The world exploded.
The glass of reality shattered into a thousand fragments, and Kael plummeted into the abyss.
Around him swirled a vortex of broken reflections — glimpses of past, present, and future flickering in each shard.
In one — the golden palaces of the Celestial Realm collapsed, devoured by fire.
In another — he himself, gripping a sword, lunging forward with desperate fury.
In the third — the golden mask of the god of darkness, grinning from the shadows.
Kael was falling.
But this was no ordinary fall.
Something seized him.
A sharp, foreign grip sank into him — not into flesh, but into soul.
Tearing. Ripping.
It wasn't dragging him downward —
it was pulling his very essence out of his body.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't —
there was no air.
A spike of pain pierced him from within,
as if his very existence were splitting apart.
Everything inside resisted,
but the grip only tightened,
pulling him deeper —
into a place with no time,
no light,
no "him."
And there, in the shattered heart of chaos,
something was waiting.
Kael couldn't see it.
But he could feel its gaze —
burning through him.
He tried to break free,
but the grip was merciless.
It was tearing him apart,
ripping through the edges of reality —
and himself.
A jolt.
A single instant.
Air!
He inhaled — sharp, deep, desperate.
His eyes flew open.
Blinding white light scorched his vision,
searing away the last remnants of the darkness he'd been drowning in.
Kael squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively throwing up a hand —
but the light was everywhere.
It pressed behind his eyelids, echoed inside his skull,
a dull pain ringing through his head.
His eyes watered.
He blinked rapidly, struggling to focus —
and finally, shapes began to form.
A white ceiling.
He exhaled heavily, not fully understanding where he was —
but everything around him felt… real.
Slowly, Kael turned his head, taking in the room.
Pale walls.
A tall wardrobe by the wall, its doors slightly ajar.
By the window — a desk cluttered with scrolls, brushes scattered across them,
leaving dark ink stains on parchment.
Kael let out a sharp breath and sat up,
feeling the soft surface beneath him.
A bed.
Blue sheets crumpled under his hands — the fabric real, smooth, warm.
He clenched his fingers into it, pressing down,
then slowly stood.
This room…
There was something about it.
Something familiar.
He walked slowly through the room, letting his fingers trail across the surfaces —
as if testing their reality.
The air held a faint scent of paper
and something herbal —
like someone had brewed tea here not long ago.
He moved toward the wall —
and stopped cold.
Paintings.
His breath caught.
His heart clenched in a sudden, painful beat.
They were his.
Every brushstroke. Every shadow. Every precise line.
He remembered painting them —
his hands stained with color,
the frustration when things went wrong,
the thrill when the canvas finally came alive beneath his fingers.
But that was impossible.
He lunged toward the wardrobe, flung the doors open —
and froze the moment his eyes caught the clothes inside.
Blue.
Silver embroidery traced along the collar and cuffs.
Patterns weaving into a symbol he knew far too well.
Kael slowly reached out,
gripped the fabric between his fingers,
feeling its weight.
Then he saw it —
a single letter, stitched in silver.
"V."
Everything inside him stilled.
His breath quickened.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears like a distant war drum.
He couldn't —
he didn't want to believe it.
But his legs carried him to the window.
He threw the shutters open —
and froze.
A city unfolded before him.
Majestic buildings of white stone towered over the streets.
Roofs crowned with delicate spires.
And on the distant horizon —
a massive tower, its dome glowing in the sunlight.
And on every wall,
every facade,
every sign —
he saw it.
The emblem.
"V."
Kael jerked back, his fingers clutching the windowsill in a desperate grip.
The Vekto Order.
He stood in the middle of it.
Alive. Untouched. Existing.
But that was impossible.
The Vekto Order had fallen five years ago.
Kael stood frozen in the center of the room,
his heartbeat slowing,
as if unable to keep pace with what he was seeing.
Everything here felt real —
the walls,
the scent of paper,
the faint breeze dancing through the curtains,
even the warmth of the air,
so full of life.
But it couldn't be real.
This place didn't exist.
It had been wiped away,
destroyed,
buried beneath the wreckage of time.
His fingers trembled
as he slowly reached toward the desk.
Ink stains.
Scattered brushes.
Scrolls strewn in quiet chaos across the wooden surface.
He picked one up — gently,
as if touching something spectral,
something that might crumble into dust with a single wrong move.
Unrolling it,
he felt a chill run down his spine.
His handwriting.
Clean, confident strokes.
Curved letters shaped by memory —
each line his hand.
Each word his thought.
Written long ago.
His chest tightened.
His throat went dry.
He scanned the words,
but couldn't focus —
letters blurred with emotion,
the rush of blood roaring in his ears.
How was this possible?
How could his handwriting remain here —
in a place that had vanished,
burned,
erased from the face of the earth?
He stumbled back,
his hip catching the edge of the table —
but even the pain didn't pull him free.
Everything around him —
every detail, every fragment —
screamed that he wasn't dreaming.
Wasn't dying.
He was standing in the past.
A past that shouldn't exist.
His head spun.
His world was falling apart again —
not in fire,
not in battle,
but in silence.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Kael staggered —
the air suddenly thick, heavy, pressing against his chest.
If this was the Order…
If he had truly fallen into the past…
His throat tightened.
His heart seized with a jolt.
And then — a thought struck him so hard it felt like the ground vanished beneath his feet.
