Death, they said, was accompanied by revelation.
It was a common notion among mortals that, in their final moments, they would witness the entirety of their lives flash before their eyes — every joy, every regret, every sin laid bare before judgment.
Urana Davien had never believed in such comforts.
If anything awaited him beyond death, he had assumed it would be torment.
He expected screams.
He expected the faces of the fathers he had slaughtered. The mothers who had shielded their children from his blade. The acolytes who had died cursing his name. He imagined them circling him for eternity, their hollow eyes demanding answers he would never give.
That—
Would have been fitting.
But there were no screams.
There was no fire.
There was only silence.
A silence so complete it felt as though existence itself had drawn a final breath and forgotten to release it. The silence it felt was an even worse torment than being haunted by the faces of those he had killed.
Then light bloomed.
Not harsh. Not divine. But simply present.
And within that light, memories drifted past him.
He saw his mother first.
Her face was softer than he remembered — perhaps softer than it had ever truly been. She smiled at him the way only a mother could, as if the world had not yet sharpened its knives. Her image flickered, fragile as glass.
Then his sisters.
He had long ago erased their faces from his mind to survive. Now they returned whole. Laughing. Running. Alive.
His jaw tightened.
The scenes shifted.
Now came the others.
The ones he had killed.
Thousands of faces flowed past him like pages of a book turned too quickly to read. Soldiers screaming. Children crying. Kings kneeling. Entire cities burning beneath a sky painted by his spear.
And then—
The gods.
Their halos fractured.
Their wings splintered.
Their fear.
Urana waited for rage to rise within him. For that familiar, scorching hatred to reignite his soul.
But it did not come.
Instead, there was serenity.
A strange, quiet stillness settled in his being — not forgiveness, not regret. Just clarity.
If he were given another chance…
If fate, in its cruelty, cast him back into the cycle once more…
Would he do it again?
Would he climb the mountain?
Would he raise his spear against the heavens?
The answer formed without hesitation.
Yes.
Even if reborn a million times.
Even if as an insect crushed beneath a careless heel.
Even if as an egg left to rot beneath the sun.
He would climb.
He would struggle.
He would rise until the heavens wept again.
The resolve crystallized within him like forged steel.
Then—
Pain.
New memories flooded him without warning.
They did not belong to him.
They poured into his awareness like a torrent breaching a dam, carrying foreign emotions and sensations. His head throbbed violently—
But how could his head ache?
He had no body.
He was dead.
Yet the pain intensified.
Images formed.
A grand ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers casting warm golden light across polished marble floors. Figures in elaborate gowns and tailored suits swayed in elegant rhythm. Laughter echoed softly.
He stood among them.
No.
Not him.
Someone else.
The memory flickered.
The warmth vanished.
Now he was standing on a balcony overlooking a sprawling city drenched in night. Neon lights blinked in strange colors unfamiliar to his old world.
The memory distorted again.
No—
He wasn't standing.
He was running.
Panic clawed through his chest. His belly had been torn open. Warmth spilled down his legs. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
But that was wrong.
He had no heart.
Yet he could feel it pounding.
A hand seized him by the neck.
Rough. Merciless.
The grip lifted him effortlessly.
Instinct screamed at him to counter, to twist, to sever the arm at the elbow—
But the body did not respond.
Because it was not his body.
Understanding struck like lightning.
These were not his memories.
He was inside someone else's final moments.
The hand flung him over the balcony.
The world spun.
Wind roared past his ears
The ground rushed upward and then—
Darkness.
Again.
Urana's consciousness convulsed.
The pain sharpened into something unbearable.
And then—
A heartbeat.
Slow.
Weak.
He was dying.
Again.
Panic flared in his mind.
What awaited him if he died a second time? Oblivion? Something worse? An eternity beyond even the reach of gods?
'Look at you,' his own consciousness whispered mockingly. 'You claimed you had no fear of death.'
The voice sounded like him — but stripped of pride.
'Why do you still cling to life?'
For the first time, Urana had no answer.
Was it revenge?
Power?
Hatred?
None of those seemed sufficient now.
He simply did not want to die.
Not again.
Even if he did not know why.
A suffocating heaviness pressed down upon him.
His eyes felt sealed shut as though fate itself demanded he remain blind.
Then realization dawned.
Eyes.
I have eyes.
He could not feel his limbs. Could not breathe properly. But the sensation was there.
Faint.
Distant.
But real.
Summoning a will that had once torn apart the heavens, Urana forced his eyelids open.
Air flooded into his lungs and it burned like fire.
His chest convulsed violently as oxygen rushed through unfamiliar pathways. His heart beat sluggishly, an echo of vitality rather than its source.
Vision returned in fragments.
Above him stretched a vast night sky — deep black, pierced by countless stars.
He lay on hard pavement.
Urana did not have the liberty to acknowledge the gift of sight before something happened.
Nearby stood a three-story building with a balcony.
Leaning over it was a man wearing a tight black mask, his physique massive and imposing. His voice carried down in a language foreign to Urana's old world. It sharp, clipped, and strange.
Yet somehow, he understood it perfectly.
"How the hell is this bastard still alive?"
The words were filled with irritation, not awe.
Urana tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Warmth spread beneath his head and he could tell what it was.
Blood.
His blood.
"My skull is fractured," he assessed instinctively. "I will bleed out if I don't get out of here."
An explosion shattered the ground several meters away.
The shockwave sent agony screaming through his broken body. He could not even cry out. His voice existed only inside his skull.
The masked man leapt from the balcony.
He landed with a heavy thud that cracked the pavement.
Up close, he was monstrous in scale, a hulking frame wrapped in a skin-tight black suit reinforced with armored plating.
He bent down and grabbed Urana by the hair, lifting him until their faces were inches apart.
Cold eyes stared back at him.
Eyes of a killer.
Urana's instincts roared.
In his mind, he moved flawlessly — stepping forward, spear flashing in a silver arc, severing the man's head in a single strike.
He watched the imagined body collapse.
Watched fear widen in those eyes as they were slowly drained of life.
But reality remained unmoved.
His arms did not respond.
He was weak.
Pathetically weak.
"You nobles," the masked man growled, his voice thick with contempt. "Always acting like gods."
Urana's gaze darkened at the mention of that one word.
Gods?!
Even here.
Even now.
With blood filling his throat, he forced words past shattered lungs.
"Don't… lump me…" He coughed violently, copper flooding his mouth. "With those pathetic gods."
The masked man's eyes narrowed.
Urana gathered every ounce of strength left in this frail, dying body and thrust two trembling fingers toward the man's eyes.
The movement was slow.
Desperate.
Almost pitiful.
But his intent was absolute.
He would not die lying helpless.
Even reborn in weakness.
Even in a broken shell.
He would fight.
If he had to claw through this world as he had the last.
The masked man's expression shifted, irritation giving way to something sharper.
Recognition.
Threat.
Urana saw it clearly.
And in that flicker, he knew one thing with certainty.
This world, whatever it was…
Had just inherited its greatest mistake.