The heart monitor's rhythm had become a kind of music to him.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Testament Cain though that wasn't the name on his medical chart stared at the hospital ceiling tiles with the same detached focus he'd once used to calculate kill zones. Twenty-six years old. Stage four cardiac cancer. Three weeks past his doctor's "optimistic" estimate.
His empire would crumble within a month of his death. He'd built it that way, actually. No successors. No second-in-commands competent enough to hold it. When he died, so would the Cain Syndicate. Poetic, in a wasteful sort of way.
"Mr. Harrington?" A nurse peeked through the door. Young. Nervous. She still wasn't used to dying patients. "Do you need anything? More morphine?"
He smiled at her. The expression came easily, even now. Especially now.
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
She hesitated, then left. They always did.
Beep.
Beep.
Be—
The rhythm stuttered.
Testament felt it before the machines screamed—that hollow sensation in his chest, like his body was remembering it was supposed to be dead. His vision blurred. The ceiling tiles swam.
His last thought wasn't regret or fear or even anger.
It was disgust.
Twenty-six years of perfection. Strategy. Control. Victory after victory after victory.
And his own body had betrayed him.
Pathetic.
The world went dark.
And then
Pain.
Testament's eyes snapped open.
Not the floating, peaceful nothingness he'd expected. Not even the searing agony of his heart giving out.
This was different. Sharp. Immediate. Localized.
His wrists were on fire.
He gasped actually gasped, pulling air into lungs that worked, that didn't rattle with fluid and tried to sit up. His body obeyed. Easily. No tubes. No weakness. No
He looked down.
Blood.
His wrists were slashed open, crude diagonal cuts that wept red onto dark stone. Around him: a cave. Rough walls. Stalactites. And directly ahead, bathed in the sick green glow of luminescent moss
An altar.
Testament's mind, trained for decades to process and adapt, clicked through the situation in seconds:
Not dead. Or dead and... somewhere else. Body is different—younger, lighter. Wrists are cut. Ritual circle on the ground. Altar ahead.
Suicide? No. Summoning.
He pressed his palms against the cuts, applying pressure. The blood flow slowed. His new body was weak malnourished, maybe but functional. He could work with functional.
Slowly, Testament stood.
The cave spun for a moment, but he breathed through it. Discipline overcame vertigo. Always had.
He approached the altar.
It was old. Older than old ancient, carved from a single piece of obsidian that seemed to drink in the moss-light rather than reflect it. On its surface lay a single object:
A scroll.
Testament reached for it, then paused.
The scroll wasn't paper. Or parchment.
It was skin.
Human skin, stretched and preserved, covered in text that looked less like ink and more like... he leaned closer... burned into the flesh. Branded. Melted. The words were raised, scarred tissue forming letters in a language he shouldn't understand.
But he did.
COVENANT OF CALAMITY
Testament picked it up. The skin was warm. Wrong. Alive in a way dead things shouldn't be.
He read.
You who have called
You who have bled
You who stand at the threshold of Ruin—
Know this:
Power is not given. It is taken.
The Calamity does not choose. It devours.
To walk this path is to become Ending itself.
To rise, you must kill.
To ascend, you must extinguish.
The stronger the flame you snuff, the brighter you burn.
Will you pay the price?
Will you become the Host?
Blood has been offered.
Speak your answer.
Testament read it twice.
Then he laughed.
It started as a chuckle—low, quiet—then built into something fuller. The sound echoed off the cave walls, bouncing back at him in layers.
Not the laugh of a madman. The laugh of someone who'd just been offered exactly what they wanted.
"So that's it," he murmured, setting the scroll back on the altar. "The original owner of this body tried to summon power and died in the process. And I..."
He looked at his wrists. The cuts were already scabbing over. Fast. Faster than normal.
"...I inherited the bill."
He'd built an empire on worse contracts.
Testament placed his hand flat on the altar. The obsidian was cold now, drinking in his body heat.
"I accept."
The cave shuddered.
It wasn't an earthquake. It was deeper than that. Wronger. Like reality itself had flinched.
The blood on his wrists still wet, still warm began to move. It crawled across his skin, not dripping down but flowing up, against gravity, tracing lines up his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders. Geometric patterns. Symbols that hurt to look at directly.
Testament didn't scream.
He watched.
The blood reached his chest and sank in, melting through skin like water through sand. His heart—this new, young, working heart—seized.
Then pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, and with it came—
—Nothing.
Testament blinked.
The blood was gone. The symbols were gone. The cave was just a cave again.
He flexed his fingers. Checked his pulse. Still alive. Still... normal.
"Hm."
He picked up the scroll again and reread the final lines.
To rise, you must kill.
"Ah." Testament smiled. "Of course. The covenant is accepted, but dormant. I need to activate it."
He needed to kill someone.
Fair enough.
The cave had one exit—a narrow tunnel that sloped upward. Testament followed it, using the moss-light to navigate. His new body was weak, yes, but it moved well enough. Eighteen, maybe? Nineteen? Young. Healthy.
Better than dead.
The tunnel opened onto a forest path at dusk. Testament paused, letting memories that weren't his own surface.
The original owner. This body's former tenant.
His name had been Theron Ashvale. Third son of Count Aldric Ashvale. Born to a mother who'd been a prostitute—beautiful, refined, but still bought and paid for. Acknowledged by the Count only enough to be given the family name and a room in the servant's wing.
