Kyro began to walk toward the north, toward the source of the purple sky. He had no staff, no army, and his mana core was a fractured mess, but he had five centuries of spite fueling his steps. He had killed the Demon King once. Doing it again would just be a matter of correcting a very long, very annoying mistake.
"Fuck... what did they do while I was gone?" he spat, his voice rasping against the dry air. "Did my sacrifice mean nothing?"
He needed answers. First, he had to figure out how the hell he had reincarnated or been resurrected and whether Keal, Selena, and that muscle-head were still alive. If he was back, maybe they were too. But before he could hunt for ghosts, he needed to reach the nearest town and gather information.
He paused by a stagnant pool of rainwater trapped in a hollowed-out stone. As the ripples settled, he looked down.
The reflection staring back wasn't the man who had faced the Demon King. Gone was the rugged, battle-hardened face of the 30-year-old Archmage. In its place was a youth who looked barely eighteen. His hair was no longer the deep black of the Sol bloodline, but a shimmering, ethereal silver-white that fell like silk over his shoulders. His eyes, once a piercing blue, were now a strange, unsettling violet.
"This isn't my body..." he muttered, touching a jawline that was far too sharp, skin that was far too pale. "What the fuck did they do while I was gone?"
The walk toward the nearest settlement took longer than Kyro anticipated. In his past life, he could have covered this distance in a single blink using a high-tier Blink spell or by riding the currents of the wind. Now, every step was a chore. His legs felt light, lacking the dense muscle memory of a warrior, and his mana pathways felt like they were clogged with sludge.
As he walked, he probed his internal mana core. It was a disaster. Instead of the rotating, sun-like sphere of an Archmage, his core was a jagged, cracked obsidian shard. It pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heat, but whenever he tried to draw power, a sharp pain flared in his solar plexus.
"A forced reincarnation," Kyro analyzed, his brow furrowing.
By sunset, the bruised purple of the sky deepened into a suffocating black. On the horizon, the flickering orange glow of torchlight appeared. It was a small walled village, built from the salvaged stones of much older, grander structures. Above the gate hung a tattered banner: a sword broken in half.
The Symbol of the Fallen. It was a sign of mourning in his time, but here, it seemed to be the official crest of the borderlands.
"Halt! State your name and business!" a guard shouted from the ramparts. He was holding a heavy crossbow, the bolt tipped with a dull, anti-magic silver.
Kyro stopped. He didn't have a name not for this body, anyway. "I'm a traveler. I lost my way in the Dead Zones," he called back, pitching his voice to sound as harmless as a silver-haired noble brat could.
The gate creaked open just enough for a few men to slip through. They were dressed in reinforced leather, looking more like scavengers than soldiers. The leader, a man with a thick beard and a scar running through his eyebrow, held up a glowing crystal. It hummed as it swept over Kyro.
"Mana signature is weak. Unstable core," the leader grunted, lowering the crystal. "You look like a runaway from one of the Inner Cities. You got any coin, kid? Or are you just another mouth to feed?"
Kyro reached into the pockets of the tattered black coat he was wearing. He found nothing but a small, tarnished silver ring with a crest he didn't recognize a sun being eclipsed by a moon. He held it up.
The guard's eyes widened slightly. He snatched the ring, biting it to test the metal. "High-grade silver. Fine. You can stay at the 'Broken Staff' for a night. But keep your head down. We don't like 'Blessed' types around here."
"Blessed?" Kyro asked, his eyes narrowing.
"The kids born with silver hair and weird eyes," the guard spat on the ground. "Supposed to be descendants of the 'Heroes.' A lot of good that does us while the demons are knocking on the door."
Kyro followed them inside, his mind racing. Descendants of the Heroes? Selena and Keal had families? He felt a strange pang in his chest a mix of relief that they might have lived long lives and a searing jealousy that they got to move on while he was stuck in this nightmare.
The village was a grim place. People huddled around fires, whispering in hushed tones. There were no songs, no laughter, none of the vibrant life he remembered from the taverns of the Capital.
He found the inn, a leaning building that smelled of sour ale and wet wood. He took a seat in the darkest corner, pulling his high collar up to hide his face. He needed to listen.
At the bar, a group of mercenaries were drinking heavily.
"The tithe is due next week," one of them muttered. "The Demon King's tax collectors are coming from the Iron Fortress. If we don't have the mana stones, they'll start taking 'volunteers' for the pits again."
"Why doesn't the Church of Selena do something?" another whispered harshly. "They claim to have the Archmage's blessing."
"The Church? They're too busy licking the boots of the Demon Generals to save a border village like this. They say the Archmage failed because he was weak. That the Demon King is the only true god."
Kyro's grip tightened on his wooden mug. The wood groaned, splinters digging into his palm.
The Church of Selena? Boot-lickers?
He looked at his reflection in the dark liquid of his drink. The violet eyes were glowing now, a faint, predatory light leaking from his pupils. The world hadn't just moved on; it had rotted. They had turned his name into a cautionary tale and his friends' legacies into a tool for the enemy.
"They really fucked it all up," Kyro whispered to himself.
He stood up, his gaze fixed on the mercenaries. He didn't just need information anymore. He needed a weapon. And he needed to find out exactly which "descendant" was responsible for this mess.