Inside a lavish yet extravagant bedchamber, a young man was sleeping soundly. His expression suddenly changed as if he was in great pain, his movements growing frantic as he clutched his heart.
His eyes snapped open, cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
"Wh-Where am I? I thought I died after fighting the army of Alveyra..."
Cyril could still hear the shouts of the commander and the desperate cries of his comrades. He touched his throat where the Alveyran soldier had slashed him with a sword dipped in Fernet venom.
As he sat in the bed, dumbfounded, he heard someone knocking on the door.
"Come in," he said, staring at the door. To his surprise, his voice sounded younger, like when he was a teenager.
Creak
The door slowly creaked open, and a young girl with brown hair stepped in, gently tapping the floor with a stick she was holding.
Her eyes were covered in white bandages. As she walked further into the room, the tapping echoed throughout the bedchamber.
"Anna..." Cyril called out to her, his eyes filling with tears.
"Anna... you... you're alive?" he cried, rushing to hug her tightly. A tear fell from his eye, landing on her hand and soaking her skin.
"Young master? Are you crying?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
"No... I'm not crying," he said quickly, wiping his tears and trying to put on a brave face.
Anna was the slave maid assigned to him by the family elders. She had already been blind when she arrived at the Avelwyn estate.
Anna tilted her head, a soft smile on her face. "You sound different, young master. Happier."
Cyril didn't answer right away. He just stood there, holding her hands like she might vanish if he let go.
He looked down at her—at the tiny hands he used to think were clumsy, useless.
The memories rushed back, hitting him harder than any sword ever had.
He had been ten years old when they first brought her to the estate.
A small, frail girl of seven, blindfolded not because she was hurt, but because there was nothing left to see.
At the time, he thought she was broken.
A blind girl couldn't help him with training or chores or anything "useful."
In his stupid, arrogant little-boy mind, he treated her like she was a burden.
He remembered tossing her stick down the well once, laughing like a little devil when she cried and stumbled around looking for it.
He remembered sneering at her when she dropped a tray of food, the stew splattering across the fancy carpets, and how the other boys laughed with him.
Gods, he thought, heart sinking, I was such a little monster.
But Anna...
Anna had never once shouted at him, or tattled to the elders, or even frowned.
She just kept smiling, picking herself up, bowing, apologizing for things that weren't even her fault.
And now, here she was again, smiling at him like he was someone worth caring about.
Cyril's throat felt tight. He pulled back a little, just enough to see her face better, even though she couldn't see his.
"You're not mad at me, are you, young master?" Anna asked, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.
Usually by now, he would've been teasing her about her stew being "more salt than soup" or complaining about how boring the estate was.
But instead... he said nothing.
Anna's eyebrows scrunched up. "You're not talking much today," she said, her voice soft with worry. "You're not sick, are you?"
Cyril blinked and shook his head. "No, no... just thinking," he mumbled.
He sat back on the bed heavily, rubbing his face like he could scrub the guilt off.
Anna hovered nearby, unsure if she should come closer or give him space.
"Anna," he said after a long moment, his voice rough, "What is today's date?"
Anna hesitated for a moment, the soft tap of her stick against the floor echoing in the otherwise quiet room. "It's 4th of June, year 304 on Arcadian imperial calendar. That's what the head maid told me."
Cyril's heart skipped a beat. June 4th... year 304?
The numbers swirled in his mind, each one feeling like an anchor dragging him deeper into confusion. His chest tightened, and he tried to steady his breath, though it was like his heart was racing in two different directions.
"304..." he repeated under his breath, trying to make sense of it. That's not possible. That's not right.
The last time he had been alive—when he had fought in the war against Alveyra—it was year 312, not 304. He blinked, trying to wrap his mind around it. What's going on? How am I back here, in this place?
His memories of the battlefield, the battle cries, the pain... all of it felt like it belonged to someone else, a different life. He clenched his fists, his heart beating faster with a mixture of disbelief and fear. Had it all been a dream? Had he somehow come back to a time before everything went wrong?
"What is this?" Cyril whispered to himself, his mind whirling.
Anna's voice pulled him back to the present. "Young master... is something wrong? You're not yourself today."
He glanced at her, seeing her concern in the way she tilted her head slightly, listening carefully. His chest tightened once more, a gnawing feeling spreading through him. How could he explain this to her? How could he even begin to explain what had happened? Or worse... what might happen now?
Cyril's thoughts swirled with a frantic energy as he considered the situation. A chance. This was a chance, wasn't it?
He had been given a second life, a second shot at everything he had once taken for granted, everything he had failed to protect. 'I can change it. I can stop the war. I can stop everything from falling apart.'
His heart raced with determination as the implications of his situation began to settle into his mind. His death—his tragic, meaningless death—had been a consequence of his failure. Of his inability to protect those around him. But now... now, it was different. He was back. He was younger, and that meant he had time. Time to set things right.
Cyril slowly stood from the bed, his legs feeling unsteady as the reality of his return set in. He looked at Anna, who stood patiently, though her expression now held a touch of uncertainty.
"Young master... are you sure you're alright?" she asked again, her head tilting slightly. "You've been so quiet."
Cyril smiled softly, a little more genuine than the half-forced one he had worn earlier. "I'm fine, Anna. Better than fine. I... I have a plan. I need to act quickly, before things start going wrong again."
Anna blinked, still unsure of what exactly was happening, but her faith in him was evident. "A plan? What kind of plan?"
Cyril turned toward the window, staring at the sun-dappled courtyard below. The estate was beautiful, but he knew it was also the place where his previous mistakes had begun. The small things—the choices he had made, the people he had hurt—had all led to the horrors of the war, to the tragedy that had taken so many lives. His family had crumbled, his comrades had died, and Anna... she had suffered so much for his sake, for his families sake and ultimately died in vain.
He looked at Anna he heard a sudden noise, it was like a bell, a bell that is used in the temples.
"Anna! Did you hear that?" he asked to Anna while covering his ears tightly. As the sound became unbearable.
"Hear what? I don't hear anything" She replied to him while placing her palm near her ears inorder to hear any sound, but it wasn't helpful, she couldn't hear the sound that Cyril was hearing.
The ringing grew louder, louder, until it felt like it was rattling inside Cyril's skull like a particularly angry squirrel with cymbals. He staggered back, clutching his head like a man who had just gotten his brain kicked by a mule in tap shoes.
"Nghhh—what is this?!" he groaned, his knees buckling a little.
Anna, bless her confused little heart, was now waving her stick around wildly, like she was trying to smack the invisible noise out of the air. "Young master?! What's wrong? Is it... is it a ghost?!" Her voice was pitched somewhere between terrified and very ready to smack a ghost in the head.
"No—no ghosts—just... some horrible noise!" Cyril gritted his teeth. The sound finally reached a deafening crescendo and then—snap—it vanished, leaving a strange, almost electric silence behind.
Panting, Cyril looked around wildly, half-expecting a holy priest or a squad of angry temple nuns to burst through the window like some sort of holy inquisitors.
Instead, what he saw floating in front of him was... well, it wasn't nothing, but it wasn't exactly something either. It was like a shimmer in the air, like heat rising off stone, only shaped vaguely like a book.
And then—because things clearly weren't weird enough yet—the shimmering book snapped open, pages flipping furiously until it stopped on one particular page.
Bright, glowing golden letters began to form in midair.
[System Launching.....]
[Please Stand By...]