Pain comes before realization.
Not fire—not blades—but the collapse of being itself. When the Demonic Monkey's claw struck, I didn't feel a wound; I felt erased. My body didn't split—it folded, as if I'd been peeled from reality's canvas. Everything—the hum of the void, the ache of existence—fell silent.
The shock lasted less than thought. Then came the agony.
The void reacted. Its nothingness caught hold of leaking essence and pulled it apart strand by strand. My bones screamed—not from breaking but from ceasing to recall that they ever were bones.
I tried to breathe. My lungs opened; there was no air. My mouth stretched but produced no scream; sound died unborn. The Demonic Monkey tilted its head, observing like a god inspecting its first failed creation.
Then there was only the end.
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The First Dissolution
Dying here isn't like losing life. It's like being recycled into the raw material of the void. My awareness disassembled into colorless shards. I saw my hands crumble into dust shaped like light, then that dust diffused gently upward, each grain flickering out as if sighing relief.
When the last trace of me scattered into oblivion, the pain stopped completely.
In that quiet second, I understood why immortals go insane—death feels too much like rest.
But the void doesn't allow rest.
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The Regeneration
It begins deep, deeper than marrow, in a point where self tries to remember self.
At first there's warmth, barely noticeable. Then a magnetic pull, like gravity rediscovering purpose. Dust gathers. Thought congeals. Light crawls backward into pattern.
My rebirth starts as a distortion: tiny filaments of gold thread weaving through the emptiness where my spine once existed. They crawl outward—delicate at first, trembling like waking nerves. From those threads, flesh grows backward.
Muscle fibers sprout from invisible blueprints, twisting together in rhythmic spasms, pink glistening cords wrapping around skeletal scaffolds that crystallize from streaks of condensed energy. It's silent but I hear it through my bones—a low, melodic vibration, like an orchestra tuning in the language of creation.
Flesh swells, veins snake outward, heartbeat rediscovered before heart.
My skin seals last, stretching tight, pale as candle wax, rippling while pores bloom across its surface. Each pore exhales smoke, each vein hums faint light.
For a moment my body hangs half‑formed—eyes open yet unseeing—as sparks of conscious memory slam back into place.
Then breath rushes in.
The first inhalation feels like swallowing molten iron—torture burning through nerves halfway regrown. My body arches, mouth open in a voiceless cry.
Every cell remembers what dying felt like, and rebirth becomes an echo of death repeating inside me.
When it's over, I collapse against the void's invisible floor, drenched not in blood but in luminous liquid seeping from the regeneration light. My vision swirls with afterimages: veins of gold threading black infinity.
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(Internal Monologue – The Moment After)
This pain… this isn't healing. It's rewriting.
What am I becoming? Flesh doesn't reform from dust. That thing's claw—did it kill me or… trigger this?
I raise my hand; translucent veins shimmer beneath semi-clear skin. Beneath it all, faint mechanisms dance—like miniature galaxies pulsing with rhythm of heartbeats.
I can feel energy circulating where mana should be. Is this the Button's doing? Or something the void learned from eating me?
The Button lies beside me, faintly glowing, almost sympathetic. Its pulse syncs with mine.
No… not sympathy. Observation.
I laugh dryly, though no sound survives here. Only thought survives.
Congratulations, Lysander. You can die and wake up again. You finally impressed the gods—by amusing them.
The Demon Observes
The Demonic Monkey hasn't moved. Its triple eyes stare down at me, reflecting versions of me still dissolving—spectral phantoms months old yet playing simultaneously.
It knows. Maybe it's seen this before.
My body still trembles from regeneration shocks; residual static crawls through bone. The Monkey's enormous hand twitches once, scattering flakes of black light. Its mouth opens fractionally, and from the spiral of mirrored teeth leaks a vibration that feels like pity wearing cruelty's mask.
I realize then that it's testing me. Watching every reassembly, every tremor, every spark of survival—like a craftsman critiquing his imitation.
Am I prey or experiment?
The question lingers; no answer comes.
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The new body doesn't fit right. Skin feels too tight, fingers slightly elongated, nails harder than glass. Breath echoes differently in ribs, as though my chest cavity is larger than before. I touch my face—familiar yet alien—jawline sharper, eyes burning light instead of reflection.
There's no blood left, only luminescent fluid running where veins should hold warmth. Each drop floats upward instead of down.
My nervous system feels raw, unfinished. Every movement sparks trails of cold numbness down my extremities. Yet… I stand. The regeneration stabilized faster than logic allows.
When I exhale, the mist turns silver—residue of reconstruction seeping into the void, perhaps returning fuel to the realm that birthed me again.
