SHAMAN PROTOCOL
Chapter 58: Compatible by Grit

Chapter 58: Compatible by Grit

Shaman Protocol, as revealed through Mikel’s partial access to Doom’s system log, was neither just a tool nor a system.

It was an ancient law, buried in the forgotten history of a world within this world, woven into the cracks that leaked cursed energy and spiritual phenomena.

It wasn’t a path to becoming the strongest shaman.

Nor was it a rite of legitimacy.

Its purpose was simpler, colder:

Containment. Retaliation.

A final line of defense against rogue spirits and anomalous curses—a spiritual plaster to seal the bleeding wounds between realms.

It didn’t choose its hosts. It bound itself to them.

And once bound, it provided a head start—relics, guidelines, survival tools. But always at a cost.

His strength was theirs, but theirs? Never his.

By nature, the Protocol was not adaptive.

The relics evolved. The Protocol would not.

And Doom? It was here not just to guide, but to ensure its host upheld the Protocol.

Skipping its steps led to inevitability—collapse, madness, death. Each stage existed not just to grant power, but to condition its bearer to endure it.

Mikel wasn’t the first.

He wasn’t chosen.

In fact, as Doom put it:

[You’re the most incompatible host to ever survive. And yet... we’re still here.]

Bound together by grit, not compatibility.

How long could that last?

No one knew. But one thing was certain:

The Protocol would outlive everyone.

Until the last crack bled dry.

---

Mikel’s brows twitched as his eyes flickered. A low grunt escaped his throat as his eyes finally cracked open.

Light beamed down on him, forcing him to squint and shut his eyes again.

Damn...

He took his time adjusting to the brightness until he caught sight of the ceiling.

"Huh?" he hummed, blinking up at a ceiling he knew all too well.

For months, this same ceiling had greeted him during his hospital stays. He stared in stunned silence. Then, after a long breath, a chilling thought crept in:

Was I... dreaming all along?

Ghosts. Relics. Glowing screens. Was it all just a fever dream? A hallucination brewed from meds and misery?

His breathing slowed as the thought crept in like a tiny hope. A part of him wanted to believe that. To cling to it like a last shred of hope.

But then—

[Welcome back, Master.]

A glowing blue screen blinked to life above him—the personification of burden itself, welcoming him back to the nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Great. The toaster’s talking again.

Mikel sighed and shut his eyes, only for his brows to twitch again.

Wait.

Where was he waking up?

His eyes popped open in shock. This wasn’t where he’d collapsed. He didn’t exactly know where, but he knew he didn’t make it anywhere last night.

He tried to sit up, only for a hand to press gently—but firmly—against his shoulder.

"Aw—" he grimaced at the pressure, looking up to find a familiar face.

Amon Vask.

"Don’t move yet," Amon said, his voice calm and gentle. "Doctor’s orders."

"Ah — aw!" Mikel grunted, not from resistance but sheer pain. Soon, he was back on the bed.

Amon didn’t even try to hurt the guy. It was just that, even a light touch felt like a sledgehammer against his injury.

While Mikel was still recovering, another voice came.

"The doctor said you should rest."

Down near his feet stood Danika Sol. She was sharp-eyed and composed as always.

"You’re probably wondering why you’re here," she continued.

He wasn’t. He already knew.

If he was still alive, Doom had something to do with it.

"Stefan filed a report to the headmaster. The headmaster was worried, so he sent us to check on you — a welfare check," she explained flatly. "That’s how we found you. In the dirt."

Her eyes fell to the cast around his arm.

"Stefan’s report said you were cursed. But..." She narrowed her eyes. "I don’t sense any residual. That’s... odd. Stefan rarely makes a false report."

Mikel’s gaze dropped to his arm—the same one the Blood Chain had devoured during the fight against the Type X like a starving beast.

It didn’t matter now, though.

What did matter was that he could see his fingertips.

They were alive.

Sure, the nails were tinged purple, but they weren’t withered.

The Homunculus Imprint, he realized. The skill the Book of the Dead had stolen mid-fight.

He didn’t like that tank-top guy one bit. But ironically, the bastard’s powers were the reason Mikel was still breathing. It felt like a slap, but then again, it was what it was. Even if he wanted to scream, he’d been revived thanks to the doctor-quack living inside him—Doom.

"You’re lucky," Danika said, watching him closely. "You could’ve died."

[Could’ve. Should’ve.]

"You should’ve stayed with the headmaster," Amon added softly. "Where curses don’t chew through bone."

"We told you before. Type X entities are a different breed," Danika reminded him. "You were warned. You didn’t listen."

"The headmaster let me go home," Mikel rasped. "It’s not like I sought them out or provoked them."

Silence quickly followed his rebuttal.

He and Danika locked eyes as the air between them thickened.

"You may not have provoked them, but you knew they were hunting young shamans," Amon interjected calmly before the tension escalated. "It may not be your fault entirely, but you are still responsible."

"I know." Mikel looked away, his breathing heavy. "I know that."

He remembered it too well—the weight of that choice to rebuild his home. He lost ghosts. Almost lost himself.

He knew.

"All I’m saying is..." He trailed off, exhaling sharply. "...Never mind."

He looked at both of them and muttered, "Thanks for bringing me here."

"You’re welcome," Amon said with a nod.

Danika didn’t respond. But her silence wasn’t cold—just her.

"You’ll be staying here until the doctors clear you," she informed him. "We’ll be back for questioning when you’re better. Stefan already told us about the Type X encounter, but we’ll need details—especially the ones Stefan might leave out."

She was already walking toward the door and added, "Rest."

"Your injuries were severe," Amon added gently, following her out. "Try not to move. And don’t worry about the hospital bill. The headmaster covered it."

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Mikel alone in the private ward.

He stared at it for a full minute. Then, finally looked up at the blue screen above him.

"...Progress bar, Doom. Hit me."

[Are you sure?]

"Do we have a choice?"

The screen flickered, paused, then updated.

[Congratulations, Master. You’ve survived.]

Mikel scoffed. The glint in his eyes wasn’t resolved—it was resentment. "Survived... but haven’t won."

The glowing screen hung in the air above him, almost like it was studying him.

Mikel had lost. Miserably.

But he made a vow.

He declared war.

And he wasn’t losing this war.

[Host’s Progress Bar Processing...]

[New Side Objective Unlocked!]

[Phantom Contract: PENDING...]