The world was fire and ash.
Skyscrapers had crumbled like sandcastles under a divine tide. The gods—once whispered in prayers, now worshipped with blood—walked among mortals with eyes full of judgment and hearts carved from stone. Cities burned, not from war or greed, but from celestial wrath. Humanity had long ceased to rule its own destiny. It bent under the weight of immortals, punished for sins it no longer remembered.
And among the ruins, one man stood alone.
Drenched in blood, both his own and others', he watched the only light in his world fall. Her name was Eira, and she had been his dawn in an endless night. Her smile had survived battles, her laughter echoed even when hope was a ghost. She had believed they could outrun fate.
But fate had caught her.
A spear made of divine fire had pierced her chest while she reached for him. She didn't scream. She simply looked at him, as if to say, It's okay. You still have time. Then the gods descended like shadows, and the sky split open.
"Take me," he had begged. "Let her live."
But gods do not barter. They decree.
He held her body as the city fell around them. And as the heavens cracked with thunder and light, something within him cracked too—not grief, but resolve.
If I can't save her here, then let me start again. Anywhere. Anywhen.
He didn't pray. He demanded. He screamed into the void of time and space.
And something listened.
---
He awoke to the scent of lilacs and soap. The rain outside tapped gently against the windowpane. No ash, no blood, no fire. Just a ceiling he hadn't seen in years.
He shot upright.
This bed—it was too soft. The room—too familiar. He stumbled to the mirror above the dresser, half-fearing he would see a ghost. But what stared back at him was not the war-worn man of twenty-eight, scarred and hollowed.
It was the boy of seventeen.
His fingers trembled as they touched his face, fresh with youth. His eyes, once dulled by loss, now held a frightened spark of disbelief. This was his room—his childhood room. The peeling violet posters on the wall, the cracked lamp with the old rose decal. The calendar on the desk still marked the year 2028. Ten years before the gods declared their war.
He staggered back and collapsed onto the chair, breath caught between sobs and laughter.
I'm back. I'm actually back.
The weight of it sank in slowly, like rain soaking into dry earth.
He remembered everything. Every death. Every betrayal. Every prayer left unanswered. And Eira—how she smiled through the pain, how she whispered, "If only we had more time." Now they did.
Now I do.
But she wouldn't know him. Not yet.
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His name, once spoken with fear by both gods and men, now held only one purpose: to protect her, and this time, to stop the apocalypse before it could begin.
"My name is Elias Rane," he whispered, as if sealing a vow with the morning air. "And this time, I'll rewrite everything."
Outside his window, the rain paused. A single ray of sun broke through the clouds and lit the old rose bush in the garden.
It hadn't bloomed in years.
Yet now, violet petals unfurled in silence, kissed by dew, trembling like memories reborn.
Let me tell you something strange.
I died once. Maybe twice, depending on how you define it.
You see, I was born in a world that looked a lot like this one—cities full of lights that never slept, people chasing dreams and dodging shadows, hearts breaking behind neon signs and quiet café windows. But it wasn't always this way. Not when the gods returned.
Yes—gods. Not the kind you find in dusty books or whispered prayers. No, these ones walked the streets. They came down from whatever heaven or hell they once ruled, clothed in gold and thunder, and told us we'd failed. That mankind had taken too much, destroyed too much, forgotten too much. And so, they took back control.
They shattered governments with a word. Burned temples for sport. Made skyscrapers bow like trees in a storm. And we—we became children again. Helpless. Hunted. Punished.
I was just a boy when the sky first cracked. Seventeen, with messy black hair and a mouth that never knew when to shut up. My city was called Vandros—the Heart of the West, they used to say. A beautiful place. Broken now. Charred bones and glass.
But before the fall, I was just Elias Rane. A nobody. A street rat with sharp eyes and sharper thoughts. I lived in alleys, slept in trains, and read poetry in secret. I fell in love with the stars before I learned how easily they could fall.
And I fell in love with her.
Her name was Eira Vale. She wasn't some chosen one or priestess or weapon forged in secret. She was a girl. Kind, too kind. The kind who gave food to crows and flowers to graves. The kind who smiled even when the world offered no reason to. We met during a food riot—she kicked me in the ribs for stealing her bread. I smiled through the pain. She laughed. The rest… well, the rest was poetry.
She taught me that love didn't need to be grand. Just honest.
And then they killed her.
The gods said she was impure. That she carried a fragment of something they feared. I still don't understand what it was. A spark? A soul from a time before theirs? They called her dangerous.
To me, she was just Eira. My dawn.
She died in my arms. Her blood was warm. Her last words were, "Don't forget."
And I didn't. I never did.
---
I don't know what miracle or madness gave me this second chance. But I woke up today in my seventeen-year-old body, in the same crumbling apartment I ran away from as a child. Same water-stained ceiling. Same broken fan. Same city—though it hasn't fallen yet.
Vandros still stands. For now.
I touched the old radio on the table and heard static and jazz. I opened the curtains and saw people—alive, blind to the storms that will one day come. Somewhere out there, Eira is alive too. Breathing. Laughing. Not knowing how close death once came.
And here I am. Elias Rane. The boy who died a godless death. The man who's come back with memories etched into bone.
---
This time, I'll be ready.
I've seen the cities burn. I know which towers fall and which faces betray. I know the names of the gods who will descend, and I know how they lie.
But I also know her.
This time, I won't just protect her.
I'll save the world that took her.
Even if I have to burn the heavens to do it.
---
The streets outside glow with violet lights. Strange how memory plays tricks—violet was the color of the roses she once grew. "They only bloom in storms," she said.
Well, the storm's coming.
But so am I.
And this time... I remember everything....