What Evan witnessed made him screech in terror as he stumbled backward, retreating instinctively.
His eyes widened in horror. The scene before him was grotesque—unbearably cruel and gruesome beyond words.
His stomach churned at the sight, but nothing came out. His body felt like it was no longer solid—more like transparent gas.
Before him lay two men in critical condition, the kind that would've killed an ordinary person long ago.
Both wore distinct sets of fantastical armor. One gripped a massive game-like sword, while the other held a bow nearly as tall as himself.
Their faces bore the marks of suffering—etched with sadness, pain, longing... and finally, a fierce desire for revenge.
The swordsman's face was riddled with cuts. One of his eyes had been slashed clean out, and a deep gash ran across his torso, nearly splitting him in half.
The archer fared no better—his body was riddled with punctures, front to back. His armor was torn and scorched, his skin blotched with dark, poison-like burns.
Both of them screamed in agony.
Evan approached them—hesitantly—but just as he neared, their bodies dissolved. In their place, two faint lights floated into the air... and then surged straight into Evan's chest.
He gasped as his semi-transparent form grew more solid—but in exchange, agony followed.
Thousands of invisible blades slashed across his body. His pores burned as if pierced by endless needles. At moments, it felt like an arrow was gouging through one of his eyes. Yet no visible wounds appeared.
It wasn't just physical. A storm of emotions swept through him—sorrow, anger, madness, hatred... and something even deeper. Something ancient.
He didn't understand it, but a cruel urge to lash out, to destroy, bubbled up within him.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain faded.
Evan lay on a pitch-black floor, staring blankly into the void above. His body—or perhaps soul—trembled, unable to move.
It felt like he had just lived two full lives... but he couldn't remember them.
Still, an unfamiliar yet powerful sense of loss gripped his chest. A longing for someone he couldn't recall—someone he may have never even met.
He wanted to hold them.
Never let go.
Tears rolled down from his real body lying on the bed. Anyone who saw him would think he was grieving in his sleep.
He slowly sat up, looking around. Nothing. Just darkness.
Then—
BANG!
A loud crash shattered the silence. One direction of the void was suddenly torn open, light breaking through.
Relieved, Evan turned... only to freeze.
The ten beings stood before him once more.
"Oh come on... Was it all just a dream?" he muttered, his expression a mix of exhaustion and dread. "Do I have to go through this hell every night?"
Before he could even process it—
"Hello, #####. I hope you're prepared."
A voice echoed out.
Evan's eyes widened.
"H-huh?!"
He understood them—for the first time, truly and clearly.
"Can you hear us, R####? This is our final communication before you reach #### # (####) for ascension," said another.
Evan barely caught the words, some still distorted. But this time, it felt real.
"Yes... I can hear you. But who... Who are you?"
He noticed that all of them deferred to the tall figure standing at the center. This one radiated authority—undeniably the leader.
"We are the Ten Thrones, #####," the one Evan had mentally labeled as "One" spoke. "We've come to inform you of your destiny—one that may determine either our downfall or ascent."
"Destiny? What do you mean? Why do I keep having these dreams? Who were those two? Why did I feel their pain—my pain—as if I lived through it?"
The words poured out of Evan. He'd been holding back these questions his whole life.
"It's not a dream, Evan. They shouldn't have involved you, but... you need to know the truth.
You are destined to save our world.
And what you've seen every night is not fiction—it's us, reaching you. This world is being invaded by mana. That's how our connection was established."
"The two people you saw? They're you—your past incarnations. Or more accurately, your past lives... before you regressed," another explained.
Evan blinked. "Wait... You mean like in those fantasy stories? Regression, transmigration, second chances...?"
"Exactly," One said. "Except... they're not just stories, Evan. They're real. Everything. Including teleporting you to our world."
"But... why me? Can't you pick someone else from your own world?"
"You're mistaken. This isn't our choice—it's yours.
The first time, you came to our world during the First Awakening of your planet. You fought with us... and died trying to help.
Before dying, you activated one of our ancient artifacts. It saved your soul and allowed your return. You swore to come back... with strength."
Evan remained silent.
"Now, your world has entered the Third Awakening phase. This is the final cycle—and the most crucial. The invasion will begin sooner than expected."
Evan frowned. "But wasn't that invasion supposed to happen four or five years later?"
"That timeline has changed. You've already regressed twice. Now, time is accelerating."
The one standing beside the leader, holding a thick tome, stepped forward. "Mana levels in your world have already surpassed the threshold for global contact. The invasion is just days away."
Evan clenched his fists. "So what happens now?"
"Three days from now, mana will flood the region you reside in. That influx will trigger a teleportation gateway—strong enough to bring you to our world."
"One" nodded firmly. "Be ready. After today, we won't be able to reach you again until the invasion begins."
Evan sighed deeply. "Alright. But... don't expect me to save your world without some kind of cheat, alright? I'm not a miracle worker."
Laughter echoed from a few of the Thrones.
"Of course. We've already consolidated all the hard work of your previous lives. This time... you'll begin with the fruits of both."
A sudden tremor rippled through the space.
The beings began to vanish, fading one by one.
"Evan, remember. Three days."
And just like that—everything disappeared.
Only the darkness remained.