Second One.
“What the fuck is this?”
It wasn’t a soft question. It was a goddamn mental explosion. A scream with razors on its throat. His body was too fresh to even breathe right, but his soul? That bastard was awake and screaming already.
Light stabbed into his eyes like hot knives. Air burned like acid down his throat. The world felt too loud. Too bright. Too wrong.
He was alive.
Again.
He heard a woman crying—his mother. Her voice sounded kind. Happy even. But it didn’t fucking matter.
Because deep inside, Caelan was already cracking.
This wasn’t rebirth.
This was a curse.
Second Two.
“Why? Why again? Why ME? Why the hell didn’t you just let me die? Wasn’t one lifetime enough?”
His body was too small. Pathetic. Weak. But inside—inside was a goddamn hurricane trapped in a glass jar. Every breath was war. Every second was a fucking joke from the universe.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t tear the world apart like he wanted.
And his mind—shit, his mind was on fire.
Memories slammed back in.
The blood on Edeleide’s lips.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The way her eyes stopped moving one winter night.
The stench of his father’s puke and cheap whiskey.
The silence of his mother, already dead while still breathing.
The fucking rope.
The snap.
The void.
And now this?
Another try?
He didn’t want a second chance.
He wanted a goddamn end.
Second Three.
“What if this world is worse?”
His thoughts were knives now—cutting deeper than anything physical ever could. His skull felt like it would split from the pressure. He wanted to rip his own brain out just to silence the screaming.
“What if they die again?”
“What if I watch again?”
“What if I fail again?”
The worst part? He knew he would.
Because that’s what he did, right?
He failed.
He watched.
He screamed.
He begged.
And nothing ever fucking changed.
There was no god.
There was no mercy.
There was only this—this endless loop of bleeding and breaking and coming back just to burn again.
“Do I even deserve to hope?”
“Or is this just hell wearing a new skin?”
Second Four.
The scream reached the edge of madness.
Then it fucking snapped.
He saw them—his other selves. The fucked-up army of him.
One dripping with blood, sword in hand, eyes dead.
One wrapped in shadows, face hidden, hands twitching with poison.
One glowing with power, but empty like a walking corpse.
One laughing like a man who already gave up a thousand times.
Each version was another failure. Another scar. Another grave.
And then they spoke.
“You thought this was a restart?”
“You thought pain had an end?”
“No. You’re just the next one in line to suffer.”
Caelan didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
The weight of it all crushed him flat.
He wasn’t a child.
He wasn’t human.
He was a soul-sick monster in a body too soft to hold his hate.
He was rage. Grief. Despair. Guilt. All caged inside something still dripping with his mother’s blood.
His heart beat.
But it felt like a funeral drum.
He cried—but not for joy.
He cried because life had pulled him back, just to throw him into the same fucking fire.
The world snapped into motion.
His father’s warm voice.
His mother’s tears.
Edeleide’s newborn cry.
To them, it was beautiful.
But to Caelan?
It was war.
Again.
He was reborn.
But inside?
He was still the corpse.
Still the scream.
Still the hell.