The adrenaline of the ambush had faded, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Elian didn't go to the guild hall. He didn't go to the market. He went straight to his room at the Gilded Tankard, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed.
For the first time since his regression, he didn't dream of dragons or fire. He slept the sleep of the dead.
He woke up as the sun was setting, casting long orange shadows across his floorboards.
[Stamina: 100/100 - Fully Restored.]
[Status: Refreshed.]
He stretched, his joints popping. The grime of the dungeon was gone, scrubbed away before he slept. He felt light.
"Food," his stomach growled. "Real food."
Elian walked downstairs. The tavern was loud, packed with players buzzing about the upcoming Tournament. Mugs clashed, bards sang off-key, and the air smelled of roasted meat and pipe smoke.
Elian found a secluded booth in the corner.
"Innkeeper!" Elian called out, tossing a gold coin onto the table. It spun and settled with a heavy clink. "The Spiced Wyvern Steak. The expensive wine. And keep the bread coming."
The Innkeeper's eyes bulged at the gold coin. "Right away, sir! The VIP treatment!"
Ten minutes later, Elian was slicing into a steak that cost more than most players earned in a week. It was tender, rich, and perfect. He ate slowly, savoring the luxury he had been denied for three weeks in the crypt.
The noise of the tavern seemed to fade into the background. He was in his own world.
Until a shadow fell over his table.
"Mind if we join you? Everywhere else is full."
The voice was confident, warm, and painfully familiar.
Elian froze mid-chew. His fork hovered an inch from his mouth. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. He knew that voice better than his own.
He slowly lowered his fork and looked up.
Standing there were three players.
In the center was a tall swordsman with golden hair and eyes like clear summer skies. Valen. In the future, he would be the Hero of the Sun, the leader of the strongest guild in history, The Daybreak.
To his right was a woman in white robes, holding a staff. Seraphina. The Saintess of Healing. The woman who had healed Elian's broken bones a thousand times in his past life.
To his left was a scowling, dark-haired rogue spinning a dagger. Jax. The Shadow King.
They were young. Level 6 or 7. Their gear was decent, but nothing legendary yet. They didn't know they were destined to become gods.
"Sit," Elian said. His voice was steady, but under the table, his hand was clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles were white.
"Thanks, friend!" Valen grinned, sliding into the booth opposite Elian. Seraphina sat beside him, while Jax leaned against the pillar, keeping watch.
"I'm Valen," the swordsman introduced himself, offering a hand. "We saw what you did at the graveyard earlier. Flattening the Iron Fists? That was... impressive."
Elian looked at the hand. In his past life, he had shaken that hand on the day he died. Valen had tried to save him from the dragon's breath, burning half his face off in the process.
Elian didn't shake it. He just nodded. "Elian."
Valen awkwardly pulled his hand back, scratching his head. "Right. A man of few words. I respect that."
"We wanted to ask about the Tournament," Seraphina chimed in, her voice soft and melodic. "Rumor has it the difficulty spike is going to be insane. Since you cleared a Mutated Boss, do you have any intel?"
They began to talk. They shared information freely—about monster patterns, spawn rates, and the new floors. They were so open, so kind. Just like he remembered. They weren't plotting; they were genuinely just looking for fellow strong climbers.
Elian listened, offering short, clipped answers. He couldn't look Seraphina in the eyes. If he did, he might break.
They're alive, Elian thought, the guilt crashing over him like a wave. Valen hasn't lost his eye yet. Jax still has both arms. Seraphina is smiling.
"You know," Seraphina said suddenly, tilting her head. She was staring at Elian with a strange intensity.
The table went quiet.
"Do we know each other?" she asked softly. "I know this sounds crazy, but... it feels like we've met. Like you're a long-lost friend I haven't seen in years."
Valen laughed. "Sera, you say that to everyone."
"No," Seraphina insisted, her brow furrowing. "It feels... sad. Why does looking at you make me feel sad?"
Elian's heart stopped. Her intuition—the [Saintess's Insight]—was already manifesting. She could sense the timeline connection, the ghosts of the bond they had shared in a erased future.
Elian wiped his mouth with a napkin. He stood up abruptly.
"No," Elian said, his voice cold as ice.
He looked down at the three people who had been his family in another life. The people he had failed to protect because he was too weak.
"We don't know each other," Elian said. "And in this timeline... that will never happen."
Valen blinked, confused by the cryptic refusal. "Uh, okay? Well, see you in the arena then?"
Elian didn't answer. He turned and walked away, leaving his half-eaten luxury meal on the table.
He walked fast. He pushed through the crowded tavern, ignoring the stares, ignoring the noise.
He reached the heavy oak door and shoved it open, stepping out into the cool night air.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the cold mask crumbled.
Elian leaned against the rough stone wall of the inn, his chest heaving. He squeezed his eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, trailing down the dirt and grime on his cheek.
"You're alive," he whispered to the night sky, a smile breaking through the pain. "You're all alive."
He wiped the tear away aggressively, his expression hardening back into stone.
"And I'm going to keep it that way."
In the last timeline, being his friend got them killed. In this timeline, he would be a stranger. He would be the villain if he had to.
Elian pushed off the wall and walked into the darkness. He had a tournament to win.