The master's hundredth life

In the fog that falls like pitch over the spires of the Great Cathedral, who still listens to the gods? In a world where the soul has a form, and that form determines who lives with worth and who is discarded, what place remains for someone born without one? Cores are molded into geometric shapes, while others wither if mana stagnates for too long. This is an empire ruled by women who bend magic to their will, and men who can only endure, hold on, and stay standing just a little longer. And in the midst of it all, a man who has lost count of how many times he has died turns to alchemy, injecting it directly into his veins just to function as a person. Gunpowder that the Academy views with contempt. A number on his chest that decreases with every failure, and a shadow that does not belong to him, clinging to his soul like a wound that never properly healed. The lights of magical engineering shine brightly over the city. But the void never needed darkness to enter. This is the story of "The Reaper," that husk of humanity, condemned to repeat his mistakes ninety-nine times… coming to claim his hundredth life against all odds.