The Valley of Regret had grown darker.
Fog thickened into a miasma that clung to his skin and lungs, heavier than any air he had breathed. It wasn't just cold—it was alive. It whispered constantly, tugging at memories, twisting thoughts, reshaping perception. Every step Damian took was uncertain. Every shadow could be friend—or foe.
The valley had eyes. And it watched him.
Voices began to follow him.
First, faint, almost comforting. A mother's lullaby, soft and melodic. Then louder. Shouts—angry, bitter, accusatory. You're worthless! You'll fail! You're weak! Damian flinched at the sound of his father's voice, booming like it had been carried across years of abuse.
Then came glimpses. Faces in the mist. Pale, flickering, sorrowful. He thought he saw his parents standing ahead, reaching out, faces etched with concern and fear. He ran toward them—then the air shifted. The figures blurred. Their eyes hollowed. The mouths twisted into snarls.
Something cold brushed his arm.
Nothing was there.
Damian paused. His breath caught. The mist itself seemed to reach for him. Shapes formed around him—human, familiar, grotesque, screaming, laughing—then dissolved when he blinked.
What is real? he thought.
Sophie's voice reached him—distant, urgent, but overpowered by the miasma.
"Damian! Stop! You don't understand—this will strip your humanity faster than death! Don't let it consume you!"
But Damian did not hear. He barely registered sound.
The whispering and laughter and cries were everywhere, in his ears, in his mind. He started to doubt his own body. Am I moving? Am I here? Or am I part of the valley too?
He gripped the sword tighter. Its weight was real. Its cold steel was undeniable.
And then… instinct.
A shadow of a thought. A memory buried beneath endless death loops.
Damian's right leg jolted. The sword at his side, accidentally, struck against his thigh. Pain snapped him back—real, sharp, grounding. He stumbled, shaking his head.
I am here.
The whispers faltered for a moment. Sophie's voice broke through slightly.
"You're alive… remember that!"
Then came footsteps. Clear. Heavy. Calculated. Not part of the mist. Not voices. Real.
Damian turned, pointing his sword.
And there she was.
His mother. Or at least, the perfect mimicry of her: eyes soft, lips curved in a faint, sad smile, hair falling in familiar waves.
Memories surged. Pain. Anger. Betrayal. Fear. Love he had never been allowed.
But Damian didn't flinch.
The spirit had taken her form. It was a trick. A manipulation.
He knew it.
He didn't care.
He charged.
Steel swung, slicing through fog and illusions alike.
The mother-spirit stopped. Not moving. Not reacting. Her face never changed.
Damian's head fell, unconsciously snapping sideways from fatigue, miasma, and near-insanity—but the spirit remained still. It wasn't alive in any sense he could perceive.
He stared at her for a long moment. He felt nothing.
No fear. No empathy. No hesitation.
The miasma thickened further. The ground underfoot seemed to ripple and bend like liquid, shadows bending unnaturally. Sounds echoed from nowhere. Damian walked, calm, deliberate.
He felt hollow.
Not pain. Not relief. Not anger. Just… clarity.
His steps were steady as he entered purgatory again—not the green-black river, not the familiar fire, but a new void: endless black, infinite, devoid of form, where only Damian's hollow gaze seemed to exist.
He stared into the emptiness. No fear. No thought beyond movement. The whispers and faces faded. The valley behind him disappeared.
This was the transit point—the region where existential fall occurred, where souls chose whether to return to their bodies or to be reborn anew.
Beneath him was a void, a black hole that yawned into nothingness. The edges shimmered like ink, devouring light. There seemed no bottom, no edge, no end.
Damian crouched, breathing slowly.
The sword was gone. He didn't need it here.
He raised his hands to his face, covering it—but even through his hands, a grin formed. Menacing. Hollow. Empty. Yet alive with resolve.
Stage One had stripped me down, he thought.
And I survived.
The abyss whispered, pulling, calling. Promising the ultimate unknown, the final test of will.
Damian exhaled.
And then he jumped.
The void swallowed him, and the darkness stretched, infinite and cold.
The grin remained. Hollow eyes burned with determination.
I am Damian.
I survive. I adapt. I endure.
And in the emptiness, as he fell endlessly, he laughed—quiet, cruel, and unyielding.