Most souls choose the second option, you know.
To go back.
To start fresh.
To forget.
The key word there is most.
But me?
I wasn't one of them.
Surprised?
Yeah, I was too.
I mean, back then when I was alive, i who was just normal human, who had forgettable face, yet I had no complaints and I was content with that life. Just a quiet life. But after becoming an Agent, after living life after life in roles designed to break or shape others…
I started looking forward to it.
Who would I be next?
A merciless villain?
A cruel sibling?
A loyal friend or a friend who would one day betray them?
A lover who'd give everything or a love who will just disappear?
Or maybe something less human—
A beast? A dragon, a fox, a wolf, a snake?
One time, I was even a millipede.
Another time, a sword of divine light.
Yeah. That's when I realized… I was addicted.
Not to the power. Not even to the glory.
But to the roles.
I chose another cycle.
And another.
And another.
With each one, I gave it everything I had. I used the memories of my past lives to make things more interesting, more vivid. I played my part not just well but beautifully. I didn't just guide the chosen soul. I crafted worlds around them.
It became my life.
The life I never thought I could have unpredictable, exciting and wild.
I thought I'd never get tired of it.
But I was wrong.
Like before, once again I could not be more wrong about myself.
By the time I finished my seventh cycle, something inside me went quiet.
The spark? Gone.
The excitement? Muted.
The roles started to repeat. The faces blurred. The deaths felt dull.
Even the pain became predictable.
Maybe it was the repetition.
Maybe it was just burnout.
Or maybe, deep down, I wanted something more.
Something… real.
Seven full cycles.
19,208 lives, if you want the exact number.
Do you know what that does to a soul?
It doesn't just stretch you. It breaks you.
After a while, you stop knowing who you really are.
You're just fragments. A collage of identities. A parade of masks.
Villain. Friend. Blade. Beast. Lover. Monster. Martyr.
Everyone else's story becomes yours.
And sometimes, all you want…
is your own.
Even if it's small. Even if it's ordinary.
Even if it means going back to a world like Earth.
To live in a cheap apartment. To make coffee in the morning. To feel rain. To fail at something. To fall in love with someone who doesn't glow like a dying star.
To just… be.
It sounds so strange, doesn't it?
But after all this, I think the most heroic thing I could do—
Is start over.