Aurelian Valefor had already decided how he would die.
Not the place—places were irrelevant after three centuries.Not the cause—time itself would be enough.What mattered was how.
He wanted to die as a man, not as a monument.
The morning air was cold, sharp enough to sting his lungs, and that alone told him his body was finally honest again. He sat by the open window of his coastal residence, wrapped in a dark coat far too plain for someone history still insisted on calling Emperor. Below, waves rolled in steady rhythm, indifferent to names, titles, or legends.
He liked that about the sea.
At three hundred years old, Aurelian's reflection no longer lied to him. The face looking back from the glass carried lines earned slowly after his two-hundredth year—wrinkles that came naturally, hair gone fully silver, skin thin but not frail. He looked like what he was meant to look like at the end: an ordinary old man with extraordinary memories.
He had refused immortality once.
He would refuse it again, if given the choice.
On the small table beside him rested three objects. A porcelain cup of tea, still steaming. A thin book of notes written in his own precise hand—observations, theories, unfinished thoughts. And a ring of dull steel, unadorned, its surface worn smooth by centuries of removal and return.
The imperial ring.
He had not worn it in twenty years.
Footsteps approached, careful and hesitant. Aurelian did not turn.
"You're early," he said.
"I didn't sleep," replied a young man from the doorway.
Prince Cassian Valefor—his last successor by blood and choice—stood stiffly, dressed in court attire that still felt foreign on him. He was competent, intelligent, and unbearably earnest. Aurelian had chosen him for those exact reasons.
"You never do," Aurelian added mildly.
Cassian hesitated, then stepped forward. "The council asked if you needed anything. Healers. Clergy. Alchemists."
Aurelian smiled faintly. "I spent a lifetime removing their authority. It would be rude to invite them back now."
Cassian swallowed. "You're really—"
"Yes," Aurelian said, gently cutting him off. "I am."
Silence followed, thick but not painful. Cassian moved closer, stopping at the window, looking out at the sea.
"They still call you the Godslayer," he said quietly. "Some believe you'll stand up tomorrow like always."
Aurelian lifted the tea and took a slow sip. "Belief is a habit. It takes time to break."
Cassian's fists tightened. "You could live longer. You know that. There are methods. Artifacts. Sealed—"
"I know," Aurelian replied. "I wrote half of them."
That finally broke something in Cassian. "Then why won't you?"
Aurelian turned his head and looked at him fully.
"Because the world needs to learn how to breathe without me."
Cassian said nothing.
Aurelian continued, his voice calm, unhurried. "Power that never leaves becomes a ceiling. Innovation dies. Responsibility rots. If I remain, I become an excuse."
He gestured to the city beyond the cliffs. "You don't build a future by standing in its way."
Cassian lowered his head. "You always talk like this is a lesson."
"It is," Aurelian said. "My last one."
The sun climbed higher. Somewhere far away, bells rang—not for him, but for the hour. Time continued its polite march.
Cassian finally spoke. "What happens… after?"
Aurelian considered the question honestly.
"I don't know," he said. "And that's comforting."
Cassian nodded once, sharply, then bowed—deeply, formally, as an emperor addressing another.
"Thank you," he said.
Aurelian did not stop him.
When Cassian left, the room felt lighter.
Aurelian finished his tea, closed his eyes for a moment, and let his mana settle completely. No reinforcement. No delay. No resistance.
The body exhaled.
And stopped.
There was no pain.
Only motion.
Not falling, not flying—relocating. As if reality itself had grasped him by the collar and dragged him sideways.
Aurelian became aware again without breath, without heartbeat, without weight.
Then sensation returned all at once.
Cold grass pressed against his cheek.
He inhaled sharply and rolled onto his back, staring up at a sky that was not his own.
It was crimson—not violently, but deeply, like the last light of dusk frozen in place. Clouds stretched long and thin, drifting far faster than they should. Mana saturated the air so heavily that even breathing felt like touching something alive.
Aurelian sat up.
His body responded instantly.
Too instantly.
He looked down at his hands—young, steady, unscarred by age. Strength hummed beneath the skin, restrained but abundant. No pain in the joints. No stiffness. No weakness.
"…Reconstructed," he murmured. "Not restored."
He stood and took a step, then another, testing balance, muscle memory, reaction. Everything worked. Better than it had in decades.
Aurelian frowned slightly.
"That's excessive."
He scanned his surroundings. Rolling hills of dark green grass. A river in the distance, wide and bright. Forests that felt dense with intent rather than mere life. Farther still, stone walls rose around a city whose architecture blended human geometry with something older, sharper.
Not demonic.
Not divine.
Hybrid.
Aurelian knelt and pressed his palm to the ground.
Mana surged upward, wild and eager, lacking the rigid channels enforced by gods in his previous world.
"Loose rules," he concluded. "High tolerance. Dangerous for the untrained."
He stood again, brushing dirt from his coat—black, simple, well-fitted. Someone, something, had chosen practicality.
A stone marker nearby caught his attention. Half-buried, weathered, carved in a language he had never learned.
He read it anyway.
Kingdom of Lythar – Eastern Border
Human.
Aurelian let out a slow breath. "Good."
Behind him, a voice spoke—young, sharp, startled.
"Don't move!"
Aurelian turned calmly.
A group of soldiers stood several paces away, spears raised. At their center was a boy no older than seventeen, wearing a travel-stained cloak over noble attire. His posture tried to imitate command. His eyes betrayed inexperience.
Aurelian studied him for exactly three seconds.
Human prince. Educated. Overburdened. Surrounded by people who fear for him more than they trust him.
Interesting.
"I said don't move," the boy repeated, trying again. "You appeared out of nowhere. Identify yourself!"
Aurelian raised his hands—not in surrender, but in courtesy.
"My name is Aurelian," he said. "And I seem to be lost."
The soldiers glanced at each other. The boy hesitated.
"…That's it?" he asked.
"For now," Aurelian replied.
The boy narrowed his eyes, then sighed. "I'm Prince Elion of Lythar. And you just collapsed inside restricted territory."
Aurelian nodded. "Then I apologize for the inconvenience."
Elion blinked. "You're not scared."
Aurelian smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "But you should lower your spear. Your grip is wrong. If I were hostile, your wrist would already be broken."
Dead silence.
Elion flushed. Slowly, he lowered the spear.
"…You're dangerous," the prince said.
"Only if necessary," Aurelian replied. "I prefer teaching."
Elion stared at him, confused, curious, and—despite himself—relieved.
Aurelian looked at the crimson sky once more.
A new world.
A limited lifespan.
And, perhaps, one last chance to do things properly.