A dull throb echoed in his skull. His breath hitched.
Chris's eyes fluttered open, only to be met by a ceiling he did not recognize. Ornate patterns danced across its surface, painted in silver and deep violet. The air smelled faintly of fresh herbs, perfume... and unfamiliarity.
Where am I...?
His limbs felt like stone, and every nerve in his body screamed in silent agony—yet compared to the battlefield, to the endless carnage, this was almost… merciful.
As his vision cleared, the soft rustle of movement reached his ears.
A young maid stood near the window, arranging a bouquet of violet roses. She turned—and froze.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then, with a gasp sharp enough to slice the air, the maid dropped the vase. It shattered against the polished marble floor, water spilling across her shoes."M-My lord?! Y-You're awake—!" she shrieked, stumbling backward in disbelief before bolting from the room.
The slam of the heavy wooden door echoed behind her, leaving only silence once more.
Chris exhaled slowly. He tried to sit up.
Pain surged through his chest, his arms, his legs—every fiber of muscle in revolt. But pain was familiar. Pain was a reminder that he was alive. He gritted his teeth and forced his body upright.
Beside the bed, his eyes landed on a golden-trimmed calendar resting atop a nearby table.
His breath caught.
"Year 872, Month of Dawn… Day 3."
Five years before the end. Five years before the Age of Destruction.
His heart pounded louder than the war drums of the Southern Empire. Slowly, cautiously, he staggered to his feet, ignoring the lances of pain in his bones. Every step felt like lifting boulders—but his instincts pulled him forward, toward the sunlight.
He reached the window and drew aside the curtain.
And what he saw nearly made him fall to his knees.
The world was... peaceful.
Lush green gardens stretched out below, vibrant and alive. Birds chirped. Children laughed in the distance. The sky was whole—painted in soft blues and streaked with clouds—not purple, not cracked, not screaming. There were no gunshots, no corpses, no madness.
It was as if the world had never known despair.
Chris gripped the windowsill tightly. His hands trembled, and yet… his heart was steady.
This is real.
She did it.
Merlin's final spell—the forbidden time reversal. She had given her existence so that he could return.
He glanced at the mirror on the far wall.
The face staring back was familiar, yet not his own.
Silver hair. Noble features. Eyes carrying a sharp, aristocratic coldness.But within those eyes… his soul remained.
He was now Chris von Celestrius, the eldest son of Duke Celestrius—scion of the most powerful magical bloodline in the Northern Continent.
And this time, he would not let the world die.