The world truly is an insane place.
Jin stood amidst a city reduced to ruin, surrounded by the people he once called friends.
A sword was stabbed through his body—clean, final, deliberate.
His breath was shallow. Every exhale was a struggle. His blood soaked the fractured stone beneath him.
The twin katanas he once wielded with pride—one red, one blue—hung at his sides, untouched. His arms slumped, strength gone, fingers numb.
Blood spilled from the jagged hole in his torso. More leaked from his mouth. A fresh line ran down from his scalp, dripping into his eyes, tinting his vision red.
He looked ahead.
His hazel eyes—fading now—settled on the one who had pierced his heart.
She was beautiful.
White hair like winter's first snow. Skin pale as porcelain. Icy blue eyes, cold and glassy. Not a flicker of emotion on her face.
No guilt. No hatred. No regret.
Only indifference.
Around them stood the others—his comrades. His so-called allies. Silent now. Watching.
Some looked away, ashamed. Others held their chins high, expressions twisted in contempt.
Their silence was louder than their blades.
Jim did not resist.
He did not beg.
What was the point?
He had seen it all. Lived through what others could never endure.
Still, he never expected it to end like this.
He closed his eyes slowly.
The sun rises, and the sun must set.
So too does the life of man. One is born when another dies.
He had played his role well.
The villain. The traitor. The madman. That was what the world had labeled him.
But was it true?
What makes a villain, really?
Is it villainy to want to live?
Is it evil to protect yourself when the world wants your death?
What of those who kill in the name of peace, lie in the name of order, or sacrifice others for the "greater good"?
He did what he must.
He had no regrets.
He only wished it hadn't come so soon.
He had wanted more time. To breathe. To see the beauty of the world he had only glimpsed through the cracks of conflict.
He had climbed too high. Shone too brightly.
And so, the world came for him.
As it always does.
A final breath escaped his lips.
What a pity…
His vision faded to darkness.
Then—pain.
A sharp sting bloomed across his cheek, spreading fire beneath the skin. Something warm trickled from his nose.
He tried to move, but his arms wouldn't respond—bound tightly to his sides. His body ached. His head throbbed.
Slowly, light bled into his vision.
He opened his eyes.
He was hanging upside down.
Rope dug into his wrists. His legs were tied too, suspended from a cracked wooden beam. His blood dripped from his nose in slow, steady droplets, dark and sticky.
In front of him stood four boys, dressed in blue-and-black academy robes. Zenith Academy, without a doubt. Outer-ring students, judging by the material—common fabric with faint star-thread linings.
Their faces were young. Arrogant. Ugly in expression.
One of them crouched in front of him, smug grin plastered across his face.
"Wow~ he actually blacked out this time," the boy said with a laugh.
He paused, narrowing his eyes at Jin's expression—calm, unreadable, utterly detached.
"…This bastard's starting to piss me off again."
The boy raised a fist, expecting him to flinch.
But Jin didn't move.
Not even a blink.
Then he spoke, voice low and quiet.
"What year is it?"
The boys stilled.
"Huh?" the crouching one muttered. "What did this bastard just say?"
"Did he finally lose it?" another sneered. "Tch. Beat the brains right out of him."
Jin repeated the question.
"What year is it?"
There was no urgency in his voice. No desperation. Just a simple question—empty of emotion, but filled with something that made the air grow just slightly colder.
The boys exchanged glances.
One scoffed. "Alright, fine. It's Star Era 993. Happy?"
Then came the punch.
Jin's head snapped to the side as the boy's fist slammed into his jaw.
"Think you're funny? Huh?!"
Another blow followed. Then another.
The others joined in. Laughter filled the air between strikes.
But Jin didn't scream. Didn't resist.
What could he do?
This body was weak. Brittle. A shell. The Starstream within it was barely a trickle. No skills. No strength.
He had nothing.
But…
A flicker of satisfaction touched the corner of his swollen lips.
The regression stone worked.
Even if it had placed him in someone else's body—even if he had lost all his skills, all his power—he was alive.
And that was enough.
The fists stopped. The boys straightened their uniforms.
"Still breathing, huh?" one muttered. "Leave him for now. He needs to rest before our next session."
"Hey, Rael," another sneered. "Don't die yet. It's just getting fun."
They laughed as they walked out, kicking a nearby chair over on their way.
The door creaked shut.
Silence.
Dust hung in the stale air, slow and thick.
Jin remained still for a long moment.
Then, with a twist of his wrists, he tested the ropes. Poorly tied. For show. Not meant to restrain someone with patience and a clear mind.
Good.
He flexed, twisted, shifted his weight. One knot slipped loose. Another strained and snapped.
He dropped.
The landing was hard—shoulder first. Pain flared, but he didn't cry out. He gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, and lay there breathing deeply.
Free.
He sat up slowly, shaking the dizziness from his head.
His fingers brushed against the floor—grit, dried blood, splinters. He leaned forward and caught his reflection in a broken shard of mirror across the room.
A face stared back.
Thin. Pale. Hollow-cheeked. His eyes were sunken, dull—yet still too large for the sharpness in them. He looked maybe twelve. But memory—someone else's memory—told him this body was eighteen.
Rael Drayce.
A name with no weight. No presence in his mind.
There were only fragmented memories. Not even fragments. Whoever Rael had been, he was gone. Utterly erased.
Jin stood, unsteady at first. He touched his chest. No scar. No sword. No trace of the wound that had killed him.
But his soul was intact. The weight of his past still sat quietly within him.
His power was gone. His reputation lost. His enemies likely didn't even know he existed yet.
Perfect.
He breathed in deeply. The air was stale. But it was his to breathe.
He was alive.
---
He crossed the room and opened the door slightly, peering through. The hallway was empty.
Good.
He closed the door and sat back down, cross-legged on the dusty floor.
He glanced at his own hand—thin, shaking slightly. Weak.
It will take two years, he thought. Two years to rebuild what I lost.
But this time, there was no need to rush. No throne to fight over. No betrayals to anticipate.
He smiled faintly. It didn't reach his eyes.
This time, I'll live in peace.
No schemes. No killing. No wars. No burden of being stronger than everyone else.
Just quiet.
He would taste good food. Sleep without a dagger under his pillow. Watch the stars. Maybe take a walk at dawn.
He didn't care who this Rael was. Or what he'd done.
That life was over.
This one?
This one was his.
And he would enjoy every moment of it.
Until the world came calling again.
Because it always did.