Transmigrated As The Perverted Young Master



He felt like he was floating, like a leaf carried by a gentle breeze. But it wasn't a new place. He'd been here earlier today, and it was because he hadn't succeeded that he was back again.

A pang of shame settled in his chest. He couldn't believe he had been defeated by a bunch of bones. It was embarrassing and made him feel really small. He thought he must look so weak. He wished his master were here, so he could just smack his head and maybe scold him a little.

Even though he felt bad about failing, he wanted to look around. It was strange how this place felt so familiar, like he'd visited it long ago, not just today.

He tried hard to open his eyes, but it was like they were glued shut. He wondered if he even had a body anymore, or if he was just a floating thought. He gave it another go, but the result was the same.

He thought about whether his eyes were open and everything was just really dark around him. Or maybe his eyes were still closed tight, and he was stuck in the dark like that. Or maybe, he thought, he wasn't even the one in control of his body right now. It was a weird feeling, not being in charge of yourself.

Once more, he felt the sensation of floating, as if he were drifting away from himself. It was strange, this feeling of being untethered, like a balloon set free.

And then, as if he were being drawn towards it, he saw it. Darkness. It was like a heavy cloud of shame, casting its shadow over everything. He felt the weight of it, like a cloak that he couldn't shake off. It was the same darkness he had been floating on, the same darkness that seemed to surround him.

But then, there was something else. A brilliant light, shining like a distant star. It was different from the darkness, and it seemed to be pulling at him too, but in a gentle and warm way. It was a light that made him feel like maybe things could be okay, like there was hope even in the midst of all this confusion.

As he floated between these two extremes—the all-encompassing darkness and the inviting light—he found himself wondering. Could they both exist together? Could the darkness and the light coexist, just like how he was experiencing them now? It was a strange thought, but it tugged at his mind.

He realized that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to feel both things at the same time. Maybe it was okay to have moments of darkness and moments of light. Maybe they didn't have to cancel each other out. Maybe they were both part of who he was, part of the journey he was on.

And as he continued to float, suspended between these opposing forces, he felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. He didn't have all the answers, and that was okay. In this moment, in this strange place of floating and drifting, he found a quiet acceptance of the unknown.

The light and the darkness held a sense of familiarity, as if he had crossed paths with them at some point. But the details were elusive, slipping through his grasp like fragments of a dream he couldn't quite remember. Did he truly know them, or was it just a trick of his mind?

Feeling a pull, he made a decision. It was the darkness that seemed to resonate more deeply within him, as if it held a part of him he hadn't fully explored. He wanted to confront it, to understand it better.

With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, he willed himself towards the darkness once more. It was an odd sensation, being incorporeal, like a wisp of thought given form. And yet, he had a sense of self, an awareness that guided his movements.

As he floated towards the darkness, he couldn't help but feel a knot of apprehension in his metaphorical stomach. It was a step into the unknown, a plunge into something that he could sense held both answers and mysteries. The familiarity of the darkness was both comforting and unsettling, like reuniting with an old friend who had changed over time.

He approached the darkness cautiously, as one might approach a hidden doorway in a familiar but dimly lit room. What would he find here? Memories, emotions, truths? It was a journey of self-discovery, an exploration of the depths of his own consciousness.

The darkness loomed larger as he approached, its expanse stretching like a vast, ominous doorway. It beckoned, an enigmatic entrance that held the promise of answers and revelations, yet there was nothing solid about it. It was like a threshold made of shadows and secrets.

He paused, hovering in the space just before the expansive dark portal. A moment of reflection took hold, a quiet breath before taking the plunge. With a mixture of resolve and anticipation, he made his way toward the darkness, preparing himself for whatever lay on the other side. It was a journey into the unknown, an exploration of the depths of his own being.

Yet, just as he was poised to step across the threshold, a jarring voice pierced the air—strange, yet oddly familiar. It resonated not as audible words, but as an ethereal echo that seemed to emanate from a place beyond the world he knew.

"You wretched fool! Did you truly believe you could trespass here and defile our essence?" The voice thundered, an otherworldly force that defied description. There was no vibration in the air, but there was an inhuman presence that pervaded the very fabric of reality, like a being from a realm beyond.

It was anger that surged through the voice, an anger so potent it felt tangible even without sound. The fury radiated, filling the metaphysical space with its intensity, leaving no room for doubt. It was an emotion that resonated across realms, bridging the gap between the known and the unfathomable.

He hesitated, frozen in place by the sheer force of the voice's rage. It was a confrontation with something beyond his comprehension, something that existed outside the boundaries of his reality. In that moment, he felt like an intruder, an unwelcome presence in a domain that was not meant for him.

The darkness seemed to thicken, as if responding to the anger in the voice. It pulsated with a strange energy, a manifestation of emotions that defied description. And in the face of this spectral anger, he found himself unable to take another step forward. It was a palpable force, an entity that held dominion over this realm.

Fear gripped him, not just of the voice's anger, but of the unknown that lay beyond. He felt small, insignificant in the face of this cosmic confrontation. The darkness, the anger, the presence—it all coalesced into a maelstrom of emotions that left him trembling, caught between the desire to explore and the instinct to retreat.

Then he lost consciousness.

***

Heat—intense and all-encompassing—wrapped around him, searing his senses. It was as if his very being had become a furnace, each inch of his skin ignited by an invisible blaze. And then, his eyes sprang open, snapping him back to reality.

For a fleeting moment, all seemed normal—the darkness of the night stretching before him, unassuming. But the tranquility shattered like glass as a shrill scream rent the air, slicing through the stillness. A few meters away, his gaze fixed upon a visage etched in terror. Harpie. The man was dragging his body away, horror etched into his features as if he were staring at a monstrous apparition.

Confusion gnawed at Damien's mind, the scene unraveling before his eyes like a distorted painting, the edges wavering like flames in a breeze. And amidst this surreal panorama, the most bizarre revelation was that Harpie was without an arm, as if it had been torn from him by some unfathomable force.

"Luther?!" Damien's frantic voice split the air, desperation lacing his words as he scanned the darkness for a glimmer of hope. But the void offered no solace, only a suffocating absence of light.

A realization hit him, a shockwave of understanding that transformed his perception. What he'd taken for darkness was no veil of night—it was fire, a dark fire that consumed the cemetery with a silent and deadly embrace. There were no flames, no smoke, just a spectral blaze that seemed to emanate from within him.

"What in the world!" His voice trembled as he staggered back, recoiling from the infernal revelation. And then it emerged, stark and unsettling—a severed arm, held within his grasp. Fingers, elongated and adorned with unsettling nails, had torn into the forearm of what had once been Harpie's appendage. Blood oozed from the wounds, staining his hands in a macabre tableau.

"Monster! Night monster!" Harpie's scream was a desperate accusation, spat with a mixture of terror and revulsion. The words sliced through the air, his voice echoing the horror of a man confronting a creature from his darkest nightmares.

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