One week.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours until the world noticed something was wrong. Until monsters tore through Moscow like it was tissue paper. Until the gates spread and the blood started to pour.
Until everything ended.
Again.
Things were different; it felt like the System knew that I regressed.
Before regression at the age he is right now, he had no idea what was going on he was just an ordinary civilian.
It was just a hunch but. It felt like it wanted something from him.
Damian didn't move. The glowing text burned into his vision, almost too calm for what it meant. Too fucking ordinary for the weight it carried.
He read it again. And again.
The words weren't flashy. No dramatic music swelling in the background. No fire or thunder. Just... there. Hanging in the air like a death sentence wrapped in blue light.
This was real.
His legs gave out. The desk chair caught him as he collapsed backward, the lighter clattering to the floor beside him. Forgotten. Useless now.
Void.
That was his passive again. Just like before. The ability no one understood, not the researchers, not the tacticians, not even him. A barrier that wasn't really there. A defense that couldn't be broken.
To most, it looked like luck. Dumb, impossible luck.
But it wasn't luck.
It was far away.
No one could touch him unless he let them. Not blades. Not claws. Not bullets or fire or the crushing weight of falling buildings. Not even time itself.
And yet, in the end, Marcus still stabbed him. Elena still watched him bleed out on that cold concrete floor.
Because Void protected his body.
Not his heart.
Damian shut his eyes. His breath was ragged, like he'd just run a mile. The room felt too quiet. Too empty. Like the calm before the storm.
Downstairs, the fridge hummed. Pipes groaned somewhere. Normal sounds.
His sister. Still alive. Downstairs sleeping on the couch. Still unaware that the world was about to end.
But his stomach twisted tight, sharp and cold. Panic real, gnawing panic.
This wasn't right. Not by a long shot.
This time, she wouldn't die.
He wouldn't let her to.
He opened his eyes. The message still hung there in the air, patient as cancer. Waiting.
The Quest was simple on paper: reach the gate in Moscow. Ignite the "First Flame." Whatever the hell that meant.
And if he failed?
The System didn't say. It never did. But the penalty was there, staring him in the face like a loaded gun System Delay for all others.
That meant everyone else, the entire human race, would be locked out. Powerless. Unawakened. Sitting ducks waiting for slaughter.
If he didn't make it to Moscow in time...
The world wouldn't just fall. It'd get wiped clean. Every last person on earth all because of him.
He blinked, making the message disappear. But the heaviness didn't go away. It settled deep in his chest, cold and pressing, like a warning he couldn't shake.
He stood up. His hands were shaking.
Get it together.
He crossed the room and pulled open his closet. Empty mostly. Some old jackets that smelled like high school. Worn sneakers. A black duffel bag he'd used for gym class back when gym class mattered.
He tossed it on the bed and began packing.
Knife. Flashlight. Batteries. Lighter he picked it up from the floor, cold metal against his palm. Water bottle. First aid kit. Extra clothes. Protein bars.
His hands moved automatically. Muscle memory from a future that hadn't happened yet. He'd done this before thousands of times, in hundreds of dying cities. You didn't survive gatefall by being sentimental about comfort.
Still, he paused and looked at the mirror above his dresser.
His reflection stared back. Young. Pale. Tired eyes in a face that had seen too much, even though technically it hadn't seen anything yet.
But something burned behind those eyes now. Something that hadn't been there last time.
Resolve.
The boy who'd tried to save the world was dead. Buried in a timeline that no longer existed. This time, the world could burn if it had to—he'd make damn sure she lived through it.
He zipped the bag shut with more force than necessary.
Downstairs, the smell of toast had faded to nothing. The kitchen lights buzzed softly, that annoying fluorescent hum that had always driven him crazy.
His sister sat at the table, scrolling through her phone on TickTok like it was any other Tuesday morning. Like the world wasn't about to end.
She looked up as he stepped in, her eyebrow raised. "You're finally out of your cave. What, did the apocalypse start without you?"
He froze.
Her tone was casual. Sarcastic. The same joke she always made when he slept in late.
But the timing made his heart skip a beat.
She didn't notice his reaction, already looking back at her phone. "I saved you a piece of toast. Though it's probably cold as shit now."
Damian sat down across from her, his throat suddenly dry. The duffel bag felt heavy on his shoulder.
He looked at her. Really looked.
Still seventeen. Still rolling her eyes at everything. Still here, alive and breathing and completely unaware that in five years in another timeline he'd held her broken body in the rubble of their neighbor's house while monsters howled in the distance.
"You alright?" she asked, frowning. "You look like you saw a ghost or something."
"I... had a bad dream."
"Yeah?" She leaned her chin on her palm, interested despite herself. "Was I in it?"
He managed a smile, though it felt like broken glass. "Nah why would you be.."
She blinked. Then snorted. "Well, that's rude."
"You don't understand."
"Clearly."
She rolled her eyes and picked at her toast. "You're being dramatic again. Did something happen or…?"
Damian didn't answer.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Just a message from some group chat—memes, probably. Nothing strange. No alerts. No pop-ups.
No System yet.
The world was still asleep. Unaware of the global disaster where many will die.
