He stood atop a mountain of the dead. Not a hill, not a mound – a mountain. Slick with gore, treacherous underfoot. The stench choked him: iron-rich blood, spilled guts, crackling magic, and the divine blood . Below him, the battlefield stretched into a horizon painted in shades of ruin. A red sky covering the world as it is blood, blotting out any sun or moon, lit only by the sickly glow of lingering curses and the sporadic eruption of dying magic.
Corpses. Everywhere. Humans frozen in twisted screams during their final agonies. Mountain-sized beasts lay still in pools of black ooze, monstrous teeth gleaming. Demonic forms, twisted and broken, leaking shadowy miasma. And gods – or what remained of them. Tall figures in glowing metal, now bent and broken, their light fading like dying embers. Their shattered weapons littered the ground, radiating dying power.
In his hand, a longsword. Not elegant. Brutal. The blade, forged of some impossibly dark metal, drank the meager light. Runes etched along its length pulsed along it's edgeglowed blood-red fire, mirroring the fury in his own chest. His armor, once perhaps magnificent, was scarred, dented, spattered with viscera that wasn't his own. His breath rasped, raw in his throat, tasting of ash and despair.
Cold. Not the chill of wind, but the deep, gnawing cold of emptiness.It lived in his bones. His eyes... they swept over the endless graveyard. Not scared. Just... hollowed out.. But beneath the cold, beneath the despair, banked like coals under ash, raged an inferno of wrath. It vibrated through the sword, making the runes flare brighter. It was a wrath directed at the broken heavens above, at the treacherous earth below, at the very fabric of this damned existence that demanded such endless slaughter. He threw his head back, the muscles of his throat corded, and roared. Not a cry of victory, but a raw scream of defiance and fury at the uncaring sky, a sound that ripped from the depths of his shattered spirit and echoed across the silent, death earth.
"RAAAAAAAGH!"
Aarav jolted upright in bed, the scream still tearing from his throat, raw and ragged. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, cold despite the warmth of the room. His heart beating as it isthreatening to burst. The phantom smells of blood and decay lingered for a terrifying second, the taste of ash thick on his tongue. He gasped, sucking in air.
"Just a nightmare".
Gods, just a nightmare. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to forget the horrifying images – the mountain of corpses, the cold fury, the crushing despair.
"What was that? It felt so real. Too real."
The cold weight of that runic sword, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs like lead weights.
He took another shuddering breath, forcing himself to focus. The bed beneath him was impossibly soft. Silken sheets. Heavy, embroidered blankets. Not the scratchy cotton of Uncle Silas's spare room. The air smelled faintly of lavender. He slowly lowered his hands, blinking in the dim light filtering through curtains.
"Still dreaming?"
He looked down at his hands. They were small. Too small. Delicate, almost. Pale skin, unmarked by callouses from library shelves or part-time jobs. He flexed them. They felt weak. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of the fading nightmare terror. "What the hell?"
He threw back the covers. He was wearing soft linen sleep clothes, finely made. His legs… they were shorter. Thinner. He scrambled out of the massive king sized bed, . He stumbled towards a large, ornate mirror framed in dark wood.
A boy stared back. Maybe twelve, thirteen years old? Fine-boned features, pale skin, wide eyes that were currently filled with a terror that mirrored his own. Shockingly raven black hair as it sucked the light like a black hole fell messily around his face. He looked… fragile wearing clothes as medieval european nobles do. Utterly unlike the college student from City V, or the wrathful warrior on the mountain of corpses. He raised a trembling hand to touch the reflection. The boy in the mirror did the same.
"This… this is impossible. A dream. A hyper-realistic, utterly terrifying dream". He pinched his arm. Pain. Slapped his cheek. Sting. Too real.
"This wasn't a dream." The truck… Silas… the voice… and then…
Reincarnation.
