.
Through the fog.
Even as he died each time—
He moved.
Toward something.
A place not different from where he was now—
yet somehow distinct.
A circular clearing surrounded by fog on all sides—
with Cyn at the center, body and face deformed beyond recognition.
He looked closely.
Focused.
He began ignoring the pain—not because it wasn't there, but because the voice pulled him forward.
He raised his eyes—
then lowered them—
And finally saw it.
Something identical between the upper sky and the lower sky.
The clouds formed a shape.
A shape he knew.
One etched into him long ago.
His Scar.
But there was one difference:
In the upper sky, the mark was a deep crimson—colored by the red clouds.
In the lower sky, it was pure white and transparent.
That was the only difference.
Cyn felt as if he were following instructions, whispered into his ears by someone unseen.
Someone guiding him.
He dragged his nails across his chest—cutting into his Scar.
Blood splattered onto the glass sky beneath him.
The cloud-Scar above him absorbed the blood.
Slowly turning crimson.
Little by little, the fog around him receded—
or so it seemed.
Cyn knew that wasn't really the case.
When he looked into the lower sky—his reflection—
he finally saw it:
His reflection had the Scar now.
Crimson.
Bleeding.
Alive.
Around the reflection, fog remained—
but when it reached it, it didn't burn him.
Didn't melt him.
The Scar was absorbing it entirely—
drinking it in like a gateway devouring everything.
But Cyn wasn't looking at the fog anymore.
He saw something else.
Behind the fog—
in the far distance—
he saw the faint silhouettes of other people.
Their reflections.
That was where the voice came from.
From the lower sky, not from the fog.
The last thing his ears registered was a whisper—gentle, warm, overflowing with love:
"Take care of yourself, my little Gian…"