He felt as though he had spent an eternity in darkness.
There was no sound, no feeling, no light. Just a vast, empty void that consumed everything—his thoughts, his sense of self, even time itself. How long had he been trapped in that formless black abyss? He had no answer.
Then, without warning, it began.
Something—no, someone—was pushing him downwards. Not with force, but with an overwhelming speed that defied comprehension, hurling him faster than light itself. It was as if he were a comet, crashing through universes, each one flashing past like fleeting rays of light. Realities collapsed and rewrote themselves around him, leaving echoes and fragments behind.
He wanted to scream. To escape. To run.
But his body refused to obey. It wasn't fear that paralyzed him—it was absence. He had no body, no breath, no form. Only a single sliver of awareness remained. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped.
With a jolt, a violent surge of energy slammed into his consciousness.
He gasped.
Air—harsh and dry—rushed into his lungs as if he were breathing for the first time. He coughed violently, his throat raw, trying to catch his breath. His chest heaved, heart pounding like a war drum, as if it might burst out at any moment. His ears rang, and every beat echoed in his skull like thunder.
His eyes cracked open.
Everything was hazy. A thick, blinding fog covered his vision. His fingers trembled as he reached up and rubbed them gently, shielding his eyes from the piercing light above. Slowly, cautiously, he began to see—shadows forming into shapes, light scattering on reflective surfaces.
And then he saw it.
He was standing inside a colossal dome—a massive, crystalline structure so vast it felt like a forgotten temple built by ancient gods. Its surface shimmered like polished obsidian, black and gleaming with faint violet hues. The air was thick, heavy with an ancient silence.
Parts of the dome were cracked. Jagged lines spiderwebbed through the dark glass, allowing beams of brilliant sunlight to pierce through. The sun above burned with a golden blaze, bleeding crimson across the sky, casting a surreal glow that shimmered on the broken obsidian like blood over blades.
"Where am I?"
The question escaped his lips in a whisper, but even to himself, the words felt foreign.
His mind swam with uncertainty. Where was this place? Why was he here? What had happened to him?
Then, without warning, the memories returned.
A fragmented rush of emotions, images, sounds.
He stumbled forward and fell to his knees, clutching his head as the vision seared itself into his consciousness.
He remembered the sun. Not like this one, but the one he knew—an enormous burning star that had turned blood-red, swelling unnaturally before exploding. He remembered the heat, the shock, the roar of destruction tearing through the sky as flames consumed everything. The buildings. The cities. The people.
He remembered burning alive.
His breath caught in his throat. That memory wasn't a dream—it was too vivid, too real. But he was alive. Wasn't he?
"Did I survive…?"
"But how…?"
He looked around, desperate for answers, when his gaze landed on a strange reflection.
The obsidian dome—glassy and smooth—acted like a mirror. And in it, he saw someone else. Someone unfamiliar.
He froze.
Staring back at him was not the face he remembered. This person was… different.
Eyes glowing softly with hues of orange and gold, like smoldering embers hidden beneath ash. Hair long, flowing in gentle waves that framed a pale face both beautiful and haunting. His skin was like porcelain, but beneath it pulsed an unnatural warmth, as if fire ran through his veins.
"Who… am I?"
His voice was barely audible. The panic rising in his chest grew louder.
This was not his body.
A searing pain shot through his skull, like a dagger driving straight into his brain. He screamed and collapsed. His body convulsed, and his vision dimmed as the world spun.
And then came the memories—memories that weren't his.
Rohan…
That name echoed in his mind like a whisper from a distant past.
Rohan Emberheart.
A noble child. The youngest son of the prestigious Duke Emberheart—the seventh duke of the Eastern Empire. A descendant of the ancient Eberheart lineage, known across the realm as the wielders of fire blessed by the blazing sun itself.
They were heroes. Defenders of humanity. Warriors who stood as a wall against the tide of annihilation—against the massive Behemoths, the soul-devouring monsters, and the endless waves of demonkind that poured through dimensional rifts into the human world.
This was a world constantly at war.
Demons, beasts, and twisted monsters tried to collapse the very fabric of their realm by planting demonic seeds across the land. These seeds became portals, gateways to destruction, spilling forth terror and despair. Each day, humanity teetered on the brink.
Only the Awakened stood between survival and extinction.
At the age of seven, every child underwent a ceremony to awaken their Spirit Affinity—a connection to nature or elemental forces that gave them the power to fight. Fire, wind, water, earth, lightning—each ability a weapon, a chance to survive.
But Rohan… he had never awakened.
Despite being the son of a legendary fire-wielding duke, he remained ordinary. Powerless. Useless.
Years passed.
Today—on his sixteenth birthday—he should have celebrated. But instead, he was alone. Abandoned. Forgotten by his family. Mocked by his siblings. Ignored by his father. In their eyes, he was a disgrace. A stain on their name.
A failure.
He remembered it all now—how he had stolen a demonic soul core, a forbidden artifact brimming with dark energy, in a final desperate attempt to awaken. He had used a technique outlawed by every awakened order in the empire—risking his body, his soul, his life.
He remembered the pain.
His veins burst. His bones cracked. His skin scorched. His body crumbled. And he died.
No one came for him. No one cared.
But something—some force—had chosen to bring him back.
Tears welled in his glowing eyes.
He didn't know if he was still Rohan Emberheart… or someone else who had taken his body. He didn't know why the world had given him another chance.
But the pain… the loneliness… the betrayal—all of it was still real.
His body lay limp on the ground. His breath shallow. But inside, something had changed.
This world… it was cruel.
It took. It devoured. It watched as the innocent suffered and the weak were discarded like trash. It fed on ambition, on power, on blood.
But he had returned. And he remembered everything.
He rolled over, his muscles trembling, and gasped as he pulled himself upright. The air tasted of iron and ash.
"This world…"
His voice was hoarse, but his words burned with quiet fury.
"No matter what side you're on, people only care about themselves. Selfish. Hypocrites. They'll watch you die and still ask what you did wrong."
A bitter laugh escaped him. The kind of laugh only the broken could muster.
"But now… I know how to deal with them."
"An eye for an eye. Blood for blood."
He staggered to his feet.
The leather of his new attire felt unfamiliar—soft, luxurious, made from materials far beyond anything a commoner would ever afford. So he was dressed like nobility again. Of course he was. The son of a duke, after all.
He brushed the dust off his clothes, adjusting the high collar of his tunic. A strange calm settled over him.
"Who cares about love or power? As long as you have money… life can still be beautiful."
He cracked his neck and tilted his head toward the broken dome's opening. The golden sun still shimmered in red. The world still burned.
"Time to live again," he whispered. "And this time, I'll write the story."
He took one step forward.
Then another.
And with each step, the fire inside him stirred—silent, waiting.
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