Something else took over Donald's body—something that seemed like it had nothing to do with the soul repair protocol. After everything was initiated and finally stopped—because it seemed like the healing had been successfully completed—what came after was not for the faint-hearted.
Apart from feeling his limbs being stretched and his head twisted like a loose screw, what was more disturbing about all of this was that, even though Donald had most of his limbs, he was a bodiless soul—or spirit, or whatever he thought of himself as.
He wasn't supposed to feel that kind of pain.
And not to forget—since the last time he checked, he didn't even have a mouth on his face to scream or cry out in agony.
So… what was the deal?
But it wasn't like his psychological evaluation was functioning properly anyway—not after reliving the stupid mistake that he believed had not only cost him his life, but also the life of his dying mother. A mother he had no idea about—how she was doing, where she was, or if she was even still alive.
And honestly, this wasn't the time for remorse or regret.
It was too late.
And for damn sure, he was also too late.
So after everything that had happened to him—not just being ruthlessly killed by Moreno, not just being falsely accused and framed for a crime he didn't even participate in (all he did was stay behind the van and check the coast—nothing more, nothing less)—the pain that stood out was the one he'd just gone through.
The pain of feeling like a blind, crazed woman was sewing up his bullet-ridden chest with rusty wire.
Which—thankfully—had stopped hurting now.
Then, right before his eyes once again, a notification appeared.
This time, it gave him hope—the kind that felt almost cruel.
[ SOUL REPAIR HAS COMPLETED ]
The relief he felt in that moment? A once-in-a-lifetime feeling.
But little did he know...
The next feeling—
Or in this case, feelings—
Would make death itself feel like a mercy.
Yes, the right term was that he felt like he was experiencing death again.
But this time?
It wasn't as simple—or as kind—as three bullets lodged in his chest and skull.
[ SOUL TRANSFERENCE INITIATED ]
[ BODY HOST HAS BEEN FOUND ]
[ PREPARING FOR SOUL EXTRACTION ]
Donald's fast-thinking mind suddenly reminded him why he majored in psychology in his previous life. It also reminded him why he graduated at the top of his class.
After reading the messages in front of him, he immediately picked up on what was coming.
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me…"
If he had eyes, he would've rolled them right out of his soul.
Before he could fully prepare himself for what came next, he felt a strange tingling in his legs and arms—like something small was jabbing him. But not in a painful way—more like being lightly stung by baby spiders.
At first, it felt pleasant. Almost relaxing.
A sweet, tingling sensation.
But then...
That sweetness turned sour.
That tingling turned unbearable.
Donald felt like something—or someone—was slicing him open with shallow cuts. Like papercuts, the ones you don't feel until seconds later. Then it stings, and you spend the next half hour trying to figure out how it even happened.
That's exactly what it felt like.
But worse.
Because each of those cuts? They weren't just random.
They were perfectly aligned with where his veins should've been.
And then, he felt those same wounds being opened, stretched from the inside out.
Then—something pulled.
Stretched.
Strengthened.
Like his entire human anatomy was being forcefully peeled away from his very essence.
Donald couldn't help but scream in agony.
[ SOUL EXTRACTION TAKING PLACE ]
Out of nowhere, a bright light appeared in front of him.
At first, it looked like nothing—just a small peephole.
But then...
It stretched.
And kept stretching.
Each moment, it widened like it was being pulled open from the other side.
Donald watched helplessly.
"What in the—?"
But before he could finish that thought, more cuts appeared.
And unlike the first four, he definitely felt these ones.
They were sharp. Fast. Surgical.
Like rapid-fire stab wounds.
And just as he stared at his now damaged, cut-up soul...
The peephole—the portal—went quiet. Still. Silent.
Like nothing was going to happen next.
"Oh darn... I'm really going to feel this, aren't I?"
Donald had accepted his fate.
And then—it came.
A full-fledged human anatomy came rushing at him.
Not just entering him... attacking him.
And this anatomy—this unknown DNA—began to merge with his own.
It wasn't just fusion. It was a violation.
His new form wrapped around him like a burning, melting cocoon.
Like he was a Starbucks sandwich being sealed in a hellish press.
The sounds?
The sizzling of flesh.
The searing of nonexistent skin.
Donald's face began to mold—eyes, nose, mouth, ears—each one burning its way into existence.
The pain was so unbearable, so endless, that he couldn't hold on.
And just before the transformation could finish…
Donald passed out.
Unconscious.
He never saw the message that floated quietly above him:
[ SOUL EXTRACTION COMPLETED ]
[ SOUL TRANSFERENCE COMPLETED ]
[ SOUL TRANSMIGRATION INITIATED ]
He didn't even witness himself being pulled toward the now-massive peephole—
Now disguised as a blinding white light.
Donald woke to find himself in a new body—but not like he was aware of it or anything like that. He was kneeling down, as if he'd been running around somewhere unfamiliar and unsafe.
His hand was on the wet, muddy ground. The rain poured down heavily. He clearly couldn't see very well, or do anything in that kind of weather.
