The sky was bleeding.
Flames devoured mountains while rivers turned to steam. Across the shattered plains of Hollow Peaks, the last army of mortals faced extinction.
Among broken spears and burning banners stood Aelric Vane—armor cracked, left arm gone, right hand gripping a sword that still pulsed with stubborn light.
The air smelled of ash, blood, and endings.
Above the battlefield hovered a radiant figure wrapped in divine brilliance—Orithan, High God of Rebirth.
"You have done well, mortal," the god's voice rolled like thunder.
"Lay down your weapon. Accept the mercy of rebirth."
Mercy. The word made Aelric laugh—hoarse, bitter, broken.
"Rebirth? You burned ten thousand villages to 'purify' this world. You call that mercy?"
Orithan's golden eyes gleamed with pity—the same look gods always wore when they destroyed what they didn't understand.
"You cannot grasp the will of eternity."
Aelric gritted his teeth. "Then I'll rewrite it."
The cracked blade in his hand began to glow—white fire crawling along its edge. The world trembled as he drew in the last traces of his Spirit Force, every breath of power left in his dying body.
He lunged.
Steel met light.
The explosion tore through the heavens. For a heartbeat, man and god clashed as equals. Lightning split mountains; oceans boiled away.
Aelric's sword pierced Orithan's divine chest.
"Impossible…" the god whispered as cracks spread across his golden armor.
Aelric smiled weakly. "Guess your equation had an error."
Then the world ended.
When the light faded, Aelric lay among drifting ash.
Half his body was gone, yet his heart still beat. The world had gone silent—no gods, no mortals, no sound.
And in that silence, a voice whispered from the void.
You killed a god. Therefore, you shall take his place.
You broke the law of endings. Therefore, you shall never end.
Pain seared through his soul.
A symbol burned into his back—a loop of light and shadow twisting infinitely.
He screamed as the sky folded inward, dragging him through time itself.
Darkness.
Then—crying.
The cry of a newborn.
Aelric opened his eyes to a wooden ceiling lit by firelight and the faint scent of milk and herbs.
He couldn't move. His arms were small. His voice—weak.
He was… a baby.
Outside, the wind howled. Snow piled against the window. He knew that sound—the Northern Frontier, thirty years before the war began.
A woman's voice cooed nearby. "He's strong. He'll live. What shall we name him?"
A deep laugh answered, "Aelric. Like my grandfather."
The infant's hand curled.
On his back, hidden beneath the cloth, the glowing loop pulsed once.
Inside his mind, memories churned—battlefields, gods, death, rebirth.
He remembered everything.
I died… and came back.
He closed his eyes and focused. Even as a newborn, he could feel it—the faint hum of Spirit Force in the air. Thin, unrefined, but familiar. Every creature breathed it unknowingly, yet cultivators shaped it into power.
In his past life, he had climbed from Beginner to Celestial—nearly touching godhood.
But this time, he would go beyond that.
If this world truly resets… I'll master it. I'll break the heavens themselves.
A faint laugh slipped from his tiny mouth.
The midwife gasped—babies didn't laugh.
He didn't care.
For the first time since the end, Aelric felt no fear.
The cycle had begun again.
Far above the clouds, in the ruins of a golden palace, a wounded god opened his eyes and whispered:
"The regression… has started."