A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, and the world swam in and out of focus. The scent of lavender and old parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of spiced wine. Sunlight filtered through heavy curtains, painting golden stripes across the canopy bed. He blinked, confusion gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Where was he?
He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else—a strange, persistent sense of déjà vu. The room was familiar: marble pillars, intricate tapestries, a polished wooden desk stacked with letters and tomes. His gaze drifted to the two figures standing at the foot of the bed.
His parents.
His mother's eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale with worry. His father, the king, stood tall but weary, his broad shoulders tense beneath the royal cloak. They looked at him as if he were both precious and fragile, as if he might shatter at any moment.
He opened his mouth, but his throat was dry. A faint memory tugged at him—laughter, music, a goblet raised too many times. He'd passed out. Overdrinking, again. The embarrassment of the royal family.
His mother spoke first, her voice soft but trembling. "It's okay, darling. She doesn't know what she's missing out on."
The words struck him like a blow. He remembered—ten years ago, his fiancée had broken off their engagement. She was the duke's daughter, famed for her mastery of fire magic, the pride of her house and the envy of every noble. The scandal had echoed through the kingdom: the prince, abandoned by his brilliant betrothed, left to drown his sorrows in wine and shame.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if to confirm they were real. They were younger, unscarred by battle. His body felt lighter, his senses sharper. Nineteen years. He'd gone back nineteen years.
A wave of disbelief crashed over him, followed by a surge of relief so intense it made his eyes sting. His parents were alive. The ache in his heart was replaced by a fragile hope.
He forced a smile, though his voice shook. "I'm alright, Mother. Truly. I've gotten over her. I just… I need to be alone for a while."
They exchanged a glance—relief mingled with concern—but respected his wish. As they left the room, he slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
This can't be real. Was it all a dream? Or… did I really die?
Fragments of memory returned, sharp and vivid as broken glass. The kingdom in flames. The desperate flight through shadowed corridors. His mother's scream. The cold finality of betrayal.
He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the memories away. But they came, relentless.
He remembered the day everything changed. The kingdom had been at peace, the capital bustling with festivals and trade. But rumors of war crept in like a chill wind. Enemy armies gathered at the borders, and the court was rife with whispers and suspicion.
Then, in the dead of night, the attack came.
He'd been woken by the sound of clashing steel, the acrid stench of smoke. His father, the king, had burst into his chambers, armor gleaming, eyes blazing with determination.
"Take your mother and siblings. Go. I'll hold them off."
There was no time for argument. He'd gathered his mother and younger siblings—his sister, barely twelve, and his brother, just a child—and fled through secret passages beneath the palace. The sounds of battle grew distant, replaced by the frantic pounding of his own heart.
They'd almost made it. But as they reached the outer gates, the betrayal revealed itself. Royal guards—men sworn to protect them—turned their blades on the fleeing family.
His mother's magic flared, a shield of shimmering light, but it wasn't enough. He saw his sister fall, her scream cut short. His brother, reaching for him, was struck down. His mother's shield shattered, and she collapsed beside her children.
He'd screamed, the sound raw and animal, but the world was red and spinning. Loyal guards—those who hadn't betrayed them—dragged him away, running through blood-slick corridors as the enemy closed in.
One by one, the guards fell, sacrificing themselves to buy him a few more moments. The captain, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his cheek, carried him through the wilderness, never slowing, never faltering.
They hid in a cave, the captain's breathing ragged. He'd been wounded, a thin line of black spreading from a cut on his arm.
"Mana-rot," the captain whispered, his voice hoarse. "Poisoned blade. No cure."
The captain pressed a bloodstained dagger into his hand. "Live, Your Highness. For them."
He'd watched the light fade from the captain's eyes, alone in the darkness.
Despair had threatened to consume him. He'd wandered the cave, numb and hollow, until he stumbled upon a stone pedestal. Atop it sat a book, bound in midnight leather, its cover etched with symbols that seemed to shift and writhe.
He reached out, half-mad with grief, and the book opened at his touch. Words glowed on the page, written in a language he somehow understood.
To the one who finds this,
You are worthy.
If you seek power, read on.
If you seek vengeance, become my disciple.
