The sky was on fire.
Ash rained down on the ruins of Eryndor, the last bastion of mankind. Towers crumbled like sandcastles beneath the wrath of the gods, and crimson magic bled from cracks in the world itself. Screams echoed against the ruined walls of the citadel, only to be swallowed by the howl of the burning wind.
Elion Greaves knelt atop a shattered spire, his sword nothing more than a twisted, molten stub. His body trembled—not from fear, but from exhaustion. One eye was blind. Three ribs were broken. The embers in his lungs made each breath a promise of death.
Yet he still lived. He always lived. That was the curse.
Below him, the final battle raged—if one could still call it that. What remained of the Ashen Flame Order, his comrades through countless deaths and victories, had already fallen. Nyra's silver flames had finally flickered out. Thorne had vanished into shadow, his fate unknown. Caelia had died with her sword buried in the chest of a corrupted archangel, smiling even as the light consumed her.
And Seren—
No. He couldn't bear to think of her.
The world had ended. Again. For the ninth time.
Behind him, the air rippled. A man stepped out of nothingness, clad in mirrored robes, face obscured by a thousand shifting reflections.
"You failed again, Elion," the figure said. "Nine worlds. Nine collapses. What will it take for you to accept that you are the reason it always ends this way?"
Elion didn't answer. He didn't rise. He simply reached into his chest—into the shattered, glowing embers of what was left of his core—and pulled.
Heat exploded around him. The final flame.
"You can't stop me," the figure warned. "Even now, the next loop prepares. You'll be reborn. Powerless. Forgotten. Again."
Elion turned his ruined face toward the sky. For a moment, he saw it—the world as it had been once, long ago. A child's dream. A place of peace.
"I don't care if I forget," he whispered. "I don't care if I'm broken. As long as I can try one more time. As long as I can save even one of them..."
He closed his eyes.
"Burn it all."
And the world burned.
He awoke to the scent of ink, dust, and cold stone.
The ceiling above him was cracked, familiar in a distant, aching way. A bell tolled outside, signaling the morning hour.
Elion sat up slowly, heart pounding.
His body was smaller. Younger. His hands bore no scars.
Across the room, a mirror reflected the image of a sixteen-year-old boy—dark-haired, pale-eyed, thin from hunger and neglect.
"...Magna Arx Academy," he breathed. "The dormitories. Ten years before the collapse."
And then, as if in response to his recognition, the voice returned.
[System Reactivation Complete. Welcome, Elion Greaves.] [Ashes of Regression Protocol Initiated.] [Final Life Remaining: 1]
He fell back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat.
So it had begun again.
His last chance.
He smiled.
And then he laughed—a broken, quiet sound—as tears slid down his cheeks.
"Alright," he said. "Let's try again."