Only he had seen it.
Only he had the quest.
Only he knew what was coming.
She sighed and stood up, stretching. "Anyway, you're acting like a total weirdo today. You skipping class again?"
"I'm leaving."
She paused, halfway to the sink. "What?"
"I have to go to Moscow."
She blinked. Then laughed a short, sharp sound. "You serious? Why the hell would you go to Moscow?"
"Just... trust me."
"Okay, no." She turned around, crossing her arms. "You don't get to pull that 'cryptic big brother' bullshit on me right now. What's going on, Damian?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. How do you explain that you've lived through the end of the world? That you've watched everyone you care about die while you stood there, untouchable and useless?
He stood up, grabbed the bag from where he'd set it by the stairs, and slung it over his shoulder.
"You're really going," she said, and her voice had changed. Gone quiet. "Right now?"
He nodded. "You remember our neighbor? Mr. Novak?"
"Yeah...?"
"If anything weird happens go to him. Hide there. Lock the doors. Don't go outside after dark. Don't open the door for anyone but him. Got it?"
She stared at him, and the sarcasm was completely gone now. She could see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders.
Something was wrong. Really, truly wrong.
"You're scaring me, Damian."
"Good." He stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She went stiff for a second, then hugged him back, confused and worried. "You'll be okay," he said into her hair. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not this time."
"...you sound like a movie character."
He pulled back and managed another broken smile. "Then let's just hope this one has a better ending."
***
10:36 AM
The train station was half-full. Tourists taking pictures. Workers checking their phones. Students complaining about early classes. No one had a clue they were living their last normal day.
Their last day as human beings.
Damian bought a ticket to Moscow and sat near the back of the platform, as far from the crowds as possible. His duffel bag rested at his feet.
He scanned the area automatically. Security cameras in the corners. Two guards by the main entrance. Commuters flowing past like water. Everything normal.
But beneath that surface God, he could feel it.
The gate was open.
Thousands of kilometers away, hidden from the world's cameras and satellites, something monstrous stirred in the heart of Russia. A hole in reality itself, leaking darkness and hunger into a world that had no idea what was coming.
Before I regressed , the world thought Moscow's cameras would catch some light show tonight. A prank maybe. A Russian military experiment gone public.
By morning, it was a war zone, people all over begging for help, crying.
And he'd be walking straight into that mouth of hell now.
He leaned back in the plastic seat, eyes closed, trying to center himself. Listening to the sounds of a world that still made sense.
Footsteps passed. A child laughed at something. Distant announcements rang over crackling speakers, all routine and boring and safe.
His phone buzzed.
Jake: yo u alive? where u at??
Sarah: Hey you good? why did u say "stay home" like it's a horror movie?
Unknown Number: Who are you?
He stared at that last one for a long moment. Someone else was awake. Someone else had seen through the System delay.
He ignored them all and opened a new note, started typing names.
People to save.
Jake. Sarah. His sister Eva. Mr. Novak. Lena the nurse who stayed behind in the hospital during the first wave, handing out meds until the end. Tomas, the street vendor who risked everything to feed refugees in the early chaos. Mikhail, an ex-soldier who taught him how to survive in the ruined city but died covering their escape. And a few others from the first timeline the ones who mattered, who tried to fight when everything went to shit.
He stared at the blank space beneath the list.
It wasn't long.
Not because he didn't want to save more.
But because most didn't make it the first time, no matter what he'd tried. No matter how hard he'd fought.
Some people were just... unlucky.
Some had turned, become monsters themselves. Some were just hungry for power.
Others were gone before he could reach them.
He realized if he knew the future of this world, he could change it in fact do things he couldn't, things he missed before his regression.
This time, he wouldn't miss.
The train arrived with a screech of brakes and a hiss of hydraulics.
Damian stood up, shouldered his bag, and took one last look at the town spread out around him. His home. The place where he'd grown up thinking the world made sense.
He stepped onto the train.
The doors shut behind him with a soft thunk that sounded like a coffin closing.
***
9:51 PM – Outside Moscow
The sky was wrong.
He could feel it the moment he stepped off the train, like stepping into a room where someone had just been murdered. The air tasted like static electricity and burnt metal. Like ozone and smoke and something else something organic and rotten underneath.
People were filming the sky with their phones, laughing at the weird clouds, the shifting lights above the horizon. Posting to social media. Making jokes.
Fucking idiots.
They didn't realize that wasn't weather up there.
That was the gate. That was the mouth of hell opening wide.
A police barricade cut off the main road into the city. News vans lined up behind like scavengers. Reporters fussed over their gear, chasing views while death crept closer without a damn clue.
None of them had any idea they were already dead.
Damian kept his hood low and moved quick, slipping past the crowd like a shadow. He knew this spot—the building where the gate ripped open, the exact street corner burned into his brain, the time stamped in his memory.
11:47 PM.
Less than two hours.
There were less than two hours to get there before everything broke.
To save the only person who ever mattered.
"This time," he told himself, disappearing into Moscow's twisted streets, "I won't fail."
But in the back of his mind the part soaked in blood, screams, and ash—he knew the truth.
He had failed before.
And failure didn't just let go.