Are You Crazy? Who'd Escape This Fantasy World?!

Chapter 7 Soul Severance Curse

Alistair held nothing back as he laid out every detail he could recall to Constantine—though trust was still thin between them. Former enemies turned reluctant allies, he had no choice but to seek answers from the Demon King himself.

"Then I misjudged," Constantine hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You're not merely in spirit form. That emerald glow you described? That was your own *Soul Severance Curse* at work."

"Soul Severance... Curse?"

"A forbidden art that rips one's soul from their flesh," the Demon King sneered. "Similar to the spirit form achievable at Soul Force Tier 5—but with a crucial difference. This curse demands *Spirit Resonance*, something we haven't discussed."

[His fingers twitched at his sides, mind racing through the implications.]

"The body is flesh. The soul is will. But spirit?" Constantine's eyes gleamed. "That's the invisible threads weaving through existence—connecting life to life, life to world. Those who've felt it know instantly. For others? Impossible to explain."

He leaned closer, his breath like frost:

Body: Physical vessel (max Tier 10)

Soul: Conscious will (max Tier 10)

Spirit: World connection (max Tier 5)

"Think of *Spirit Resonance* as your harmony with creation. Amplify it, and your power grows exponentially."

"In Myrkvalen," he continued, "even geniuses who dedicate lifetimes rarely surpass early Tier 2 in Spirit Resonance—no matter how high their other attributes climb." His lip curled. "The rare few who reach Tier 10 in Body or Soul? Never breach Tier 3 in Spirit."

"That difficult?" Alistair's slow grin spread as he rubbed his chin.

"Difficult?" Constantine's laugh was a blade on stone. "I—the mighty Demon King—clawed my way to mid-Tier 3 through blood and sacrifice! That alone makes me Myrkvalen's pinnacle! Well... except for you." His eyes narrowed. "When you defeated me, your resonance had reached late-Tier 3."

"I was that powerful?" Alistair's chest swelled with unfamiliar pride.

"Pah!" The Demon King spat. "You rode Artemis's blessing—not skill—and now you've thrown it away—fool. Even a tavern drunk could stumble into Tier 3 with her favor."

"Don't care," Alistair shot back, rolling his shoulders. "Still left you in the dust."

"Oh?" Constantine's grin turned feral. "Before the curse, perhaps. Now? You're but a shadow of that strength."

"Explain."

"The *Soul Severance Curse* demands a sacrifice—two full tiers of *Spirit Resonance* to forge a spirit body." His clawed finger jabbed at Alistair's chest. "Which leaves you... at late-Tier 1."

"Two tiers?!" Alistair's hands clenched. Why would anyone pay such a price for unknown rewards?

"The cost is staggering," Constantine admitted, "but so are the benefits. Your spirit now exists independent of flesh—even if your body is destroyed, you endure.

What's more, a spirit form has a deeper connection to the world. Not only does it double your Spiritual Power growth rate, but it can also automatically sense events and information across the world. Some even claim it grants glimpses of the future—though I find that hard to swallow."

Alistair's pulse quickened. The bizarre visions from that emerald glow flashed through his mind. If Constantine wasn't bluffing, those scenes must have been real. But how could a writer murdering his wife possibly involve him?

Oblivious to Alistair's turmoil, Constantine plowed ahead. "That green light you saw was your spirit form. Normally, spirits move freely between bodies, but you're... special." His lips twisted into a smirk. "You've got two bodies—one from Myrkvalen that I know, and another native to this world. When we crossed over, your soul and flesh woke up here, but your spirit form stayed adrift. That's why you were a mumbling wreck earlier. Now that it's returned, you're fully conscious."

A grating chuckle escaped him. "Here's the kicker—this new body's never trained a day in its life. Coupled with the two Spiritual Power ranks you burned to manifest your spirit form, you're now a fragile weakling with zero Physical and Soul Strength, barely scraping by with late-stage rank-one Spiritual Power. Pathetic!" His laughter exploded like grinding metal, harsh and grating.

"Relax, though," Constantine pretended to wipe away tears. "For your puny human kin, rank-one's still impressive. Just don't compare yourself to this Mighty Demon King—ahahaha!"

Alistair massaged his temples. "Grimble, shut your trap. Any clue why I'd cast such a suicidal spell? And why can't I remember anything from that world?"

"Beats me," the demon shrugged, utterly unbothered by his ignorance. "After you sealed me away, I took a nice long nap until your spirit form came knocking. The old scrolls claim this technique helps reach higher realms, but the conditions are absurdly harsh. The rest was too dry so I skipped it."

"You sound proud of being clueless," Alistair deadpanned. "While we're at it—any bigger threats in Myrkvalen besides us?"

The question struck a nerve. "Stronger than ME?" Constantine's voice jumped an octave, his puppet body trembling with outrage. "I am Myrkvalen's ultimate power! Without Artemis' blessing, you wouldn't come close to matching me in a century!" Had he not been trapped in this puppet body, he'd have lunged at Alistair's throat.

As the demon ranted, countless questions tumbled through Alistair's mind. Why would he risk such a spell? If he'd already defeated the demon king, what could possibly justify this sacrifice? Unless... new enemies had appeared after defeating Constantine? He wondered.

No matter how hard he racked his brain, it was pointless—without any memories of the other world, the fragments of information he'd gathered led nowhere.

Alis felt like he'd wandered into some cursed labyrinth. Just when he thought he'd grasped a few clues, the truth remained locked behind a dozen unbreakable seals, leaving him completely stranded.

Yet, he couldn't shake the gnawing suspicion that none of this added up. It was as if invisible strings were pulling him toward some predestined path, guiding him toward an unseen end.

Enough. He'd barely regained his senses. With no leads, he'd have to play this hand as it was dealt. For now, he needed to return to his body before Grandpa Starveil discovered his disembodied state.

But just as he was about to cut off Grimble's gloating monologue, a visceral alarm shot through him—his every nerve firing warnings of approaching danger.

His gaze snapped to the window. A soul-numbing frost seeped in from the distance, radiating the predatory intensity of a wolf's stare from the frozen peaks—calculating, cold, and dripping with menace.