Pain came first.
Then the stink.
Then the screaming.
Daniel's eyes snapped open, and the world was red.
He was back on the altar, heartbeat thunderous, breathing sharp. His body stitched together, glowing faintly with an eerie, unholy energy. The cultists were still around him, frozen, mid-ritual.
One of them dropped the knife. "H-he's supposed to be dead!"
"Yeah," Daniel growled, "I was."
He stood up.
The nearest one lunged at him with a crowbar. Daniel caught it mid-swing and snapped his wrist like chalk. The man screamed until Daniel silenced him with a knee to the throat.
Another tried to run. Daniel hurled the crowbar into his back—it stuck in the spine like it belonged there.
Three more. One pulled a gun. Daniel didn't flinch.
He stepped through the bullet like a ghost, then reformed behind the shooter, whispering,
"Boo."
The cultist's head hit the wall first. The body followed.
He was faster. Stronger. Half-shadow, half-man. And for the first time in his cursed life, unbound.
When the last cultist crawled toward the stairs, begging to be spared, Daniel put a boot on his back and leaned down.
"You killed me. Stupid fucking move."
Then he twisted the man's head till it popped like a cork.
Silence. Blood pooled around the altar like a welcome mat.
Daniel looked down at his hands, glowing faintly.
"Guess it's time to start balancing the books."
Daniel stood amidst the corpses—sweat, blood, and fire clinging to the air like a second skin. The bodies twitched in death, but the altar pulsed beneath him like a live nerve.
The world felt… wrong. Or maybe too right.
Then the darkness bent. Reality buckled at the edges. Time slowed.
They returned.
Light and Shadow—God and the Devil—stepped into the blood-slick room like kings revisiting their domain.
God's voice rang like a cathedral bell:
"Now that the fury's passed... let's talk terms."
The Devil smirked, sitting cross-legged atop a cultist's twitching corpse. "Perks of the job, soldier. You've been conscripted by both command chains."
Daniel wiped blood from his jaw. "Let's hear it."
---
The Gifts of Light
The divine one raised a hand, and Daniel felt something bloom in his mind—blueprints, shapes, schematics that unfolded in impossible geometry.
"From me, the holy fire," God said.
"You will forge weapons or tools from your will alone. Guns, blades, relics—if you can imagine it, you can wield it."
Daniel blinked. A revolver formed in his palm. Heavy. Matte black. Serial number: 0001.
It vanished with a thought.
"You will walk in places where even angels fear to tread. You will have authority in the supernatural—your word will command spirits, lesser demons, and gods alike… if you speak it with conviction."
"And the dark will not touch you. No corruption. No madness. No fear. You are immune to what rots lesser men."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "So, I'm God's ghostbuster."
---
The Devil's Bargain
The Devil chuckled. "Nah, kid. You're my interrogator."
His grin widened as shadows slithered up Daniel's spine, burning symbols into his soul.
"From me, you get the ugly gifts."
"Possession—you can enter the body of any mortal or spirit not shielded by divine law. Wear them like skin. Use them like weapons."
Daniel felt it instantly. A door inside him unlocked.
"You'll see sins like scars. Greed. Murder. Lust. Envy. Betrayal. Every damn thing they hide behind smiles. You'll know them."
The Devil's eyes burned red. "You'll speak every tongue, mortal and not. Even the languages gods forgot."
And then a cold whisper settled in Daniel's ears.
"And if you touch someone, if you dig deep enough... you'll pull every memory they've ever had."
"Even the ones they buried. Even the ones they'd kill to forget."
---
Daniel took a breath that wasn't really air.
"That's a lot of power."
"It's a lot of burden," the Light answered.
"Use it wisely, or you'll lose what makes you you."
"Use it like I know you will," the Devil added, "and we'll be having drinks in Hell before year's end."
The world began to ripple. Time returned. The voices faded.
But Daniel was changed.
---
He opened his eyes. Again.
Still in the church basement.
Alone, now. The cultists dead. The symbols burned away.
Daniel walked out of the basement, trench coat torn and stained with the blood of false prophets, gunless—but never unarmed.
The night greeted him like a whisper behind a loaded trigger.
Somewhere, something screamed.
"Alright," he muttered, cracking his neck. "Let's get to work."