The pain always came first.
Not the sharp, screaming agony of a wound, nor the dull ache of illness but something deeper, more intimate.
A pressure behind the eyes, as if the skull itself were struggling to contain too much truth.
Too many names. Too many faces. Too many endings.
Aurelian Voss gasped and sat upright.
Air tore into his lungs like a foreign thing, cold and unfamiliar, burning all the way down.
His vision swam wooden beams above him, cracked with age, a faint glow of dawn leaking through a narrow window. The scent of herbs, dust, and old parchment filled the room.
Then the memories arrived.
They did not trickle in.
They never did.
They slammed into him all at once.
Wars fought beneath crimson skies.
Cities collapsing under divine wrath.
Companions screaming his name as their bodies failed them.
Victories that tasted like ash.
Losses that carved scars into the soul itself.
A hundred thousand lifetimes of love, rage, hope, and despair compressed into a single instant.
Aurelian clutched his head as the splitting pain peaked, teeth clenched, breath held.
His hands trembled, veins glowing faintly beneath the skin before the light faded.
One minute.
That was all it ever took.
The storm passed, leaving behind silence and clarity.
He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.
"Life one hundred thousand," he murmured, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Confirmed."
The room did not respond.
It never did.
Aurelian swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed, bare feet touching cold stone.
His body was young—no more than sixteen by this era's reckoning.
Lean, unscarred, unremarkable.
A vessel unburdened by divine power or legendary artifacts.
For now.
He rose and moved toward the small mirror mounted on the wall.
The face that stared back at him was unfamiliar, as always.
Dark hair falling into sharp, intelligent eyes.
A strong jaw that had not yet learned the weight of command.
No visible mark betrayed the monster of experience hiding behind that gaze.
Good.
Legends attracted attention. Attention attracted gods.
And gods Virtues and Sins alike had a habit of ruining everything they touched.
Aurelian dressed quickly, fingers moving with practiced ease.
His body remembered things his mind did not need to command how to balance, how to breathe, how to center mana even before formal awakening.
He felt the ambient flow around him, thin but present, threading through the world like a quiet promise.
Outside, the village was just beginning to stir.
Stone paths wound between modest homes, smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
Chickens scattered as he stepped into the morning light.
Somewhere, a blacksmith's hammer rang against steel.
Peaceful.
He had seen this scene before.
Not this village, not this exact configuration but the pattern was familiar.
Humanity always rebuilt.
Always endured.
Even when the heavens treated them like a battlefield.
His hand tightened into a fist.
Not this time, he thought.
Not again.
Aurelian began walking.
He did not ask questions.
He did not seek guidance.
There were no mentors waiting to explain the world to him because he already knew it better than anyone alive.
The Sins and the Virtues were still bound by the old rules.
Sixty to seventy percent vessels.
One per Sin.
One per Virtue.
Mortal shells carrying fragments of concepts too vast to be killed, only delayed.
Earth remained the board. Humanity, the pieces.
And somewhere, far beyond the horizon, the six clans still stood.
They would not know him yet.
But they would.
The road stretched long and quiet, cutting through fields of tall grass that whispered in the wind.
Aurelian walked for hours, conserving strength, letting his new body acclimate.
Mana circulation followed his breath naturally, guided by instincts honed across millennia.
He did not train.
Not yet.
Training without witnesses was pointless.
Power needed context.
Comparison.
Growth born from friction.
What he sought now was confirmation.
By midday, the silhouette of a massive stone structure rose against the sky half fortress, half academy.
Banners bearing a sigil of crossed blades and a burning sun fluttered above its walls.
The Valecrown Clan.
Warriors.
Aurelian stopped at the edge of the road.
In his previous life, this clan's head had died defending a city from a Pride vessel.
In the life before that, they had turned their blades on him, manipulated by a Virtue preaching "necessary sacrifice."
History shifted.
Details changed.
But the core remained.
He stepped forward.
The guards noticed him immediately.
Spears lowered, eyes sharp.
"Halt," one barked.
"State your name and purpose."
Aurelian met his gaze calmly.
"My name is Aurelian Voss," he said.
"I've come to pay my respects."
The guard frowned.
"To whom?"
Aurelian's eyes drifted past him toward the inner courtyard, where a weathered stone statue stood.
Six figures were carved into it, arranged in a circle around a seventh at the center.
Time had eroded the details, but the intent remained.
The founders.
His first companions.
"I believe," Aurelian said softly, "your ancestor is listening."
The guards exchanged uneasy looks.
One scoffed.
"Kid, if this is some kind of...."
"Life is not so dark with you in it."
He did not speak the phrase in the common tongue.
The words flowed in Lingua Aeterna, the dead language he had taught only once, in a lifetime so distant it barely had a number.
The air changed.
Stone cracked.
The statue's eyes once lifeless ignited with a faint, golden glow.
The founder of Valecrown smiled.
Then knelt.
Aurelian felt it ripple outward through the clan grounds, through bloodlines and oaths older than memory.
Somewhere inside the fortress, a man dropped to his knees as understanding slammed into him.
Others followed.
The current clan head emerged moments later, sword forgotten at his side, eyes wide with awe and terror.
He fell to one knee.
"My lord," he whispered.
Aurelian closed his eyes briefly.
The game had begun again.
But this time
He would end it.