{Chapter: 121: Ashes of a Pact}
Hart, broken and irrevocably changed.
The moment Dex's dismissive words echoed in the stale, shadow-laced chamber, Hart, who had been lying on the floor like a gutted animal trying to catch his breath, flinched violently. The psychological imprint of the agonizing transformation was still so raw that his body reacted before his mind could catch up. His bones ached with phantom pain, and a chill ran down his spine as if Dex's voice had the power to summon that torment back at will.
He scrambled to his feet, legs shaking, barely conscious of the dried blood caking his arms and staining his cheeks. He didn't care. Fear had replaced fatigue. Whatever soreness gripped his newly reforged limbs meant nothing in the face of the being that stood before him—a creature that had rewritten his very essence with no more effort than a shrug and a snap of his fingers.
It was only then, as the rush of fear subsided slightly, that Hart noticed something—something astonishing.
His body felt… different.
He stood taller, broader. The aches and stunted development from a childhood of malnutrition and exposure were gone. The sinew beneath his skin pulsed with refined energy, humming like a well-tuned instrument. Each breath filled his lungs with strength; each heartbeat pushed power through his veins. It was as if someone had cleaned a dirty window, and for the first time in his life, he could see clearly.
His fingertips tingled. He raised a hand and focused on the sensation—streams of raw magical current curled through his nerves, waiting to be called. It was dizzying. The limitations that had once governed him were gone.
For a brief, golden second, Hart allowed hope to bloom in his chest.
The world, which had always appeared so gray and indifferent, now seemed brighter. The oppressive fog of helplessness that had haunted him since he could remember had lifted. In that moment, he believed—truly believed—that maybe, just maybe, things could be different now.
But then, Hart looked up… and met Dex's eyes.
The creature's expression was utterly unreadable. Calm. Cold. Not cruel—but entirely detached, as if he were merely observing the results of some lab experiment, not the rebirth of a boy who had sold his soul for power.
In that instant, Hart's brief moment of euphoria shattered like glass beneath a hammer.
That glimmer of sunlight he'd thought he felt was nothing more than a mirage in the abyss. The sky had never cleared. The sun had never shone. His chains were still wrapped tightly around his soul, only now they were invisible and coiled far deeper than before.
The Abyss Contract—the infernal scripture of tens of thousands of cursed words, etched in soul-blood and agony—still bound him tighter than iron. It would follow him to the ends of the world, an eternal weight pressing on every breath he drew, every step he took.
Maybe… this was just life. A cruel, uncaring trial where survival was bought with pieces of yourself until nothing remained.
He was only eight years old, but in that moment, Hart felt ancient. The burdens he carried bent his spine, not from age, but from the sharp truth that dreams came at a price far greater than he could comprehend.
Dex, meanwhile, stood in still silence, arms crossed, watching the child stagger forward like a wounded animal. There was no gloating in his gaze. No pride. No malice. Just cold arithmetic and quiet satisfaction.
If he had realized that he'd just advanced Hart's education in the harshest lesson of all—how the world truly worked—perhaps he would have offered a nod of approval. But even if he had, he wouldn't have said anything. The world didn't reward those who wept beneath its weight. It rewarded those who crawled forward, even as they bled.
After all, the beatings from society are not optional. They are a rite of passage.
And Dex—he simply believed he was doing his part. He was, in his own way, contributing to the system. Like a strict teacher administering punishment to a wayward student, he merely accelerated what life would have done eventually—only faster and more efficiently.
He nodded in silent approval as Hart limped toward the exit, dragging what remained of his innocence behind him.
According to the detailed, soul-woven clauses of the Abyss Contract, Hart now owed him the equivalent energy of three hundred second-level magic beast souls over the course of fifty years. It was a demand that would break most seasoned Wizards—an impossible task for a boy who'd never held a sword or cast a proper spell.
But Dex didn't care about probability. He cared about profit.
In truth, the energy cost he spent to modify Hart's body was minimal—like tossing a coin into an endless pit and watching it echo for an eternity. The return, however, would be enormous. Even if Hart failed to meet the contract's quota, even partial returns would yield a net gain.
And if the boy died?
Well, Dex would collect his soul.
Win-win.
It was just business. Predatory, perhaps. But undeniably stable.
Dex had been in this game for more than two decades now, playing the role of soul broker, flesh tailor, and ambition dealer. He'd made and recycled more contracts than he could count. Some of his clients grew strong and fed him well. Others burned out quickly, becoming soul chips to fuel greater trades. In the end, it didn't matter. He always came out ahead.
"I don't know if the boy will make it," Dex muttered to himself, stretching his arms with a yawn. "But I know I won't lose anything."
This was high-interest lending in its purest, most sinister form. A dark economy driven not by currency, but by desperation and dreams.
And now, another investment walked away with trembling legs, bleeding hope with every step.
---
Hart didn't look back.
He couldn't.
If he turned around, if he saw Dex's silhouette one more time—unmoving, indifferent, eternal—he feared he might collapse from despair. So he moved forward, into the unknown, into a world that now looked no less cruel, but one where he at least had teeth.
Inside, his thoughts were a swirling mess of contradiction. He hated what had happened. He hated that he'd signed the contract. Hated that he'd allowed himself to be manipulated. But underneath it all… a spark still flickered.
Because he did get what he wanted.
Power.
Real, undeniable power.
And though he'd traded his soul for it, he wasn't about to waste it.
"I'll survive," he whispered to himself, teeth clenched. "No matter what."
That was the only choice left to him now.
---
Meanwhile, Dex turned toward his summoning circle once again, already calculating his next move. There were always more dreamers, more fools with hope in their eyes and desperation in their hearts.
The cycle would continue.
One soul at a time.
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