He awoke choking on blood.
The floor beneath him was cold, real—tiles, not cracked obsidian. The ceiling above held no divine constellations, no hanging bodies of rebels frozen in starlight. Just a flickering bulb in a shitty apartment. The hum of electricity. The faint scent of mildew.
This was… not Elyndros.
Not the ruined throne room.
Not the blade piercing his chest.
Not him.
Elias clutched his ribs and sat up with a grunt. His breathing ragged, his heart pounding like it remembered how it had once stopped. He looked down.
No armor. No crown of bone. Just a threadbare hoodie, bloodstained. His hand—shaking, pale, familiar.
His hand from before.
Before he became the villain of a fantasy world.
Before he united the forgotten races.
Before the Hero smiled… and drove a sword through his back.
A chill skated down his spine.
The silence screamed louder than any battlefield.
He stood slowly, body aching, but not broken. His reflection in the cracked window was that of a young man. Messy black hair, too-thin face, dead eyes. His face—before everything.
But something buzzed beneath the surface. Magic. Muted, unstable. Like trying to hold fire with bare skin.
He stumbled toward the sink, turned the tap. Water gushed out. He drank. Gagged. It tasted like rot.
His vision spun. The apartment blurred. He braced himself on the counter and let out a breath.
"This is real," he muttered. "I'm back."
But he didn't feel relief.
He felt… robbed.
He had died. He knew he had. Felt his soul tear apart. Watched the gods laugh.
So why was he here?
And why—he blinked, slowly—did it feel like someone had followed him back?
From the corner of his eye, something moved in the mirror. A flicker of light, a ripple of warped space.
Elias turned.
Nothing.
Only the mirror, showing a young man alone.
But deep inside, in the part of him forged by fire, betrayal, and blood…
Something growled.
Elias's hand lingered on the sink, his fingers curling into a fist. He stared at the reflection again. But it wasn't just his face he was watching. It was the air around him, as though it were waiting—anticipating something.
His breath came in shallow bursts. Something wasn't right. Something in him was wrong. But how? He should be dead. Gone. His heart had stopped beating long ago, crushed beneath the weight of fate and gods' cruelty.
He glanced over his shoulder at the darkened room. His apartment—some forgotten corner of the city. Small. No windows, no warmth. Barely any furniture. But at least it felt real.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered to no one, his voice hoarse from disuse.
He took a shaky step toward the door. His feet dragged. His mind churned with questions. Elyndros—the name sounded so far away, yet so close. His thoughts twisted like rotting vines.
One memory—he couldn't place it—flashed before his eyes: a burning city, screams in the night, a burning crown. No, that was before. That was him becoming what he was always meant to be. The villain. The ruler. But something had changed.
He opened the door.
Outside, the city stretched out before him—cold, sterile, and normal. Cars. Buildings. People walking by, their lives moving in motion like clockwork. Not a single hint of the magic that had flooded his world. No towering beasts, no floating castles.
He paused at the edge of the hallway, feeling the air shift. There it was again—a faint tug in his chest. The same magic that had coursed through him in Elyndros, that bound him to relics and gods, now felt like a crack in reality itself. Unstable.
"Get a grip," he muttered, pulling his jacket tight around him.
He stepped into the street, squinting against the sunlight. The world was bright. Too bright. He wasn't used to the sun anymore. In Elyndros, it had always been dim—a constant twilight. Here, the sky was wide, too open. Too free.
And then he saw it.
A man walking down the street.
The hero. Or at least, the face of a man who should be the hero.
He didn't know how he knew it. Maybe it was the way his aura burned bright even in this modern world, the same divine power that had once been so familiar in Elyndros. The gods' chosen, the one who had cast him aside.
The one who had killed him.
Elias's heart sank. He clenched his fists.
Adrian Cross.
He had the same warm, naive smile that Elias remembered. His hair was lighter now, but his eyes—the eyes still held the same glint. The same innocence.
The same killer.
Elias stood frozen, hidden behind the shadow of an alley. His body was tense, muscles locked, trying to control the rage flooding through him.
The man turned, seemingly unaware of the weight of the gaze on his back. Elias's breath hitched as Adrian continued walking, oblivious to the storm he had brought back into this world.
Elias's mouth felt dry, his thoughts racing. The time had come. Adrian was here. Alive. And Elias would make him remember. He would make him see everything he had forgotten.
But first…
Elias's fingers twitched, feeling the warmth of his soulbrand pulse beneath his skin. Magic was leaking. The gods had done this. They'd allowed him to come back—perhaps as a joke. Or a curse.
He clenched his fists again, steadying his breath. "I'm not done yet," he whispered.
The alley was cold against his back as Elias watched Adrian disappear into the crowd. The city was busy. Alive. Too alive. The weight of the past pressed on him like a mountain. Every step Adrian took was a reminder of everything Elias had lost.
He swallowed, trying to force back the overwhelming surge of anger. His hand shook, not from the chill of the air, but from something deeper—a fury that had been buried beneath decades of false calm in Elyndros. He'd moved past vengeance there… or so he'd convinced himself. But here? In this mundane world? It all felt too real.
Adrian, oblivious to his presence, continued his journey through the streets. He looked happy. His face—too kind, too gentle for someone who had slaughtered his way through Elias's life.
The memories came in waves, unstoppable.
---
Elyndros—before the fall.
Elias stood on the battlefield, blood splattered across his armor, his eyes never leaving the hero. Adrian. The chosen one, with the godly light in his chest, the purity of a savior. But his sword had been stained with Elias's blood. He had been a pawn, a tool used by the gods themselves.
They had been equals once. But Adrian had betrayed him.
The world had ended for Elias that night.
---
Snap.
The memory shattered like glass, and Elias blinked as the noise of the street returned to him. He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. He couldn't afford to lose himself in the past. Not again. Not here.
With a slow breath, Elias pushed off from the wall and began to follow Adrian from a distance. His footsteps were silent, barely a whisper against the bustle of the city. The crowd moved around him like a wave, and for a moment, he felt like a ghost.
Adrian was walking toward a café, chatting with a friend on his phone, completely unaware of the storm following him.
Elias's hands tightened into fists. He knew he shouldn't approach, shouldn't make himself known yet. But the need to confront Adrian burned through him like a fever. It was more than revenge—it was understanding. Why? Why had Adrian killed him? Was it a choice? Or had he been manipulated, just as Elias had been?
The question twisted in Elias's chest, and for a fleeting moment, a voice deep within him whispered something he hadn't thought about in years:
Forgive him.
But it was a lie. He knew it. The gods hadn't forgiven him, nor had they shown mercy. So why should he show mercy to the one who had ended him?
He couldn't afford weakness. Not anymore.
Elias turned abruptly, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. Adrian would remember. He would make him remember everything.
But first… he needed to understand how to use this new world to his advantage.
---