Fethan’s consciousness sank into the void—adrift in endless darkness. He fought against Shaman’s sleep curse, but his body could no longer resist. His mind fought on, resisting even as pain faded into a dull ache. Perhaps that was the only mercy of sleep.

  "It’s over! Damn it, I had to summon a dark realm being just to deal with one rookie curse-user? What a damn loss! Total loss!" Shaman couldn’t stop laughing. Seeing the power of the Demiurge Slime with his own eyes—it far exceeded what any legend described!

  And this was only its infant form. It could grow a hundredfold stronger!

  Summoning a dark realm being wasn’t easy. Beyond the sacrifices, it required countless intricate rituals—and even then, you couldn’t choose what came through. Many times, even with a massive offering, nothing arrived.

  It was the last-resort trump card of a veteran dark mage. Shaman never expected to need it against a kid who’d only been practicing curses for less than a month. He had to thank his own quick decision-making.

  ‘If that brat had more time… with Gamo’s notes, the Map of the Dead, and whatever power he has… he’s too dangerous. I can’t even compare to him. At least I had the chance to snuff the fire before it spread. The entire cursed arts world should thank me.’

  The tentacle released Fethan, who collapsed, barely breathing. Shaman’s favorite spell was the sleep curse. He liked to make his victims unconscious before killing them—no screaming, no begging. It made the process clean.

  Shaman wasn’t a sadist like some in his field. He didn’t enjoy torture. To him, humans were resources—tools like crops to be harvested. His mind was twisted, but not in the way of true psychopaths.

  He rifled through Fethan’s belongings and found exactly what he wanted: Gamo’s journal and the Map of the Dead. His fingers ran across the book’s cover. At first glance, it looked like regular leather. But every seasoned curse-user knew—this was human skin.

  The cover was human leather. The pages were sewn with nails and sinew torn from living bodies. The ink was made of blood and phlegm, each letter carrying hatred and hexes. It was a dark artifact no human hand could destroy.

  This was a demon’s book—written by the man called Gamo. A legacy meant to be passed to his successor. Every dark mage carved spells and mysteries into their grimoires so the next generation could find and inherit their secrets.

  Every year, the Demon Slayer HQ had to repel countless uninvited guests trying to steal this book—like some dark annual festival. They never realized those fools had been risking their lives for a fake.

  "This is the real thing."

  Shaman opened the book with trembling hands. He flipped through the pages quickly—but didn’t find what he wanted. His tattooed face twisted with rage.

  "Nothing? There’s nothing?! That can’t be right. I know Gamo obsessed over resurrection. Where the hell is the spell?!"

  Shaman didn’t care about inheriting the legacy. He wanted the resurrection spell. He’d heard Gamo was the only dark mage who could restore a dead person’s full consciousness.

  Most high-tier curse-users could raise the dead, but the results were either demons or mindless dolls. Only Gamo had supposedly brought someone back completely intact. It had rewritten the history of black magic.

  His personal journal had to contain it. That was why Shaman was so desperate to steal it from Fethan.

  But it wasn’t there.

  "Impossible… Gamo had to write it down. How am I supposed to bring Elen back now?! I’ve waited years! Just for a resurrection spell!"

  Shaman cursed Gamo a thousand ways. Until one thought struck him.

  What if Gamo didn’t only have one book?

  ‘If I were him, I’d do the same. If I was that obsessed, I’d never write resurrection spells next to everything else. This is just his general grimoire. There must be another book somewhere that holds only the resurrection secrets.’

  The curse world had always assumed Gamo’s journal held everything. But what if it didn’t? What if even the “real” book was incomplete? Then Gamo’s second grimoire might truly exist.

  "Forget it. I still got the true journal and the map. Becoming the next Lord of the Cursed Arts is just a matter of time. And I’ve captured a cursed vessel body, too. Overall, this was a huge win."

  He held up the cloudy bottle that held Stella’s soul. Inside, the little girl cried like her world was ending.

  She blamed herself for Fethan’s death.

  To her, Fethan was dead. Foaming at the mouth, limp, right arm blackened like charcoal, lifeless eyes like a frozen fish.

