The cave was silent.
Not the peaceful kind—
the kind that pressed down on the ears, heavy with the smell of blood and damp stone.
Aren Ravaryn stood before the altar, his sword hanging loosely in his grip. Cracks ran along his armor. His right arm trembled, etched with faint, unstable sigils—marks forced upon his body over years of survival. Blood slid down the blade's edge and struck the ancient floor, each drop echoing like a countdown.
At the center of the cavern lay the relic.
A fractured core wrapped in corroded metal, pulsing faintly, as if breathing.
"So it exists after all…" His voice was rough. Fifteen years on the frontier. Fifteen years of nameless battles, operating under another man's identity. Every merit he earned—every victory—had been taken.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Aren's Sixth Sense screamed. He turned—
Pain tore through his back.
The dagger pierced cleanly, precise and familiar. His sword slipped from his fingers. Clang.
Aren staggered forward, blood spilling from his mouth as his knees struck the stone.
A calm voice spoke behind him.
"You really shouldn't let your guard down, brother."
Aren forced his head to turn.
Lucus, his stepbrother, stood there, dagger still wet with blood, expression relaxed—almost bored.
Figures emerged from the shadows behind him: young nobles. Faces Aren had learned to recognize without ever learning their names.
One of them scoffed.
"So this is where all the trouble led you."
Aren exhaled, slow and shallow.
"You followed me."
"Of course," Lucus replied. "Do you really think the family would let its hunting dog walk away with something like this?"
Hunting dog. The word settled deep. Aren laughed quietly.
"…So this is how it ends."
Lucus stepped closer.
"Be grateful. Everything you accomplished will be remembered under my name."
Aren's vision blurred. His blood soaked into the altar, spreading across ancient engravings.
"…My mother," Aren said, voice barely audible. "Was it truly illness?"
Silence. Then—
"No." The answer was casual.
"She was poisoned. Slowly. And the priest who examined her? Paid for. The mage who declared your talent at birth? Also paid."
The world went hollow. Aren's fingers dug into the stone.
"It was supposed to be you," Lucus continued. "But she died first. After that, blaming you was… convenient."
Something inside Aren snapped. He poured everything he had left into his blade—every instinct sharpened to survive, every technique learned to kill without standing out.
The sword flashed. Steel tore through flesh. Lucus staggered back, blood spraying across the cavern wall.
But before Aren could move again—
A translucent barrier flared. A third presence intervened.
"Tch. Troublesome to the end."
Aren collapsed against the altar. His hand brushed the relic. The core reacted. Light erupted. Ancient runes ignited across the cavern floor.
"What—?!" The world twisted.
As consciousness faded, Aren saw a figure standing in the light. A woman. Her expression was gentle.
"This time," she said softly, "walk the path you were denied."
Darkness swallowed everything.
Aren's eyes opened. A familiar ceiling. His body was small again. His heart pounded once—then steadied.
A translucent screen flickered into existence before his eyes:
[Regression Confirmed]
Name: Aren Ravaryn
Age: 10
A soft voice called from the doorway.
"Master Aren… wake up, it's morning."