SHAMAN PROTOCOL
Chapter 55: Tears in the Rain

Chapter 55: Tears in the Rain

Stefan stopped a step beside Mikel’s figure, his demeanor still distant and unaffected. He studied the scriptures burning on the kid’s skin.

Mikel’s body was smoking with a dark mist, but the scriptures weren’t fading with it. Instead, they were sinking into his skin like they were being absorbed. The molten tar covering his arm and hand was also dissolving into him.

Stefan’s brow twitched slightly as the black fluid thinned, revealing Mikel’s withered hand. There was no muscle left—just brittle skin clinging to bone. It was the hand of a dead person.

"Cursed," he whispered, lifting his closed umbrella over Mikel’s back. "All that effort to end up dead and cursed."

A shallow breath escaped him. He knew what he had to do. There were different types of curses, but not all of them could be undone. Some could only be stopped by something much simpler: death.

And this one? That was the only way to end Mikel’s suffering.

"You should’ve stayed in the headmaster’s lodging," he muttered, about to bring forth the tip of his umbrella and stab the kid in the back.

But just as the tip hovered inches away, Mikel trembled slightly.

Stefan blinked slowly, hearing something from the kid.

"Hm?" He tilted his head slightly, then crouched down, angling his ear toward Mikel’s mouth.

"I’m... I’m... not done... yet..."

Stefan shifted his focus to Mikel’s face. The boy was already unconscious, and the words could’ve been nothing more than the ramblings of someone delirious.

"..."

He stared at Mikel and the thinning smoke rising from his body.

Stefan stood back up, only to feel a drop of water fall onto his shoulder. He looked up, opening his palm to catch more droplets.

"It’s a good thing I check the weather forecast," he muttered, opening his umbrella and stepping under it. His eyes snapped back to Mikel.

The kid still reeked of a curse Stefan had never felt before. And yet, even in this state, Mikel still held control, not the curse over him.

He rested the umbrella against his shoulder.

"I don’t know if I’m impressed... but you made them remember you."

And he was certain—it wasn’t good or bad. Just inevitable.

Slowly, Stefan turned on his heel and casually strode off as the rain began to fall harder.

You didn’t win, but you didn’t lose either. You made them flinch... and that’s something even an average agent couldn’t achieve.

"I’ll let..." his steps slowed as he glanced at the junkyard, "... the junk decide your fate."

Whether you live or die... you’re already buried in that darkness.

As Stefan disappeared into the rain, Doom’s system screen crawled from the void—its glow no longer blue, but pulsing red and black.

---

[System Reboot... Successful.]

[Host and System Integrity Compromised.]

[Host Stability Undetermined — Pain Absorption Threshold Exceeded.]

[New Emergency Protocol Unlocked.]

[Book of the Dead Imprint Detected: Initiating Temporary Homunculus Imprint.]

[Enhancing Recovery Protocol via Imprint.]

[Emergency Protocol Tier I: Self-Termination Resistance — Overdrive Activated.]

As the texts pinged one after another in rapid succession, Mikel’s withered black hand twitched. Even his blackened organs pulsed. The corruption clinging to them like mucus, dissolving as they began functioning again.

It was as if Doom were performing surgery, rebuilding him from the inside out.

And it would continue... for hours.

—

What is the Shaman Protocol?

A title? A system? A gift?

A curse to break what was already broken?

...Or a cage?

It hadn’t been long since Mikel first saw the words: [Shaman Protocol]. It was never spoken aloud—but always there, inside him. He couldn’t remember ever truly understanding what it was.

He only remembered hating it.

His disgust. His hostility. His defiance... until he needed it.

What a hypocrite.

He blamed those two ghosts for being idiots. That tank top guy’s brutal assault. That blindfolded bitch’s condescending comments. Stefan’s unsolicited honesty.

But really, the person to blame was Mikel.

For being cocky just because he’d won against a few cursed and malevolent spirits. For being incapable of protecting himself, let alone saving those ghosts.

It was his fault for not understanding that this world... had always been bigger than him. That in this world, the weak never get to decide how they die.

One life, one death.

One exorcism, one curse.

And the world would never care... or would it stop for either.

Mikel’s hand twitched in the mud, his eyelids flickering.

[Host Cognitive Ability: Recalibrating...]

Then, he gasped—a short, shallow breath—as his heart began to thump again.

[Function Restored.]

[Survival Achieved. Host Satisfaction: Irrelevant.]

Mikel’s breathing grew ragged as his consciousness clawed its way back.

Then, with another sudden gasp, his eyes flew open. Blood clots webbed the sclera of both his eyes.

His mind went blank. He gasped for air, then doubled over, coughing blood. He weakly rolled to the side, spitting out a mouthful of black bile. Once the brief, excruciating process of being forced back to life subsided, he collapsed again.

Thud.

"Hah..." he rasped, red and black blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

The rain didn’t stop. It washed away the blood and dirt—but not the pain. It soaked the ground, turning it into thick mud beneath him.

Mikel’s vision was blurred. His eyes, weary. But his mind? Clear.

The ambush.

Those two damned beings.

The ghost duo.

His inevitable defeat—everything.

Even the exhaustion and pain couldn’t compare to the paralyzing realization of how insignificant he was against monsters like them.

A thin layer of tears coated his bloodshot eyes as he glanced at the screen hovering above.

[Survival Achieved. Host Satisfaction: Irrelevant.]

If this were before, he would’ve cracked a joke or spat at the message. But this time, he didn’t let Doom’s cold logic get to him.

Those ghosts were more helpful than you are, he thought.

But deep down, he knew he couldn’t blame it entirely. He couldn’t blame Doom for crashing mid-battle.

Why?

Because Doom might’ve never spelled it out, but it had made one thing clear:

The system and the relics... were bound to him.

If the host was weak, so were they.

"You..." His voice croaked, broken and raw.

[Recovery Protocol still active. Status: Critical.

[Suggestion: Avoid emotional spikes.]

Mikel ignored the warning and forced his voice out even if his throat bled.

"This Shaman Protocol... if I uphold it... would that make me... strong enough to tear those two apart?"

[Upholding it gives you a 10% survival rate. 90% miracle.]

[Mastering the Protocol... and their fates are in your hands, Master.]

Mikel clenched his teeth. His eyes burned—not just from grief or loneliness, but from humiliation.

The humiliation of giving everything against a straw doll. Of being unable to protect anything, not even himself. Of being so weak... so pathetic.

And above all, the memory of those foolish ghosts back to his house, clinging to him as if he were their last hope. They were still there, probably complaining about the incense or planning another labor protest, not knowing what came down tonight.

Mikel raised his other hand over his face, grinding his teeth. Tears slipped through his fingers, which were quickly masked by the rain.

A quick hiccup escaped him before he forced the words through clenched teeth.

"Then... I’ll master every damn curse there is. I’m not done with them... and I never will be."

[The feeling is mutual, Master.]

I will not lose anything to them again.