The word surfaced from the novels he use to read a lot. Stories of protagonists awakening in new worlds with past memories. Sometimes he also wished that same thing happen to him but now he dont know what to say. Then tears started coming out unknowingly thinking about Uncle Silas.
" Stop crying, Aarav, understand your situation first". Then suddenly a vast memory came with a a brain splitting pain.
"AAAHHHH"
The memory tsunami crushed him. A thousand shards of another life – Astrael Ravenastra's life – stabbed into his brain. Whispers of "accident" that killed his parents. The crushing weight of being the last heir. Then… cold water filling his lungs? Darkness.
Warmth. The scent of lavender… and something bitter. Medicine?
Aarav, no, Astrael opened his eyes. Same opulent room. Same too-soft bed. But sunlight now streamed through the curtains, painting gold on the walls. His head felt bruised, but clear.
"Fuck! What is happening to me?"
His head throbbed, but the chaos had settled. Memories about Ravenastra family, the Heir's Burden, his Own Death.
Grief twisted like a knife. Breathe. Adapt. Survive. He clenched the silk sheets. 'I'm Astrael Ravenastra now. No, I'm both.'
A soft click. The door creaked open.
A young maid peeked in – black Victorian dress, white apron starched stiff, violet eyes wide under her lace cap. She saw him – awake, alert – and froze.
One heartbeat. Two.
Joy exploded across her face. "Young Master!" she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled. "Young Master! You're awake! Truly awake!" She stumbled into the room, beaming. "The healers… they feared the worst after the fever broke and you wouldn't wake…"
She whirled, dashing into the corridor, her voice echoing like a bell. "MY LORD! VIKTOR! HE'S AWAKE! THE YOUNG MASTER IS TRULY WITH US!"
Boots. Heavy, urgent, pounding down the hall.
Silas Ravenastra filled the doorway first. His silver hair was uncharacteristically dishevelled. Dark circles bruised his eyes beneath those piercing silver orbs – eyes now wide with a desperate, fragile hope. He wore a deep blue dressing robe over his clothes, as if roused instantly.
Beside him, gliding with silent precision, came Viktor, the family butler. Impeccable black tailcoat, face like carved marble, eyes sharp and observant behind thin spectacles. He carried a small silver tray with a steaming cup – smelling sharply of herbs.
The maid, Elara, bounced on her toes, tears streaming. "See, my Lord? His eyes! He sees us!"
Lord Silas crossed the room in three strides. He stopped at the bedside, his imposing frame suddenly seeming less like a lord and more like a weary grandfather. His hand, rough and strong, trembled slightly as he reached out – not to command, but to gently touch Astrael's forehead. His voice, usually a whip of authority, was thick with relief and something raw:
"Astrael?" A rasp. "Boy… can you hear me? Do you know me?"
Viktor stood silently at his shoulder, his gaze analytical but not unkind, the medicinal tea held steady. The room held its breath.
Astrael looked up at the face etched with worry – his grandfather now. He saw the exhaustion, the fear, the love buried deep beneath the lordly facade. The last ghost of Aarav sighed within him. This was his reality.
He met Silas's gaze. Took a shallow breath. Voice scraped raw from disuse and memory, but clear.
"Yes, Grandfather." A pause. He managed a weak, utterly confused but genuine flicker of a smile. "What… what happened? The pond…?"
Lord Silas Ravenastra closed his eyes for a second, a shudder running through him. When he opened them, the relief was a physical wave. He didn't smile, but the ice in his eyes thawed into exhausted warmth. He clasped Astrael's small, too-thin shoulder.
"Later, boy. Later." He glanced at Viktor. The butler stepped smoothly forward, offering the cup. "For now, drink. Viktor brewed it strong. You gave us… quite the scare." His voice cracked on the last word.
Elara sniffled happily in the corner. Viktor's stern mouth softened, just a fraction.
Astrael took the cup. The bitter steam stung his nose. His family. His mess. His second chance.
Now what indeed.