The sound of chickens crowing woke Ryan from his sleep.
He sat up with a jolt, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked around, his mind swirling in confusion. The dark hall, the old man, the torches of black fire—all of it was gone.
"Where am I?" he whispered into the quiet room. "Where is the old man?"
His eyes adjusted to the soft morning light. And then, his breath caught in his throat.
"What? How is this possible?"
This was his room. The very same room from his childhood home. The one that had been burned to ashes when the Black Dragon's soldiers attacked his village. Yet here it was, perfectly intact. The familiar wooden bed, the small window, the worn floorboards.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled to the small, tarnished mirror on the wall. Staring back at him was not the broken, scarred young man he had become. It was a boy. A boy with wide, green eyes and a mess of black hair. His face was smooth, unmarked by the cuts and bruises of his torture. His skin was clean, untouched by fire.
"Is this a dream?"
He raised his hand and slapped his own cheek, hard. The sharp sting brought tears to his eyes.
"Shit, that really hurts!" he hissed. "So this is not a dream."
"Ryan, come down, eat your food!"
The voice, sweet and familiar, shot through him like a lightning bolt. It was his mother's voice.
He ran out of his room, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, and skidded to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen. There she stood. A woman in her prime, with kind green eyes and a cascade of yellow hair, a warm smile gracing her face as she hummed and worked.
Ryan felt the world tilt. His voice was a fragile, trembling thing.
"M-m-mom? Is that you?"
She turned, her smile softening into a look of gentle amusement. "What, Ryan? Is this a new game? What kind of question is that?" Her expression shifted to concern. "Ryan, are you crying?"
He was. Tears he didn't know he had left were streaming down his face, hot and uncontrollable. She moved quickly, closing the distance between them and pulling him into a tight, warm embrace. It smelled of fresh bread and home.
"Come here, my son," she soothed, her hand rubbing his back. "What is wrong with you?"
Ryan buried his face in her shoulder, his small body shaking. "I saw a dream," he choked out. "A very bad dream."
His mother sat with him right there on the kitchen floor, holding him. "We all see bad dreams, my love. But bad dreams are sometimes good; they show us the way we should go." She kissed the top of his head. "Now, eat your food. It will make you feel better." She got up and handed him a plate with a simple, beautiful meal—a piece of roasted fish and warm bread.
"Fine, Mom," Ryan whispered, his voice thick.
He took the fish in his hand, his mind reeling. Where am I? Am I in a dream, or did I just see a dream? I don't understand. He took a bite. The flavor was rich and real, the texture firm. If this is a dream, how can I feel pain and taste? How is all this possible? Maybe the torture, the cave... maybe that was the dream.
But then his body went stiff as stone.
No.
The memories flooded back, not as a dream, but as a scar on his soul. He remembered the soldiers' cruel smiles as they tortured people, the sound of his father's last breath, the feeling of his own bones breaking. They had killed like it was nothing.
It can't be a dream. It was too real.
He ate the rest of the food in silence, his thoughts a turbulent storm. He walked outside his home and saw the village spread out before him—about fifty wooden houses, smoke curling peacefully from their chimneys. It was a sight he had mourned for every day.
"Where is that rooster? There you are, you humble Ryan!"
The voice was irritatingly familiar. Ryan turned to see David, a boy his own age with messy yellow hair and mischievous black eyes, looking mockingly angry.
"Is this how someone talks with his friend?" David retorted. "And what did you just call me a minute ago? Fine, Ryan, let's play."
"No," Ryan said, his voice distant and serious. "I need to find my dad. Where is he?"
David blinked, surprised by Ryan's tone. "I think you can find him around the village gate. He just came back from hunting."
"Thanks, I will find him." Ryan walked away, leaving a confused David behind.
As he moved through the vibrant, living village, a single, dangerous thought began to form in his mind. What is this? Is this a dream, or is it a second chance for me to save everyone?
He reached the great wooden gate of the village. And there he was.
"Dad! You're back!" Ryan called out, his heart swelling.
A giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, stood there. He had a wild mane of black hair, fierce black eyes, and fresh scratches on his arms from hunting. Slung over his shoulder was the carcass of a mountain sheep.
"Look at this, Ryan!" his father boomed, his face splitting into a wide, proud grin. "I hunted a mountain sheep! Look at it, it will taste great!"
Ryan looked at him, a fond, painful ache in his chest. This is my dad. He always acts like a kid.
