The wind blew over a desolate battlefield, the smell of rusted iron filled the air, blood flowed endlessly, a sea filled with bodies littered the ground. Armors pierced and broken, shields shattered, bodies mutilated.
The wind carried the embers of dead flames and the spirits of dead warriors, their dying cries echoing in the desolate field.
Four-eyed crows flew as they wanted, taking their pickings from the endless bodies that lay on the floor, their cries of satisfaction after every bite creating a cacophony.
In this desolate place, two men could be seen, one on his knees, looking up to the second man. The blazing red hair of the middle-aged man on his knees flowed in the wind, the blood on his hair dripped down and was pushed away by the wind.
His black armor was shattered in several parts, his entire right arm was exposed, bleeding profusely, and shaking at intervals.
"So it comes to this, Astral Von Miller. After all, you put yourself through for the kingdom of Vermillion, this is what you get, a lonely death, where your body will be forgotten," the man standing said. He pointed his sword at Astral's neck, ready to end it.
He was a man of similar age and stature to Astral, donning a beautiful silver armor and a blue cape flowing effortlessly in the wind. His long black hair was soaked in blood, dripping to the ground behind him.
"You could have had any life you wanted. I begged you to stay away from this war, yet you chose to be here," the man said.
"Ronald, end it already," Astral said. He bowed his head, ready to die. Ronald looked at Astral, his gaze hardened as he saw the disgraceful state Astral was in.
"You'll die without honor, Astral Von Miller," Ronald said and slashed down. His sword hit the back of the neck and cut through like butter, completely decapitating Astral.
As his head rolled away from his body, Astral saw his life flash before his eyes. The struggles that he endured as the son of a baron wanting to be a sword master.
His drive for power and strength pushed him down paths he would have never ventured, he committed acts that he hated himself for, and every day, the weight of his actions weighed on him more and more.
But what he despised most were the times he bowed, the times he begged. He threw away his honor, his pride as a swordsman and noble, all in an attempt to become a sword master.
Yet at the end of it all, he died, bowing his head to his enemy, to someone who once saw him as an equal. There was no greater disgrace.
He didn't deserve to hold the sword, he didn't deserve to wield it. His eyes closed for the final time, the light in his soul dimmed, the end of Astral Von Miller had come.
[Rewriting sequence beginning]
Right before his consciousness fully faded, he saw a screen with writings on it, but that had to be a hallucination caused by his death.
[Rewrite complete]
Astral's eyes flickered open, the rays of morning sunlight shone through the window into his face. Immediately, he noticed that he was in a room he remembered very well.
"What's happening? Is this the afterlife?" he asked, but he didn't feel dead. He could feel the warm rays of light, the softness of the bed he sat in, and the sheets that covered his body.
He recalled the screen that had flashed right before he woke up and before he died on the battlefield. It said something about rewriting.
Knock knock. A knock at the door pulled his attention. He turned to look at the door, he didn't know what to do now. Could this be more hallucinations? It couldn't be real life, right?
"Come in?" he said, wanting to see what would happen next. The door opened, and a maid walked in, pushing a barrel on a cart.
Immediately, he saw the maid, he called her name. "Mabel?" he said in shock. She turned immediately when he called her name, bowed her head, and responded.
"Yes, young master Astral, is there anything you need?" she asked in a soft tone, with willingness to serve.
"No, it's nothing. Please go on with what you are doing," he said. She nodded immediately and pushed the barrel toward the bathroom. She opened the door and pushed it in.
Astral watched her go in. He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he was here, alive. It wasn't possible.
He got off the bed and walked to the large mirror placed at the corner of his room, with a copper frame.
He looked at the image in the mirror and was shocked, so much that he fell backward on his butt. He stared at the mirror with wide eyes.
He was looking at a twelve-year-old boy—a twelve-year-old him. He looked at his frail pale body, with his neck-length crimson hair and eyes.
"This,,,,,,, this can't be real, am i really alive? "
[Rewrite: Your memories have entered the body of you from a different timeline, Merging you to your past]
The screen suddenly popped up again with a message. Astral read it and was surprised.
"My memories? Then this is not me? I'm only occupying a version of me? It doesn't matter, it is me, I got a second chance, I got a second chance," Astral said, the realization settling in finally.
But as the realization settled in, what followed was rage—rage at the life he had lived before, rage at the pain he endured, rage at the betrayals he faced, rage at Astral Von Miller, the coward who bowed in order to get power.
He balled his hands into fists, his veins bulged in anger, he slammed his fist against the ground.
"It won't be the same, I'll not let it be the same," he said in a cold voice, seething with rage.