Damian Cross jolted awake.
His heart raced, as if he had just escaped hell.
Pain still lingered in his body, sharp and burning. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think—only remember.
Words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them.
"Elian… share this life with me. Walk with me through this ruined world—be my partner."
He froze.
What was happening?
Before him stood a young man.
Elian Frost. Eighteen. Pale skin, long lashes, dark eyes like glass polished with moonlight. Too fragile, too noble, too untouchable.
Damian blinked hard. Was this a dream?
But the pain was still there. And so were the memories.
Elian's eyes flickered — not the startled light of youth, but the shadow of memories that didn't belong to this time.
A heartbeat of silence.
"…I refuse."
Damian lowered his gaze, hiding the storm in his chest.
So that was it.
Not only had he returned.
Elian Frost had been reborn too.
The memories crashed over him, sharp and cold.
He remembered standing ten years from now, Elian beautiful and untouchable above him—a B-rank healer to his own useless C-rank.
He remembered Elian's voice, sharp and cold: "You're nothing but a failure. Cassian D'Armand is everything you'll never be."
He remembered the divorce papers, the delay, the corpse tide that tore them apart.
And now—
He stood again beneath cherry trees.
Petals drifted down like pale snow. The city stood whole. The air smelled of spring, not blood.
Yet this peace was an illusion—fragile, fleeting.
He was Damian Cross.
An orphan who had clawed his way up from nothing. A C-rank Combatant—strong enough to fight, never strong enough to rise higher.
Ever since the Great Cataclysm, this world belonged only to men. Some, like him, awoke as Combatants, bodies honed into weapons. Others, like Elian, became Psionics, spirits able to heal, soothe, or empower.
He had fought, endured, and survived alone—until that fragile, noble boy smiled at him. For a man with nothing, those small kindnesses felt like salvation.
For ten years, he bled for that salvation. And for what? Divorce papers. A corpse tide. Death.
Now, as he watched Elian's retreating back, something inside him loosened. A burden he had carried for ten years slipped free.
He let out a breath, quiet, steady.
For the first time, Damian felt light.