He'd devoured the diary, learning the story of a being so powerful he'd been erased from history—a mage whose magic had shaped nations, whose enemies had tried to erase every trace of his existence. The book was sealed by a spell only the worthy could break.
When he finished, a message appeared before his eyes, burning with ethereal fire.
Will you become my disciple?
He'd accepted, desperation and fury mingling in his heart.
The next two years were a crucible. The cave became his world, the diary his teacher. He learned to channel mana, to shape it into spells that bent the world to his will. The training was brutal—days spent in meditation, nights wracked by visions and pain. The diary demanded everything: discipline, sacrifice, an unyielding will.
He emerged from the cave changed. His body was lean, his eyes cold and sharp. He took a new name, hiding his identity, and set out into the world as an adventurer. For two years, he hunted monsters, delved into dungeons, and rose through the ranks with terrifying speed. S-rank—unheard of for someone so young.
But it wasn't enough. The fire of vengeance burned in his chest, insatiable.
He became a mercenary, building his own group from the ground up. They took the hardest jobs, the most dangerous contracts. In two years, they were one of the top three mercenary bands in the land. His name became legend—a shadow on the battlefield, a whisper in the halls of power.
All of it was for revenge.
He hunted down every royal guard who had betrayed his family. One by one, he found them, broke them, extracted every scrap of information. Some begged for mercy, others tried to buy his loyalty. None survived. The survivors grew paranoid, hiring mercenaries to protect them—never realizing that their protector was their executioner.
When the last traitor fell, he turned his gaze to the kingdom that had attacked his family. But there, at the heart of his enemy's court, he found only puppets—rulers controlled by a hidden hand.
Before he could act, the true enemy revealed itself. The empire struck without warning, an army of hundreds descending on his camp. Five sword saints, a hundred mages, three arc magicians—an unstoppable force.
He fought with everything he had. His mercenaries fell around him, but they took dozens with them. He unleashed spells that split the earth, blades that sang with vengeance. But in the end, it wasn't enough. He died surrounded by enemies, his body broken, his soul burning with regret.
Now, as he lay in his childhood bed, the memories faded like mist. He was nineteen again. His parents were alive. The world was new.
He sat up, heart pounding. He would not waste this chance.
He dressed quickly, ignoring the pounding in his skull. The halls of the palace were quiet, servants bowing as he passed. He made his way to the garden, where his mother sat among the roses, her eyes closed in thought.
She looked up as he approached, a gentle smile on her lips. "Feeling better?"
He nodded. "I am. Thank you, Mother. I… I just needed some time to think."
She reached out, squeezing his hand. "You're stronger than you know, my son."
He smiled, the words warming him. He would not let her down. Not this time.
He spent the day walking the palace grounds, reacquainting himself with every corridor, every hidden passage. He greeted old friends and loyal servants, memorizing their faces. He watched his siblings play in the courtyard, their laughter ringing through the air.
He would protect them. He would protect them all.
As night fell, he returned to his chambers, mind racing with plans. He would need allies, information, power. The diary—was it still hidden in the cave? Would he have to wait for fate to drive him there once more, or could he seek it out now, before disaster struck?
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, plotting his next move. He would not repeat his mistakes. He would not trust blindly. He would root out the traitors before they could strike.
He would become stronger than ever before.
Weeks passed. He threw himself into training, honing his body and mind. He studied politics, magic, swordplay—anything that might give him an edge. He sought out the old captain, still alive and loyal, and began to rebuild the network of guards he could trust.
He sent discreet messages to old friends, testing their loyalty with subtle questions. He watched the court, noting who whispered in the shadows, who met with foreign envoys behind closed doors.
He visited the cave, heart pounding. The book was there, waiting for him. This time, he opened it with calm determination, the words glowing with approval.
To the one who finds this,
You are worthy.
If you seek power, read on.
If you seek vengeance, become my disciple.
He read the diary again, absorbing every lesson, every warning. The message appeared once more.
Will you become my disciple?
He accepted, the words burning into his soul.
The training began anew, but this time he was ready. He mastered spells in weeks that had taken him months before. He pushed himself harder, driven by the memory of his family's screams, the sight of their blood on marble floors.