Ares jolted upright, his lungs violently expanding as he braced for the suffocating, metallic taste of his own blood.
He swung his arm wildly, expecting his heavy greatsword to meet the bronze armor of an enemy. Instead, his hand caught nothing but the soft, expensive linens of a bed. He wasn't choking on the ash of a burning battlefield. He was breathing in the crisp, sweet morning air.
Trembling, Ares grabbed his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as his mind violently recalibrated. The room around him was immaculate. Magnificent yellow and golden tapestries hung from the stone walls, and a grand crystal chandelier caught the early morning light. It was his bedroom. He was back in the main castle of the Valentine family estate.
"Did I... regress?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice lacking the deep rasp of his older self.
None of the answers came easily, but the reality was undeniable. First, he had died in a modern world of glass and concrete. Then, he had been reborn into this brutal empire of magic and runes. It had taken him five long years to finally get used to this second life, to truly accept the Valentine family as his own, and to find a fragile sense of peace.
Then, the war came. Some insignificant dispute over ancient runes and territory, and they had slaughtered his new family right in front of him.
A cold, heavy rage settled into his stomach. He threw off the covers and walked toward the grand glass window. Staring back at him in the reflection was his younger self. His face lacked the jagged scars of his final days. His golden-yellow hair fell perfectly into place, framing the glowing, golden-yellow eyes that were the absolute hallmark of House Valentine's bloodline.
Ares lifted his right hand. Etched deeply into his palm was an ancient Lingua Caelestium mark: the Roman numeral II.
It confirmed exactly when he was. He was at Tier 2 of the Ascendant Steps: Evocati. This was the exact time in his life when a noble was supposed to awaken their Divine Pathway.
In this world, everyone possessed a finite vessel of Aethel. When a warrior advanced through hardship and broke through Tier 1, their soul naturally resonated with one of the predefined paths. They couldn't just choose what magic they wanted; the world chose for them. Because he was born a Valentine, the empire expected him to awaken the violent, weapon-heavy Path of Martis.
But Ares was an anomaly. His soul didn't belong to this world. Because he retained the calculating, strategic mind of his modern life alongside the brutal, battle-hardened instincts of his second life, he was no longer bound by the empire's rigid laws.
He didn't need to pray to the gods for a Pathway. He had already created his own in the final moments of his death.
"It's time to forge the Crimson Solar Eclipse," Ares muttered, a dangerous smile touching his lips.
He looked down at his left arm. Unlike his right palm, this mark wasn't a standard Tier ranking. Wrapping tightly around his forearms and wrists were deep, crimson-glowing geometric lines that pulsed with a heavy, violent heat. They looked exactly like chains forged from fresh blood.
It was the Carnifex-Ferrum—the Primordial Rune of House Valentine.
Every Great House possessed a special Lingua Caelestium brand, but they were incredibly rare, only granted to one heir every few centuries. In this timeline, Ares was the chosen vessel for the strongest, most violent physical magic in the empire. And this time, he knew exactly how to use it.
Knock. Knock.
A soft sound at the heavy oak door shattered his intense focus.
"My Lord?" a female voice called out timidly. "Your mother is requesting your presence in the dining hall for the morning meal."
Ares froze. The words hit him harder than any physical blow on the battlefield. His mother. She was alive. His father was alive. The castle wasn't a burning tomb; it was a home again.
He closed his eyes, taking a slow, shuddering breath to bury the overwhelming wave of grief and relief that threatened to break his composure. When he opened his golden eyes again, the warmth was entirely gone, replaced by the freezing, dead-eyed stare of a killer.
"I will be there shortly," Ares replied, his voice terrifyingly calm.
He turned away from the window and walked toward his heavy wooden wardrobe. Pulling out the formal, immaculately tailored garments expected of a high noble, Ares began to dress. He would go to the dining hall. He would smile, and he would greet the parents he had watched die.
But beneath the silk and gold, the bloody chains on his wrists pulsed in anticipation. He was going to protect them this time, and he would butcher anyone in the empire who stood in his way.