Ryn sat alone in the quiet room, the only light a thin orange line slipping through the curtains. His sword lay across his lap, half-polished, half-forgotten. His mind wasn't in the present.
It was eight years ago. Or eight years ahead. Regression made memories confusing like that.
He exhaled slowly.
Rora ArcLain. The world's strongest swordsman.
The one who had done most of the damage to that behemoth—damage that allowed Ryn to land the killing blow before he bled out.
People called him a "genius." A "swordsman touched by the heavens." A "once-in-a-century talent."
Ryn remembered him differently.
Rora slumped over a tavern counter, three bottles deep, clothes torn, smelling like smoke and monster blood. His hair was closer to a bird's nest or a trash can depending on who asked.
"Kid," Rora had slurred, pointing at him with the confidence of a prophet and the accuracy of someone who couldn't see straight.
"You ever been to the sky?"
Ryn's past self blinked. "What?"