Untalented. Ungifted. In a world where people cultivated mana pulled energy from the air, from stones, from their own souls Theron had been born with nothing. No affinity. No potential.
Just a pretty face and a bastard's name.
He'd been mocked. Beaten. Humiliated. By servants. By his half-siblings. By his own father, who looked at him with the same expression one might give a stain on expensive fabric.
So Theron had come to this cave. Found the altar. Read the scroll.
And slit his wrists to summon anything that might give him power.
Testament felt no pity for him.
Theron had been weak, but at least he'd been ambitious. That counted for something.
"Alright," Testament murmured, starting down the path. "Let's see what you've left me to work with, Theron."
The memories guided him. Twenty minutes through darkening woods. The Ashvale estate rose ahead a sprawling manor of white stone and red tile roofs, surrounded by manicured gardens and high walls.
Testament walked to the servant's entrance.
The guard there a middle-aged man with a sword on his hip glanced at him, sneered, and waved him through without a word.
Right. Even the guards don't respect this body.
Testament smiled and walked inside.
The servant's wing was exactly as depressing as Theron's memories suggested. Narrow halls. Small rooms. The smell of old food and older disappointment.
Testament found "his" room easily enough. It was barely larger than a closet. A cot. A small desk. A cracked mirror.
He looked at himself.
Eighteen. Black hair, longer than he'd worn it before, falling past his shoulders. Sharp features. Pale skin. Beautiful, actually the kind of face that would've been an asset in his old life. Green eyes that were a shade too bright to be fully human.
This body had potential.
Shame its original owner hadn't known what to do with it.
Testament sat on the cot and closed his eyes, sifting through Theron's memories like files in a database.
Count Aldric: Cold. Pragmatic. Had thirteen children from six different women. Cared about results, not blood
The Countess: Theron's father's legitimate wife. Hated bastards on principle.
The legitimate children: Talented. Cruel. Secure in their superiority.
And then—
Dorian Ashvale.
Theron's half-brother. Fourth legitimate son. Two years older than Theron.
Low-grade fire affinity. Barely worth mentioning in a family of prodigies.
But compared to Theron? A god.
Dorian had made Theron's life hell. Public humiliations. "Training accidents." Stolen belongings. Once, he'd set Theron's blanket on fire while he slept. Called it a joke.
Testament opened his eyes.
"Dorian," he said softly, testing the name. "How convenient."
He found Dorian two hours later in the estate's training courtyard.
It was late evening now, and most of the family had retired. But Dorian was still there, practicing fire techniques on straw dummies. Small flames—unimpressive, really—but enough to char and burn.
Dorian was alone.
Testament stepped into the courtyard. His footsteps were silent, but he let the gate creak as he closed it.
Dorian turned. Saw him. His expression cycled through surprise, contempt, then amusement.
"Well, well." Dorian grinned. "The family embarrassment. Where've you been, Theron? Off crying in the woods again?"
Testament smiled. "Something like that."
Dorian's grin widened. "You look like shit. Did you fall in a ditch?" He took a step closer, flames dancing around his fingertips. "Or did you finally try to off yourself? Should've committed to it if you did. Save us all the—"
"Dorian," Testament interrupted gently. "Can I ask you something?"
Dorian blinked. "...What?"
"Do you believe in second chances?"
"The hell are you talking about?"
Testament's smile didn't waver. "I'll take that as a no.
He moved.
In his old life, Testament had been a master of seventeen martial arts, proficient in forty-two weapon types, and responsible for orchestrating the deaths of over three hundred people.
This body was weaker. Slower. Unpracticed.
But Dorian was a spoiled twenty-year-old who'd never been in a real fight.
It wasn't even close.
Testament closed the distance in two steps. Dorian's eyes widened—he tried to raise his hand, tried to summon flames—
Testament grabbed his wrist, twisted, and pulled.
The shoulder dislocated with a wet pop.
Dorian screamed.
Testament swept his legs. Dorian hit the ground hard, the air punching out of his lungs. The flames around his fingers sputtered and died.
"Shh," Testament said, kneeling beside him. He placed a hand over Dorian's mouth. "We're going to keep this quiet."
Dorian thrashed. Tried to bite. Testament pressed down harder.
"I know this body is weak," Testament continued conversationally. "No mana. No affinity. Defenseless, really. But you see, Dorianand this is important I don't need power to kill you."
He drew a small knife from Dorian's own belt. Training equipment. Dull, but functional.
"I just need you to stop breathing."
Dorian's eyes went wide with genuine terror.
Testament felt nothing.
He pressed the knife against Dorian's throat.
"Thank you," he said. "For being my first."
He cut.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't quick. The knife was dull and Testament had to saw, holding Dorian down as he convulsed, as blood sprayed hot across Testament's hands and face.
But eventually
Dorian stopped moving.
Testament stood. Looked down at the corpse.
And then
the world screamed.
Not audibly. Inside his head. Inside his chest. That hollow space where his heart should be suddenly filled with something vast and hungry and utterly, perfectly wrong.
Blood Dorian's blood, still wet on Testament's hands began to evaporate. Not dripping. Not drying. Evaporating, turning to crimson mist that swirled around Testament like a living thing.
The mist sank into his skin.
His heart pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And Testament Reign no longer Theron, no longer dying, no longer powerless felt the Calamity wake.