The battlefield was painted in fire.
Six thousand years of conquest had left Abell with a vision that no longer registered blood as tragedy. Corpses sprawled across the ash-colored earth, armor cracked open like eggshells, faces frozen in terror. The smell of burned flesh, ruptured organs, and iron-soaked soil was ordinary to him — no different than the smell of morning bread for peasants.
He stood tall amid the ruin, blade in hand, body unmarred by age. The serum of the Emperor ran through his veins, denying him decay, denying him rest. While every other soldier who once received it had perished in war or treachery, he endured. Abell had been the Emperor's most faithful dog — the cold fang that struck whenever ordered, never questioning, never faltering.
And this was how loyalty was rewarded.
"Fall back! Fall back!" A voice screamed.
Not enemy — ally. His own banners wavered, retreating, abandoning him.
Abell turned his head slowly, black eyes catching the glint of betrayal. His hair, black as a starless void, clung to his face in sweat and blood. His pale skin seemed carved from marble, beautiful and terrible against the carnage.
Behind him, the enemy pressed forward — thousands, emboldened by the sight of their prey isolated.
Above him, the banners of his empire pulled back, trembling in the wind.
The Emperor's words echoed, cold and quiet: "Abell, you've grown too much. Too feared. Too loved. Empires are not built on men like you — they are ended by them."
The truth had struck Abell harder than any blade. But even in betrayal, there was no rage on his face, no grief, no plea. Only the indifferent calm of a man who had lived too long to be surprised.
When the enemy surged, Abell moved.
Each swing of his sword tore lines through soldiers, carving flesh and steel alike. He was one man, but one man who had lived war longer than civilizations had existed. Every strike was flawless, every step inevitable. His body remembered every motion from six millennia of repetition. If perfection could be forged into a shape, it was him.
But numbers wore even perfection down. A blade sank into his ribs. Another split his thigh. A spear skewered his chest, blood bubbling up in his throat. His essence serum slowed death, but it could not stop inevitability.
Still, Abell did not scream. He cut, and cut, and cut, until his arm refused to lift the blade.
He collapsed to one knee.
Around him, enemies hesitated. His gaze, still alive even as his body failed, pinned them where they stood. Black eyes, cold and fathomless, seemed to judge their very existence. Men who had seen horrors of war still faltered under that stare. It was the look of one who had already weighed their souls and found them insignificant.
Finally, the weight of blades ended him. Darkness swallowed the battlefield.
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The White Void
When Abell opened his eyes again, there was no blood, no fire.
Only emptiness. A white void stretching endlessly in every direction.
A presence spoke. Calm, patient, omnipresent.
"You've lived long, Abell."
The man's voice was not thunderous or commanding. It was quiet, conversational, as though they stood in a tavern instead of eternity. A figure approached, vague, neither young nor old, male nor female, shifting like smoke.
"Who are you?" Abell asked. His voice carried no fear, only cold assessment.
"God, if you need a name."
Abell's black gaze did not waver. "I expected nothing. That is what six thousand years teaches a man."
God smiled faintly. "And yet here you are. Do you feel betrayed?"
"No." Abell's reply was instant. "The Emperor acted as all rulers act. Betrayal is a law of survival. I lived long enough to know it was inevitable."
The figure tilted its head. "Indifferent, even now. Most beg for justice, or mercy."
Abell's pale face betrayed nothing. "I fought because I was ordered. I killed because I was told. Mercy and justice are fictions for weak men."
Silence stretched.
Then God said, "You are done here. This life, this empire, all of it has ended for you. It is time for your next."
"Reincarnation." Abell stated it, not as a question.
"Yes."
God's voice was almost gentle. "You will live again, reborn in a different world. Simpler, quieter. You will not remember any of this. You will be free to grow anew."
At that, for the first time in six thousand years, Abell laughed. It was low, humorless, chilling.
"Forget? No. I never forget. That is why they feared me. That is why they betrayed me. I carry every scar, every death, every betrayal. Your will cannot unmake my memory."
God studied him, eyes glinting. "Perhaps. Or perhaps memory is a chain you cannot escape. You will see."
The void cracked. Light poured through.
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Rebirth.
Abell gasped. His lungs were small, weak, forcing air in short bursts. His body was soft, fragile, covered in warmth.
He was an infant.
Above him, a woman wept, clutching him to her chest. A man laughed with tears in his eyes, rough hands trembling as he touched his son's face.
"Abell," the man whispered. "Abell First. Our boy."
The newborn blinked. Black eyes opened, cold and fathomless, staring straight into the souls of his parents.
The mother flinched, just for a moment. Her joy faltered under the weight of that gaze — a stare too old, too indifferent for a child. The father swallowed, unsettled, though he forced a smile.
The villagers who came to see the baby later whispered about it in hushed tones.
"Did you see his eyes? Like shadows, like death itself looking at you."
"That child will bring misfortune."
"No — he's beautiful. Handsome, even as a babe. But his gaze… it chills the blood."
Abell lay in silence, judging all.
This world was weaker. He could already feel it — the thin threads of mana drifting in the air. Not machines, not serum, not technology. Only the raw will of the world, allowing him to breathe, to exist.
He understood instantly.
As long as the world gives me its mana, I am chained. The only freedom… is to conquer it.