Chapter 4: The Woman from My Past

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in a pitch-black basement room.

The air was thick with dust and mildew. A single bulb flickered above, casting long shadows against the peeling linoleum. Somewhere, a washing machine rattled like a distant drum.

In front of me sat half a bowl of dark green medicine, its stench curling in the air.

It smelled like every bad memory you’ve ever had—rotten vegetables and burnt rubber mixed together. The bowl itself looked old, chipped at the rim, like something you’d find at a yard sale and regret bringing home.

Judging by the sour and bitter taste lingering in my mouth, the other half of the bowl was already in my stomach.

I gagged, wiping my lips on the sleeve of a faded hoodie. The aftertaste clung to my tongue, a grim reminder that nothing in this world comes easy.

I quickly focused my energy to dispel the poison.

I closed my eyes, drawing on the old techniques—a kind of meditation I’d perfected during sleepless nights in Silver Hollow. My breath slowed, steady as a metronome, until I felt the poison’s edge dull within me.

This kind of medicine—I couldn’t be more familiar with.

I’d tasted worse, but not by much. The memory of old betrayals surfaced, the sting of jealousy and ambition as potent as any chemical.

In my previous life, when I first joined the order, many were jealous of my talent and often laced my food with this poison.

It was like high school politics with higher stakes—backstabbing, whispered threats, and the occasional prank that could actually kill you. Trust was a luxury nobody could afford.

Luckily, I was careful and advanced quickly, so I was never caught off guard.

I made a habit of keeping one eye open, never drinking anything I didn’t pour myself. Paranoia, I learned, was its own kind of wisdom.

This poison doesn’t harm the body, but directly corrodes the soul—deadly for anyone below a certain level. I’d seen it before—quiet deaths, always blamed on fate or bad genes. Small towns never question a closed casket.

If used against ordinary people, it simply makes their death look natural.

On the surface, it could pass for a stroke or a heart attack—the kind of tragedy that fills a small-town obituary column every week.

I glanced at this unfamiliar body and, seeing the poison on the table, pieced together the truth.

My reflection stared back at me from a cracked mirror: a stranger’s face, haunted and drawn. I took a deep breath and began to sort through the clues like a detective at the scene of a crime.

The former owner of this body was just an ordinary man, poisoned to death right here.

The facts lined up. There were no signs of struggle—just quiet, cold calculation. I could almost hear the killer’s footsteps echoing up the stairs, unhurried and confident.

My spirit happened to seize the opportunity to be reborn in his body.

It felt like a second chance—and maybe a curse. I wondered what kind of life this man had lived, and what unfinished business he’d left behind.

But why would someone go to such lengths to take revenge on an ordinary person?

In a world of gods and monsters, what threat could one average guy possibly pose? The question gnawed at me, the way only an unsolved mystery can.

Who exactly wanted him dead?