A cold silence lingered in the small dormitory room of Trinity Academy. The boy named Connor McCloud—once a mercenary called the "Highlander"—sat on his bed, staring upward. Looming above him was a being more than two meters tall, its skin dark as iron, curved horns breaking from its skull, and faint light burning behind a mask of bone. The creature's presence filled the space with weight, as though the air itself bowed in fear.
It spoke no words aloud. Instead, its presence pressed directly into Connor's mind, carrying with it the certainty of truth: this was him. His own self, regressed from a broken future, yet warped into a monstrous form. The future Connor had returned, but not as a savior—something had gone wrong during the regression. The result was possession, imperfect and incomplete.
Connor demanded proof, though no words escaped his lips. And the monster answered by peeling away his history like pages of an open book: his age, his forgotten parents, the mercenary band that raised him, the missions survived where no one else had returned. Even the shameful secret thoughts he carried from the night before—his doubts about remaining in the academy, his distraction with a girl. Each memory pierced through him like sharpened steel.
For a heartbeat, he wondered if it was true. Yet how could such a beast be his own future? His skepticism endured. And then the final revelation came: Connor McCloud would die today.
One month earlier.
The mercenary camp bustled with noise and steel, but inside a tent lit only by slivers of daylight, Connor polished his armor until it gleamed. The metallic scent of oil clung to his hands. His forehead tingled—a warning, the strange "gift" that had kept him alive countless times. He turned just in time to avoid a playful strike from his captain, a grizzled veteran with a beard rough as a whetstone. The older man laughed, eyes sparkling with the mischief of someone who had seen too much blood to take life too seriously.
From behind his back, the captain revealed a letter. Not parchment scraped from battlefield spoils, but paper edged with golden leaf, luxurious beyond a mercenary's reach. A seal pressed deep in crimson wax marked its importance. At the sight of it, Connor's gift flared again—danger, but of what kind?
The letter bore the name Parcaso Andalusia, headmaster of Trinity Academy—an institution whispered even among soldiers and mercenaries. Founded centuries ago, it was where nobles and heirs of empires gathered, trained in sword, magic, and strategy. Its graduates emerged as Guardians, elite defenders of humanity against the Meteor, monstrous entities whose power could rival entire battalions. To be admitted, especially as a commoner, was an honor that could alter the course of one's life.
Connor read the ornate script. Special admission. Tuition, food, and shelter provided. A future free from hunger and mercenary scraps. Yet his first instinct was rejection. To walk into a nest of nobles was to enter an arena of pride, arrogance, and disdain. He had no desire to grovel in their shadow. But his captain, patient yet insistent, reminded him: a Guardian's title was not just power, but survival, stability, a guarantee that even a mercenary with no bloodline would no longer starve.
Connor weighed the choice. And in the end, curiosity and hunger for a life beyond mercenary scraps led him to the nearest post station, letter in hand.
That evening, celebration broke loose in the mercenary camp. Connor's comrades filled the mess hall with raucous laughter, mugs of cheap ale clashing in his name. He was the youngest, yet the most famous among them, a survivor where others had fallen. They called him "Highlander," cheering him with drunken voices that stank of sweat and alcohol.
Pulled into their circle, Connor endured the noise, his gift tingling faintly at the edge of his senses. Toasts rose, ale spilled across rough tables, and broad arms wrapped around him in mock camaraderie. Though he tried to slip away, his words of thanks—half serious, half mocking—only drew louder roars of approval.
For a brief moment, surrounded by laughter and overflowing mugs, Connor almost felt at ease. Almost.
Because deep in his bones, the tingling refused to fade. And from the shadows of time itself, his monstrous future self waited—patiently whispering a single truth.
Connor McCloud would die today.