Arin Valecrest remembered the sound of steel breaking before he remembered the pain.
It was not the sharp ring of swords clashing in battle, nor the heavy crash of siege weapons tearing down walls. It was a dull, final sound—like something precious snapping under unbearable weight.
Crack.
That sound came from his ribs.
The throne room of the Astravian Empire was burning.
Golden braziers lay overturned, their sacred flames licking greedily at crimson carpets woven with centuries of imperial history. Tall marble pillars—once symbols of eternal rule—were fractured, mana-scorched, and bleeding dust onto the floor like falling ash.
At the center of the destruction, Arin stood alone.
No.
Kneeling.
A sword pierced his chest from behind, its tip emerging just below his collarbone, slick with blood and glowing faintly with mana. His mana. The same circulation pattern. The same resonance frequency.
He recognized it instantly.
"Why…?" Arin whispered.
His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the crackle of fire and the distant thunder beyond the shattered ceiling.
Footsteps echoed.
Measured. Calm. Familiar.
The Crown Prince of Astravia stepped into his field of vision, his royal cloak untouched by ash, his expression composed—too composed for a man standing before the corpse of the empire's greatest hero.
"You should have died on the battlefield," the prince said. "That would have been poetic."
Arin tried to laugh. Blood flooded his mouth instead.
He had dragged this man from the battlefield once. Shielded him from a demon lord's curse. Handed him the crown with hands still shaking from war.
Behind the prince stood others.
The Grand Strategist.
The Commander of the Mage Order.
His sworn brother—Kael.
Kael would not meet his eyes.
Arin's fingers dug into the cracked marble floor. "We won," he said. "The war is over. The demon coalition is destroyed. The borders are safe."
"Yes," the strategist replied coolly. "Because of you."
That was when Arin understood.
Not fear.
Calculation.
"You united the people," the prince continued. "They chant your name, not mine. Soldiers obey you without question. Mages follow your formations instead of the council's decrees."
The sword twisted.
Agony tore through Arin's body like lightning.
"You became something that should not exist," the prince said softly. "A hero greater than the throne."
Arin finally turned his head.
Kael's hands were shaking.
"You promised," Arin said. "You said we'd rebuild together."
Kael's voice cracked. "I'm sorry."
That hurt more than the blade.
The Mage Commander raised her staff, and runes flared around the sword embedded in Arin's chest.
A sealing spell.
They weren't just killing him.
They were erasing him.
Arin's mana collapsed inward, crushed by layered suppression arrays designed specifically for him. Spells he himself had authored. Tactics he had taught them.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
Not as a legend.
Not as a martyr.
But as an inconvenience.
The prince leaned down, whispering into his ear.
"Rest now, hero. The world no longer needs you."
The final spell activated.
Arin Valecrest died.
Between Death and Oblivion
There was no scream.
No darkness.
No tunnel of light.
Instead—silence.
Absolute, weightless silence.
Arin drifted.
He had no body, yet he was aware. No breath, yet his thoughts flowed clearly, sharper than they had ever been in life.
I'm still here.
A ripple passed through the void.
Then—
Applause.
Slow. Deliberate.
"Well done," a voice said. "You endured that better than most."
Light bloomed.
Not blinding—commanding.
A presence unfolded before him, vast beyond comprehension, neither male nor female, wearing no form yet occupying all of space.
Arin did not kneel.
"If you're here to judge me," he said, "do it quickly."
The god laughed.
"Oh, no. Judgment is for the dull and predictable. You, Arin Valecrest… are neither."
Memories surged around them—his childhood in the slums, his first battle, his rise through blood and grit, his betrayal.
"You were never chosen," the god continued. "No prophecy. No blessing. No divine cheat."
Arin clenched his will. "And yet I reached the summit."
"Yes," the god said. "Which is why you were eliminated."
Silence stretched.
Then the god spoke words that changed everything.
"Would you like to live again?"
The Offer
Visions replaced the void.
A primeval forest where dragons ruled the skies.
Civilizations that rose and fell in centuries.
Magic bound by chants, rituals, and bloodlines.
"A different world," the god said. "One where magic is law—and law is cruel."
Arin's gaze hardened. "And my place in it?"
"You will be reborn," the god replied, "with a body capable of withstanding divine power, infinite mana, and a tool forged from conceptual authority itself—able to become any weapon, armor, or construct you desire."
"No incantations," Arin said.
"No restrictions."
Arin laughed quietly.
"And the cost?"
The god's voice softened.
"Do not become what they forced you to be."
A pause.
"Live for yourself."
Arin closed his eyes.
"I accept."
Reincarnation
Pain returned violently.
Lungs burned.
A scream tore from his throat—not of fear, but of existence forcing itself upon him.
Rain.
Leaves.
Earth.
He was small.
Fragile.
Yet—
Power surged beneath his skin like a sleeping sun.
Arin opened his eyes.
Above him towered ancient trees older than empires.
He was alive.
Reborn.
And somewhere deep in the forest—
A dragon stirred.