"Yes, Dad, it's great," Ryan said, managing a small smile. "Now, can we talk for a moment?"
His father's expression softened. He dropped the sheep and took a step closer. "Of course, son. What is it?"
A playful grin then spread across his father's face. "Let me guess. You like a girl in the village, don't you? Tell me, I will talk to her dad for you." He winked and ruffled Ryan's hair. "But you are too small for this."
Ryan's face flushed red with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "No, no, Dad, what are you talking about? It's not that. It's serious." He gestured for them to walk. "Let's go home. I'll tell you on the way."
As they walked, Ryan began, his voice low and earnest. "Dad, I had a bad dream. Or... I don't know what it was. I saw our village in fire. Everyone was killed. It was hell." He paused, gathering the courage to speak the next part. "And after that... I saw an old man. He gave me a stone. And after that, the dream ended."
Ryan's dad looked at him, his playful demeanor completely gone, replaced by a quiet, intense focus. He listened carefully, then placed a heavy, comforting hand on Ryan's shoulder.
"You're turn 18 ," his father said, his voice gentle but dismissive. "I think seeing this kind of dream is not that new a thing. Don't think too much about them. Let's go, your mom will cook this for us. I am hungry."
Ryan's mind raced. He had to know if the timeline matched his memories. "Dad," he asked, trying to sound casual, "is anything new happening in the jungles?"
His dad thought for a moment. "No, nothing. But the traders said the Prince of the Black Dragon is coming to hunt in the jungle next month."
Ryan stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran cold. So he is coming! It's starting. Just like before.
His dad opened the door to their home and went inside, but Ryan's world had just narrowed to a single, terrifying point. He went straight to his room and closed the door, his heart pounding with a new, fierce purpose. He opened a small wooden chest and pulled out a hand-drawn map of the jungle.
If this is a second life, I should stop the Prince before he attacks my village. If I tell anyone, they will not believe a dream. They will think I'm crazy. So I have to stop them myself.
His eyes scanned the map, calculating. Around 3,000 soldiers... To stop them, we would need 1,000 more men. A direct fight is impossible. But this... this will work!
A dangerous, brilliant plan began to form in his mind. From now until they attack, we have 30 days. I will take everything I need tomorrow.
The next morning, Ryan's mother went to his room to wake him. But the room was empty. On his bed lay a single sheet of paper. Her hands trembled as she picked up the letter.
Mom, I will go for some time for a hunt, and I will come back with a great hunt. Mom, I love you, and don't tell Dad to find me.
- Ryan
His mom crumpled the letter, her face flushing with anger and worry. "Ryan, you stupid boy!"
The world's strongest empire was the Black Dragon. A vast, untamed jungle lay between it and the Snow Emperor, a place where the kings of both empires came to hunt the more than six hundred kinds of animals that lived there. And in the heart of that jungle, Ryan was now alone, planning the biggest trap of his life—a homemade trap designed to kill an army.
For weeks, he worked tirelessly, his body aching, his mind focused only on vengeance and survival. He was no longer a boy playing a game; he was a general preparing a battlefield.
Then, the day came. The soldiers of the Black Dragon Emperor entered the jungle. The procession was a display of raw power: a vanguard of cavalrymen with long, gleaming spears; a central squad of infantry with locked shields and drawn swords protecting the arrogant Prince; and a rear guard of elite archers, their fine bows held ready, eyes scanning for any threat.
From his hidden perch high on the mountain ridge, Ryan looked down upon them. They were prepared for an ambush of soldiers. They were not prepared for him.
"This time," he whispered to the wind, "I will make a grave for all of you. But don't worry, no one will even notice who killed you."
He raised his bow. He drew the string, and a shaft of pure, flickering fire materialized between his fingers. He did not aim at the soldiers. He aimed at the dense, shadowed treeline ahead of them.
He loosed the arrow.
It streaked through the air like a falling star and vanished into the foliage. For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then, the ground began to tremble.
A low, thunderous rumble built into a deafening roar as thousands of oxen—their eyes wild with a supernatural panic, their hooves churning the earth to mud—erupted from the jungle. They were a living tidal wave of muscle and horn, driven by primal terror straight into the heart of the neatly ordered procession.
From his mountain throne, Ryan watched the chaos unfold. The soldiers' formations shattered instantly. Horses reared, spears were trampled, and proud shields were splintered into kindling.
A quiet, cold smile touched Ryan's lips.
"This is how I play."