  ‘Again. It’s because of me. Mr. Fethan… Mr. Fethan…’

  She had been so happy when he came to rescue her. But when he fell, her heart shattered.

  "Someone, please… help Mr. Fethan. I’ll trade anything. Just save my brother…"

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  She cried to any god that would listen. She had never called him “brother” before—always “Mr. Fethan.” She was afraid that if she got too close, it would hurt more when she was rejected.

  She had drawn a clear boundary between them. Just half-siblings living together. But he was the only one who helped her—risked his life to save her.

  “Please… help my… brother…”

  Tears streamed down her face. Shaman didn’t hear her—and wouldn’t have cared even if he had.

  He looked to the Demiurge Slime and smiled.

  "The cursed vessel is perfect for transformation into a cursed spirit. My theory says human souls are compatible with any lifeform—but no one’s ever merged one with a dark realm being."

  He stared at the bottle, mesmerized.

  "No human soul has ever endured a dark realm entity’s power. But a cursed vessel might! Gamo’s journal must have fusion rituals for higher spirits. If I succeed, no one can deny me the title of Dark Magus. And I’ll find Gamo’s second book."

  In the curse world, power was everything.

  Shaman sat and resumed reading. Minutes later, he crushed the bottle in frustration. Stella’s soul floated up—but was instantly bound by flesh-colored tentacles covered in boils.

  “AAAHHHH!”

  She screamed in pure agony. The slimy touch felt like rotting meat and madness. Just touching it damaged her soul.

  "Don’t blame me, little girl. Blame your idiot brother for bringing you here. Don’t worry—I’ll take care of you now. We’ll build a new era for the curse world. I’ll be the Dark Magus. You’ll be the Curse Queen. We’ll be perfect partners!"

  “No… no…” Stella sobbed. One last tear rolled down her cheek before her eyes went lifeless.

  Shaman raised a golden seal marked with a cult sigil. The ritual circle beneath him ignited again.

  “AAAAHHHH!”

  Stella’s soul writhed. It felt like being dissected. Her screams of suffering pierced the air. Shaman’s face turned grave. Even he didn’t like hearing such hopeless cries. But for his cause, he had to do it.

  ‘It’s too late, Shaman.’

  ‘You’ve come too far to turn back. Trash your hesitation. Cut away all that’s unnecessary.’

  ‘This is the price of entering the curse world.’

  He steeled his heart.

  "I, a faithful disciple, call upon—"

  Suddenly something slammed into his hand. The golden seal flew into the air—caught by another.

  He spun—and froze.

  Fethan stood before him.

  Fethan had been left for dead. The sleep curse devoured his mind. He sank into a black lake of oblivion. Alone, drifting further from the sun. Far away, he heard Stella’s scream. Luminus calling his name.

  ‘So this is it. My twenty years of pain… ends here. Maybe I can finally let go.’

  His dream of becoming a Demon Slayer had failed. He’d taken in his poor half-sister. Watched his lover die before his eyes. Swore to resurrect her—but never succeeded.

  Three people he cared about… and he couldn’t save even one.

  ‘Even with this system, I’m still trash.’

  ‘If I could start over… I’d take everyone to the beach. Go diving. Watch the sunrise on the world’s tallest mountain.’

  ‘I want to live a full life with those I love. I want to say “I love you” more. Hug them more. It’s a shame the last thing I told Lumi was “sorry”… not “I love you.”’

  ‘I want to see you again… all of you…’

  Especially Mom.

  His heart returned to a child’s. The scent of floral shampoo. Her silky hair. Her warm embrace. Even the thought soothed him more than a lullaby.

  Just as his soul reached its coldest point, a faint warmth touched him.

  His broken body stirred. Pain flooded him—pulling him from sleep.

  His lifeless eyes blinked open. He shook, but that meant he was alive. Silver-gold eyes focused on a woman with raven-black hair tied with a ribbon. Her silver eyes glowed like the moon.

  Like a real goddess.

  He remembered Stella’s fairy tale—an angel who protected innocent children.