He was completely soaked, barely able to make out his surroundings. The only thing more overwhelming than the sound of heavy rainfall was the sound of his own breath—he was breathing hard, like he'd just run across the world.
But of course...
He wasn't exactly aware of all of this. It was like he was there—awake—but at the same time... not. Maybe his consciousness was present, but not his subconscious. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Not far behind him, multiple voices echoed—talking and whispering through the storm.
"Where did that little brat go?" a female voice asked.
Then something made an alarming sound—like a machete hacking through trees.
Donald was struggling to hold his breath. He paused for a moment, listening carefully to the voices and footsteps through the noise of the storm.
"He can't be that far," a male voice said.
"Then where the hell is he?" The female voice was clearly growing frustrated.
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
"Do not worry," a low, disgruntled voice assured her. "Even though he is hiding deep within the forest… I can find him easily."
"Then what are you waiting for?" the woman snapped. "Go find him. He shouldn't survive until the Elders' Prophecy."
Though he was a bit far from them, Donald could still hear everything they were saying—which was strange, given how heavy the rain was. The sound should have blocked it all out. And yet… it didn't.
Suddenly—without warning—Donald heard something running.
It was running after him.
But this thing wasn't running on two feet like a person. No, it was on all fours. That alone told him—it wasn't human.
More than just the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot, he could hear something far more unsettling: the deep, disturbed breathing of a predator.
Donald took one last deep breath before he pushed himself to his feet—and ran.
He was in a forest. A thick, overgrown, wild forest.
And far ahead, standing alone on the other side, was a massive castle.
So he ran with everything he had, hoping he could make it there. Hoping he could reach it in time.
But he was mistaken.
What seemed like a perfect, well-executed plan quickly proved to be harder—almost impossible.
From a distance, the castle didn't look too far.
But within this massive, overcrowded maze of trees, Donald had to carefully pick the right paths.
And that was a problem—every path looked eerily familiar. Identical, even.
He sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees, branches slapping against him, his breathing growing heavier and louder with every step.
But this wasn't the same Donald.
Even his appearance said otherwise—though he wasn't fully aware of it yet. Something had changed.
Not just his appearance… but his speed, his agility, his stamina.
For someone who had just turned twenty, his body now felt like it belonged to a five-year-old.
Every breath Donald took was labored, shaky, and uneven. He was breathing far too loudly for someone his age.
But it wasn't his fault.
He was being hunted.
By people he didn't even know.
And it clearly hadn't just started now—from the looks of his condition, it had been going on for a while.
Torn clothes.
Muddy skin.
Countless bruises and cuts.
He looked like he'd been crawling through mud, tripping through thorns, and swimming in pain.
His young body was slashed up more than it should've been.
So yes—it made sense that he was hurting.
Because while he was running for his life, he was also bleeding… from the side of his spleen.
And in a rare, brief moment of clarity—reminding him of how clever and resourceful he was—he'd taken off his jacket and pressed it tightly against the wound.
To slow the bleeding.
To survive just a little longer.
As if everything already wasn't up against him today, the weather also seemed to have a personal vendetta.
Despite the massive rainfall that made it nearly impossible for him to see clearly—or even make out a way that could help him in any possible direction—Donald was desperate. He needed luck today more than ever.
Thunder and lightning rumbled through the dark, heavy clouds, and each strike of lightning felt as if it were aimed directly at him.
Every tree he thought would provide refuge—boom—lightning struck it. Either splitting it in half or setting it ablaze.
Always missing him by an inch.
Leaving him fully exposed to the ones chasing him.
The beast, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit affected by the weather. In fact, it was like this storm gave it an advantage. Because it was relentless.
Its true form remained largely hidden—its unmatched speed made it difficult to track. It moved so fast it almost seemed in sync with the lightning itself.
Wherever the lightning struck—the beast was there in a heartbeat.
But with every flash, a few horrifying details became visible.
Enough to send chills down anyone's spine—and enough to give even the most talented sketch artist nightmares.
It was skinny. Its skin was dark—like burnt coal. Its size wasn't massive, yet it wasn't average either. It was just... tall.
Its legs resembled that of a raccoon, oddly mismatched with the rest of its body. And sprouting from its back and neck was fur—thick like a lion's mane, but jet black, unnaturally dark.
And it wasn't far from Donald.
In fact—it was right behind him.
Donald was running at a slower pace now. Whether that was due to exhaustion, or simply because the beast was unbelievably fast, it was hard to tell.
Still, he could finally see the castle ahead—clearly now.
That sight gave him a surge of hope, a desperate sliver of belief that maybe—just maybe—he could make it.
So he gave himself a push. A final charge of adrenaline. A burst of courage that pushed him beyond his limits.
And boy, did he give it his all.
He outran the beast.
The creature, realizing it was losing him, suddenly changed direction—disappearing into the trees, likely planning to intercept from another route.
Finally.
Donald reached the other side of the forest. He saw the well-groomed, open ground before him—so close now.
Safety.
Salvation.
Just one step away.
But just as he lifted his foot to cross the threshold—
Swoop.