Everything was silent. Peach blossoms erupted from the trees in a riot of color, blooming far beyond their season. Overnight, emerald buds had pierced through thickets along the spring's edge, each bud bursting into pink petals with ivory stamens as if expecting someone's arrival.

Yes, they were waiting for someone. At the heart of the peach-encircled Fountain of Youth lay a man face-down in the water, limbs spread like a corpse. No breath stirred beneath his skin, no hint of life remaining at all.

A breeze whispered through the boughs. Petals fluttered down like graceful dancers twirling through the air - some drifting onto the spring's surface while others settled into mossy earth. One petal alone alighted with uncanny precision on his weathered crown. That single petal was enough to restore sensation in his body: fingers twitching first, then toes curling tight before his entire form convulsed upward. He gasped air through bloodshot eyes scanning the forest - only peach blossoms swaying in the wind.

Rising from the spring's depths, he grasped slippery stone to climb ashore when a ghostly message materialized beneath the waterline: "Ninety-nine lives for an immortal body, valid for three days." As his hand neared the ink-smeared words, they dissolved like smoke into the dark waters.

Immortal? He tore open his shirt revealing skin as smooth as marble - no burns from venomous spiders, no scars to hint at battles with legions of arachnids that had nearly reduced him to bone. Palming his face, he marveled at its flawless texture before gazing into the spring's mirror. Legends spoke of those reborn through death-dealer pacts bearing new features - but these were just legends. His reflection remained unchanged until the words returned like a specter: "Ninety-nine lives for an immortal body, valid for three days." A reminder that this second chance required fulfilling its terms.

Unease prickled his skin as he stepped through peach groves, only to stumble over something metallic in the roots. Rising, he found a gleaming scythe lying in the undergrowth.

How had it gotten here? The blade reflected a face free from blisters and pockmarks - unmarred by poison or time. He traced his jawline with shaking fingers, whispering, "What is this?"

The scythe's surface shimmered as if liquid ink flowed across it: "Ninety-nine lives for an immortal body, valid for three days." He hurled the weapon away and backed against a peach tree until breathless panic forced the question through his teeth - Was he alive... or dead?