The wind whispered across the grassy plains, carrying the faint scent of smoke from a distant battle. Takeru stood atop a cliff near the village, his sword resting loosely in one hand, the faint glow of minor circle magic illuminating the intricate etchings along its blade. The air around him seemed heavier tonight, charged with an energy he couldn't quite place. Though he had grown strong in this new world, learned to combine swordsmanship with circle magic, and had begun to earn the trust and admiration of villagers and allies alike, a subtle unease gnawed at him. Something was coming—he could feel it.
He knelt, tracing a complex circle in the dirt. His hands moved with practiced precision, drawing the intricate patterns that Liora had taught him. A faint, shimmering light followed the strokes, but the energy within him flickered inconsistently, unstable yet present. He clenched his jaw. I can control this. I must.
"Hey, don't zone out too much," Ryn's voice broke the tense silence. The rogue leaned against a nearby boulder, a playful smirk on his face that did little to hide his concern. "You've been staring at that circle for what, an hour? You're going to overheat your mana if you don't take a break."
"I… I'm fine," Takeru said quietly, his eyes still locked on the circle. A strange vibration thrummed beneath his feet, like the world itself was humming. His fingers twitched, but the energy refused to respond fully. His training, his growth—it all seemed to falter at the edges, slipping beyond his grasp.
Ryn straightened. "Something's off. I can feel it too. You're not imagining this, are you?"
Before Takeru could respond, the world around him shivered. The ground beneath his feet seemed to vanish, replaced by an infinite void of soft white light. Panic gripped him as the familiar plains and the village disappeared entirely, replaced by countless spheres of light suspended in the emptiness. Each sphere contained a miniature world, spinning slowly, some glowing brightly, others shrouded in darkness. Among them, he immediately recognized Tenria, his own world, distant yet unmistakable.
"What…?" Takeru whispered, staggering backward. His heart raced as the realization hit him: this was no mere dream or illusion. He was somewhere else entirely—between worlds, suspended in a void of unimaginable scale.
A presence approached, and the air grew impossibly bright. Takeru shielded his eyes, squinting through the brilliance. A humanoid figure, formed entirely of white light, descended toward him. Its shape was humanlike but unnervingly perfect, glowing with an intensity that made Takeru feel both awe and fear. The figure spoke, its voice resonating inside his mind rather than his ears, deep and calming yet absolute.
"Takeru Yamato," the figure intoned. "You do not belong here. You must leave this world immediately and return to your own."
Takeru's knees buckled. "Who… who are you? Why am I here? What do you mean leave?" His voice trembled despite his efforts to sound calm.
"I am the Creator of all worlds," the figure replied. Its voice echoed around him, vibrating with a power beyond comprehension. "In every world, there exists a main character, a central focus whose existence anchors the narrative of that reality. No world can sustain two main characters. Your presence here disrupts the balance. You must return to your own timeline, to the point from which your journey in this world diverged."
Takeru's mind reeled. He remembered the months he had spent here: the battles, the villagers he protected, the bonds he had forged with Liora, Ryn, and even Kaelen. "But… I fought, I lived, I—" His voice broke. The memories threatened to overwhelm him, a painful ache twisting his chest. "I can't just leave them! I've built something here!"
The Creator raised its hand, and a wave of radiant light washed over him. "What you have built exists only within the confines of this world. Your time here must end. You will not take the place of the existing main character. You must survive, yes, but you must not interfere further. You will be returned to the moment of your death, but you will survive. The memory of this world will be erased from your conscious mind, though your instincts and potential will remain."
Takeru's chest tightened as he struggled against the light. He could feel the life he had created, the relationships he had nurtured, slipping through his fingers. The faces of villagers, the laughter, the triumphs, the pain—all of it was being erased. He wanted to fight, to resist, but the light was everywhere, surrounding him, filling his mind, burning his vision with its brilliance.
"Please… I… I don't understand…" Takeru whispered, tears stinging his eyes. "There has to be another way!"
"There is no other way," the Creator said gently, yet with the weight of eternity behind the statement. "Your survival in this world was an anomaly. To preserve the multiverse, you must return. This is not punishment, only correction."
The light coalesced around him, tightening like a cocoon. He felt himself lifted off the ground, suspended in nothingness, weightless and untethered. Time lost all meaning as the Creator's energy surrounded him, a constant, pulsating rhythm that seemed to stretch for eternity in every direction.
And then, in an instant, he was falling.
He blinked and gasped, his body plunging through a void of memories and sensations he could not place. Faces, voices, battles, laughter, pain—all of it passed by like fragments of a broken mirror. And then, abruptly, stillness.
Takeru opened his eyes to darkness. The last thing he remembered was the light, the Creator, the spheres of countless worlds. Then—he was back.
Back in Tenria. Back to the moment he had been killed. Only… he was alive. His body ached with the familiar pain of battle, but he was whole. The Dark Army loomed nearby, the battlefield frozen in the moment he had once fallen. His mind was blank, wiped clean of the memories of the world of circles, the village he had built, the friends he had made.
Yet instinct remained. His reflexes, honed from months of combat in two worlds, guided his movements. He rolled, drew his weapon, and prepared for the inevitable clash with the Dark Army. Though he did not remember the lessons, the skills were embedded deep within him, part of the body's muscle memory and instinctive reaction.
Somewhere deep inside, a spark of understanding lingered—the sense of responsibility, the drive to survive and protect. It was faint, like embers glowing in darkness, but it was enough.
Takeru took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the battlefield. The Dark Army waited, their shadows stretching over the scorched land. He had no conscious memory of the other world, no recollection of the people he had saved, no trace of the village or friends. But he felt the pull of destiny once more.
Somehow, against all odds, he had survived. And now, though his mind was a blank slate, the stage for his next story was set.
The dark army was defeated by the great mages,
Everyone was safe, Except Takeru, He still needed answer, The feeling of belonging somewhere else.
The wind carried the distant roar of the Dark Army. Takeru tightened his grip on his sword, muscles coiled, eyes burning with unspoken determination. The Creator had erased his memories, yes—but it had not erased him.
Somehow, someway, he would rise again.