  The most beautiful face he had ever seen shed tears for him. She touched his face gently, and her scent made him feel like a child again.

  ‘Who is she? Why is she here?’

  [A Special Cursed Spirit—Sabina Christina Hedison—offers to fuse her spirit with yours and pass on her legacy.]

  She was a cursed spirit—but pure, gentle, untainted by evil.

  Tears fell from her eyes. She smiled faintly.

  ‘Was it you who saved me? Why?’

  He had no choice but to accept her offer. Her spirit was fading. She closed her eyes and willingly surrendered herself. Her face relaxed, unburdened at last.

  “I love you all,” she whispered.

  The words struck Fethan like lightning. His mind blanked. He hadn’t felt like this since burying his mother. This woman wasn’t his mother—but some deep, inexplicable bond connected them.

  Her smile and voice—overflowing with emotion—left a mark on his heart.

  “Mom…”

  The word slipped from his lips. Her eyes widened—and she wept. Then, she vanished.

  [Sabina Christina Hedison has offered her soul and merged her spirit core with you. You have inherited her skill: Reverse Curse Magic (S) LV1.]

  Her feelings and memories poured into him. She truly loved him—and loved Stella even more. His charred right arm began to regenerate. The curse’s interference faded. His faint divine energy fused with the Reverse Curse Magic and reanimated his corpse-like body.

  Fethan stood—face stained with tears.

  “There’s someone left to save.”

  He looked toward Stella—her soul still bound to that grotesque being.

  At that moment, the Sewer Rat King—still cloaked in stealth—attacked on command. It slammed into the golden seal, launching it into the air. Fethan snatched it midair.

  "How are you standing?!"

  Shaman was more shocked than if he’d seen a ghost. Only he could break the sleep curse. Fethan should’ve been helpless—unless someone used holy magic to cleanse it… or Reverse Curse Magic.

  "Good question… I’ve been wondering that myself."

  Fethan couldn’t think straight. Joy, grief, rage—everything blurred. He didn’t understand what he felt or what he was doing.

  Only one thought remained.

  Save Stella.

  Before him loomed the dark realm being—a grotesque horror that had turned an immortal army into dust. Its tendrils excreted neurotoxic slime. Its regeneration nullified even his most powerful curse.

  The Sewer Rat King had evaded detection—even from Reaper Eyes. Ironically, it was Shaman himself who’d designed the rat’s stealth specs—never imagining it would be used against him.

  Fethan thanked himself for not dismissing the rat. Without it, there’d be no turning back.

  He clenched the golden seal. The ritual circle glowed again.

  "What the hell are you doing?! You think a greenhorn like you can contact a dark realm god?! You’re insane! You can’t just mess with ritual magic like this!"

  Shaman’s face went pale with terror.

  "It’s too late."

  "I’ve lost too much. I can’t turn back now."

  "My mother… my lover… my sister…"

  "This is why it chose me."

  Fethan’s silver-gold eyes burned with icy fire. He gripped the seal tight—almost cracking it.

  ‘Goodbye… my old self.’

  "I, a faithful servant, call upon the god from another world. Please hear my call."

  CRACK.

  The world shifted—green and black.

  Time froze. A heartbeat throbbed through the forest. A silver dagger reflected a sea of black stars and a green moon strung with flesh-tendrils.

  Fethan—mad with purpose—pressed the blade to his throat.

  "Grant me a fraction of your wisdom. Give me the power to rule this filthy cesspool. Whichever noble one hears me, I offer my mind and soul as tribute."

  He plunged the dagger into his neck.

  Blood spurted—his face unchanged. As if pain had ceased to matter.

  White flames erupted. Screams echoed from all directions. Space trembled. And Shaman watched, wide-eyed, as the boy who’d barely practiced curses for a month… smiled.

  The smile of a true dark mage.

  I swear, the first time I wrote this scene, I actually got chills. It’s honestly one of the chapters I’m most proud of since I started writing this story.

  I’ve always loved MCs who grow stronger through sorrow—and yes, I’ll keep breaking him. Wait, no... I’ll be merciful. Eventually.