The world had become a graveyard long before Aren Valis stood alone in its ruins.
Blackened cities stretched to the horizon—empty corridors of shattered stone, collapsed towers, and scorched streets. Forests had been consumed by necrotic fire. Rivers ran thick with stagnant, ash-gray water. The sky hung heavy with the smoke of death, dimming even the sun.
And beneath that dead sky, the land crawled with the Underworld Deity's servants.
Undead.
Millions of them.
Human corpses, beast corpses, winged monstrosities twisted from fallen angels—every creature that had ever lived had been dragged from the underworld and unleashed upon the living world.
Humanity was the first to fall.
Nation after nation vanished. Cities collapsed overnight. Fortress walls became feeding grounds for the undead tide. Mages and knights alike were dragged screaming beneath swarms of skeletal hands.
And now—
Only one human remained.
Aren Valis staggered through the ruins of the once-great Imperial Capitol, barely able to keep his feet steady. His body was broken—covered in wounds, burns, and fractures—but he still clutched his battered staff with white-knuckled determination.
"I'm… still alive…?"
His voice cracked.
He had lost count of how many days he had fought.
How many nights he had seen humanity die again and again.
How many times he had stood in these ruins praying for a miracle that never came.
A gust of wind carried the stench of rot.
The undead found him.
A tide of skeletal warriors poured over the broken buildings. Their empty eye sockets flickered with blue underworld fire. Behind them marched hulking corpse giants, dragging carcasses of armored behemoths like trophies.
Far above, rotted wyverns circled with screeching hunger.
Aren planted his staff into the ground.
"Come then," he muttered. "I'll… take as many of you as I can."
Mana crackled around him—weak, unstable, flickering. His body no longer had the strength to handle spells of his level. Every blast of magic tore his muscles, burned his nerves, ripped his soul open like paper.
But he fought anyway.
A storm of silver light erupted from his staff, vaporizing the first wave of undead. Bones scattered across the stone. Ghoul flesh melted into black smoke. Skeletal wyverns crashed from the sky.
But for every one he destroyed—
ten more rose from the shadows.
They surrounded him again.
And again.
And again.
Until he had no strength left.
His knees buckled.
His breathing grew shallow.
His heartbeat slowed.
The last human of the era collapsed onto ash-covered stone.
The undead circled him silently, awaiting their orders—
awaiting the final feast.
Aren's vision flickered—
black…
white…
black…
He was dying.
But as his mind began to fade, he felt a faint warmth burn beneath his ribs… a sigil carved into his flesh long ago by a being he once believed was only a hallucination.
A mark of impossible origin.
A spell that no mortal had ever successfully cast.
A spell created by a forgotten Twelfth-Circle Mythical Being—
the only being ever capable of defying death, fate, and reality itself.
Cycle Reversal.
Aren's fingers trembled.
He touched the glowing sigil.
The undead froze as faint golden light expanded from his body like a ripple through time.
"No…" Aren whispered. "Not… here. Not like this."
He exhaled.
"Return."
The sigil exploded.
Light surged outward in a blinding wave.
Time convulsed.
The ruined city rebuilt itself in reverse.
Dead forests regrew from ashes.
The seas returned from dust.
Skies unclouded.
Both living and undead dissolved into streams of light, flying backward through their own histories.
The entire world rewound.
Year by year.
Century by century.
Era by era.
Until everything collapsed into a single, silent moment—
---
Cold stone pressed against Aren's shoes.
Light flooded his eyes.
He gasped and stumbled forward.
He was alive.
Whole.
Young.
Fifteen.
He stood in the center of the Valis clan's ceremonial hall, surrounded by rows of teenagers in pristine robes. Elders watched from the platform above. Banners of the Swordblood lineage hung proudly from the marble pillars.
The Awakening Ceremony.
The beginning of everything.
A cousin beside him whispered, exactly as Aren remembered:
"Try not to shame the family again."
Aren didn't respond.
He could still feel the weight of a dead world on his shoulders.
He could still hear the silence of humanity's last breath.
And yet—
Here he was.
Given one final chance.
"Aren Valis," an elder called. "Step forward."
Aren inhaled, hands steady.
He placed his palm against the glowing crystal.
Its light flickered—
weakly.
APTITUDE: C-GRADE
Disappointment spread through the hall.
A few muffled laughs.
One elder shook his head.
But Aren simply lowered his hand.
His past life had already shown him the truth:
Talent wasn't what saved the world.
He had lived long enough to learn that.
"Fine," he murmured quietly to himself.
"If this is where the era restarts…
then this is where I begin."