The last thing I remembered was the scent of my own blood and the Queen's cold smile.
The next was the crack of a bully's fist against my cheek.
Pain exploded across my face.
Not steel.
Not battlefield.
Not execution.
A fist.
Small.
Clumsy.
Petty.
I hit the dirt hard enough for dust to fill my mouth.
Laughter followed.
High. Young. Cruel in the careless way only the safe can afford to be.
For a moment, I did not move.
Because I was still dead.
I remembered dying.
I remembered kneeling in the great hall beneath the vaulted gold ceilings I had defended for twenty-three years.
I remembered the scent of iron as blood soaked through my uniform.
I remembered the Queen's voice—soft, regretful, false.
"You have served your purpose, General."
I had built her empire.
And she had fed me to it.
But now—
There was no marble floor beneath my knees.
No crown above my bowed head.
Only gravel digging into my palms.
"Get up, Ren," someone sneered. "Or are you going to cry again?"
Ren.
The name struck like another blow.
Not General.
Not Commander.
Not Warden of the Western Front.
Just Ren.
Fourteen years old.
Weak.
Unremarkable.
Forgotten.
My breath stopped.
Slowly—
Carefully—
I lifted my head.
The courtyard of the outer military academy came into focus.
Faded banners.
Cracked training posts.
Students in gray uniforms.
I knew this place.
I had not seen it in decades.
Because this was where my first life began.
And where I had first learned how small I was.
The boy who had struck me stood over me with a smirk.
Lian Varos.
Son of a minor noble.
Inherited arrogance.
Inherited mediocrity.
He had broken my ribs once in this courtyard.
I remembered that too.
But something was wrong.
He looked… younger than I remembered.
No scar across his jaw yet.
No hardened posture.
Because that scar—
I had given him.
Years later.
On a battlefield.
When he had betrayed our flank for promotion.
My heartbeat slowed.
Then steadied.
This was not memory.
This was not hallucination.
This was before.
Ten years before my execution.
Ten years before I became the Empire's strongest General.
Ten years before I swore loyalty to a Queen who would carve my throat open with a smile.
I was back.
Lian kicked my shoulder.
"Did you go deaf?"
I looked at him fully.
Not as a bullied boy.
As a man who had commanded fifty thousand soldiers.
As a man who had watched cities burn and held the line anyway.
He flinched.
Just slightly.
Because something in my eyes was no longer fourteen.
Interesting.
Even in a weak body—
Authority leaves residue.
I pushed myself to my feet.
My limbs felt lighter.
Smaller.
No scars across my hands.
No weight of armor.
No permanent ache in my right shoulder from the Siege of Rethan.
I was truly young again.
Alive again.
The courtyard quieted slightly.
They were waiting for me to retaliate.
Or beg.
Or swing wildly.
Like I used to.
But I had learned something in my first life.
You do not waste strength where it yields no advantage.
And you never reveal transformation too early.
So instead—
I bowed my head slightly.
A submissive gesture.
Measured.
Controlled.
"Sorry," I muttered.
Lian blinked.
He had expected defiance.
Or tears.
He got neither.
He scoffed, uncertain.
"Pathetic," he muttered, shoving my shoulder before walking off.
The others followed.
The courtyard noise resumed.
But I remained standing.
Still.
Thinking.
Ten years.
Ten years of knowledge in a fourteen-year-old body.
I knew which instructors would rise.
Which nobles would fall.
Which alliances would fracture.
Which wars would ignite.
I knew which general would betray the western front.
Which minister embezzled funds.
Which prince would die mysteriously before coronation.
And most importantly—
I knew the Queen.
I knew her habits.
Her tells.
Her ambition.
Her fear.
She was not yet crowned in this time.
She was only a princess.
Kind.
Intelligent.
Admired.
I had loved her once.
That was my greatest mistake.
A slow breath left my lungs.
Revenge would be easy.
Too easy.
But I had learned something in death.
Killing the Queen would not change the Empire.
Replacing her would.
In my first life, I had built her throne.
In this life
I would take it.
The academy bell rang.
Students began moving toward the training halls.
I followed.
Head lowered.
Mind racing.
Step one:
Survive.
Step two:
Rise.
Step three:
Never kneel again.
As I crossed the courtyard gates, I glanced once toward the distant silhouette of the Imperial Palace visible beyond the city walls.
Somewhere inside that towering structure
A young princess was laughing.
Unaware.
Untouched.
Unthreatened.
She had once looked down at me as I bled and decided I was no longer useful.
This time
I would decide her usefulness.
And when the crown finally rested on someone's head
It would not be hers.
I had died once.
That was enough.
This time
I would not protect the throne.
I would become it.