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(Internal Monologue – Processing)
So that's the price of the Button's mercy—that I die but never leave.
Is this immortality or imprisonment?
If every death feels like this… will I ever truly want to fight again?
Memories of the attack replay in fragments—claw, pressure, vanishing.
A part of me wonders if perhaps every kill adds something to my design. Does each rebirth make me stronger—or more like the creature in front of me?
The Monkey tilts its head, as though hearing thoughts. The gesture reminds me it might not need ears—it lives inside thought. Fear builds, not of dying again, but of changing each time I do.
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Regeneration Detailed (repeat cycle sample)
Even as I think, the body recalibrates itself. Micro-adjustments ripple through tissues, correcting molecular anomalies. Light spills briefly from eyes; mouth tastes of electricity and salt.
Then a delayed spasm hits—a secondary surge of the regenerative process re‑weaving inner organs. I clutch my abdomen, feeling intestines writhe like serpents settling into new shape. The pain is so sharp it's clean, beyond screamable range.
It fades slower this time, leaving a tingling residue behind ribs, pleasant and horrifying at once. The human brain wasn't built to process this extremity of sensation.
If I ever feel hunger again, I think, it will be monstrous.
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Observation of the Process from Outside
If someone could stand apart, they would not call this rebirth. They'd call it reconstruction by cosmic physics—matter obeying a higher command.
Strands of luminous filament free‑float around my form, knitting rips in fabric until all that remains is the illusion of continuity. But scars linger on an invisible level. Every revival leaves something behind—small ghost fragments orbiting faintly like afterimages of pain.
The Monkey's eyes track those ghosts. It swipes its claw through one; it shatters like glass and vanishes with a hiss. It's pleased—like cleaning clutter from a shelf.
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Internal Monologue – The New Fear
It doesn't even need to attack. I'll kill myself over and over until I go mad trying to outrun the next regeneration.
How many times until memory blurs? Until pieces of me stop coming back?
The Button's glow steadies. Its voice—if it has one—whispers within pulse: Endure.
"Endure?" I whisper back with a fractured grin. "That's easy for you. You've never died."
The void absorbs my bitterness. No echo returns.
I feel smaller than ever. Yet under the nausea, under the shaking, there's a thread of relentless fury—a spark that survived dissolution itself. The Monkey watches. It notices. The third eye narrows, glimmering respect—or calculation.
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Sensory Catalog After Regeneration
Sight: sharper, detecting faint ripples invisible before.
Hearing: attuned to frequencies low as tectonic murmurs.
Smell: nonexistent.
Taste: electricity and ash.
Touch: overstimulated—air (if it exists) brushes like knives.
Time perception splinters; seconds overlap with minutes, sensations replay doubly. Regeneration gave more senses than it restored. I understand now—the void changed me so I could feel more when breaking again.
The Monkey moves—a slow, deliberate step that warps world geometry for miles. The surface beneath me flexes like skin on a drum. Shadows slide away from its legs, as if reality prefers distance from its bearer.
It could kill me again anytime. I know it will.
And still—a perverse spark inside wants to experience the cycle again, maybe to understand what I'm becoming.
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Internal Monologue – Resolution
Dying hurt. Living hurts worse. But pain means boundaries—and boundaries mean I still exist.
Fine. If I'm trapped in your realm, demon, I'll learn its language. Even if that means bleeding until I speak it fluently.
The Monkey lowers itself, nose nearly touching my head. Its breath warps consciousness, filling skull with static.
For a blink that stretches eternity, I see something in its mirrored eye—a smaller figure, humanoid, white‑haired, skin glowing faintly gold. My reflection, but older, harder, no longer trembling.
The vision vanishes.
Was that me… or what I'll become?
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The Loop Begins
The Demon raises its hand again. Reflex burns through me; adrenaline floods my ethereal nerves. The Button pulses frantic warnings against my chest.
But now, fear feels mechanical. I already sense how death will taste. The unknown is gone; pain has a pattern.
Metallic scent. Pressure. Disintegration.
Then light gathering again, faster this time.
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Internal Monologue – Within Regeneration
It's quicker. The body remembers the route back. Cells resurrect on instinct now.
That's what eternity teaches—you adapt even to impossibility.
If gods wanted me as their experiment, fine… but they'll regret giving me time to learn inside pain.
I feel warmth surge into limbs—the aftertaste of torment fading into clarity sharper than ever before. The void laughs around me, or maybe that's my nervous system echoing creation's mockery.
This death took less than a minute to rebuild. I stand before the same behemoth again, glowing veins brighter, skin no longer trembling. The Monkey's gaze meets mine; in silence, two abominations exchange understanding.
I'm not prey anymore. Not entirely.