His mentor.
Kirion.
Kael shut his eyes — but it didn't help.
The memory ignited behind his lids with cruel clarity.
He had buried him himself.
Lowered the body into the grave with his own hands.
Heard the dry soil striking the coffin.
Watched as his teacher — his shadow, his unwavering anchor — disappeared into the earth.
But if the Order was here…
Then Kirion was here.
Kael bolted forward before his heart could catch up to the thought.
His body moved faster than reason, faster than fear, faster than the doubt screaming that this could all be illusion —
a trick of a desperate mind clinging to hope.
He tore out of the room,
raced through the corridor —
not seeing, not feeling anything but the thunder in his chest.
Air slammed into his face as he burst outside.
The lake stretched before him, dividing the Order into two halves —
its surface mirrored white buildings, spires, bridges.
Exactly as he remembered it.
Kael didn't hesitate.
He sprinted forward, feet barely touching the ground,
each step hammering against the wooden bridge.
His chest burned with the force of his breathing,
but he didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
Fear. Hope. Despair. Belief.
It all tangled in his blood,
shaking through his veins like fire.
He crossed the bridge, passed the buildings,
the gardens,
raced up the stairs —
faster, closer, almost there.
And then —
there it was.
Kirion's house.
Majestic.
Stern, but warm.
Tall columns. Heavy doors.
Kael froze before them.
His heart struck his ribs so hard
it knocked the air from his lungs.
Kael breathed heavily,
his eyes locked on the door —
the final barrier between him
and a past that should not exist.
Without thinking, without hesitation —
before doubt could catch up and shatter it all —
he threw the door open.
The main hall.
Every detail exactly as he remembered.
Soaring arches holding up the massive ceiling.
Smooth floors reflecting light from narrow windows.
The warm scent of wood and parchment still lingering in the air —
as if nothing had changed in all these years.
Kael didn't stop.
He flew up the stairs,
his heart pounding so hard
the echo filled his skull.
His legs carried him —
he remembered the way.
Every turn.
Every step.
He knew where to look.
His hands trembled
as he pushed open the door
to his mentor's study.
Exactly the same.
Rows of shelves packed with scrolls.
Books arranged just the way Kirion liked.
On the desk —
a few scattered papers.
A brush, resting on the edge,
as if its owner had just stepped away,
planning to return any second.
The scent of herbal tea —
his mentor's favorite —
still hung in the air.
But the room was empty.
Kael froze, staring at the chair by the desk —
but it stood untouched.
A familiar blue cloak hung over the back.
But no one was there.
Where is he?
His lungs burned with each breath,
but he couldn't stop.
Couldn't even think of stopping.
He tore back into the hallway,
running with barely a footfall on the ground,
his heart pounding,
blood screaming in his ears.
He's here. He has to be here.
And then —
the door.
His teacher's room.
Kael halted in front of it.
His palm clenched into a fist.
His breath caught.
He didn't know what he would find.
A second.
A breath.
A lunge.
He flung the door open.
Kael stormed inside like a hurricane,
his heartbeat deafening,
his gaze darting around the room,
grasping at every detail.
The bed — made. Empty.
The wardrobe — closed.
Spotless.
Everything as it always had been.
Exactly how Kirion kept it.
As if he'd left the room just a minute ago.
On the small table — incense still glowing.
A thin stream of smoke rose into the air,
filling the room with that sharp, familiar scent.
He had been here.
Just recently.
"Where are you…" Kael breathed, stepping deeper into the room—
and then stopped.
From the far corner of the room,
a soft click broke the silence.
A door opened —
and thick steam spilled out,
warm, swirling, dissolving the edges of the world.
From the haze stepped a man,
moving slowly,
wrapping himself in a long white robe.
He ran a towel through his hair,
and dark strands — still damp from the water —
cascaded down his back,
leaving drops that shimmered along the floor.
Kael froze.
The man looked up.
Dark brows drew together in a faint frown —
his expression caught between surprise and confusion.
His eyes —
deep, warm, the color of bitter chocolate —
widened,
softening the faint lines beneath them.
"Kael?"
His voice was exactly as Kael remembered it.
Roughened slightly by the heat,
tinged with surprise —
but still the same.
Still alive.
Kael didn't hesitate.
He threw himself forward —
arms wrapping tight around the man,
desperate, clinging —
pressing himself against real, solid warmth,
feeling the rise and fall of a living chest beneath his hands,
feeling that warmth seep into his cold skin.
"Master…"
The word broke from his lips —
tight, trembling, packed with too many emotions at once.
He was here.
He was alive.
Kael held him tighter,
his fingers digging into the robe,
as if letting go would mean losing him again.
He could feel his breath,
the heat of his body,
the undeniable, living reality of him.
His master was here.
Kirion flinched —
the towel slipped from his hands and dropped softly to the floor.
He tried to pull away,
but Kael only clung harder,
not letting him go.
"Master… you're here…"
"Where else would I be, you idiot?" Kirion muttered,
but his voice carried a note of confusion.
He shifted again —
more firmly this time —
gently peeling Kael's arms away.
But now his gaze had changed.
Something sharpened.
He stared at Kael's face —
into his eyes —
searching for something.
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
His voice snapped.
Colder. Controlled.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The tone was hard,
like a blade hitting the ground.
"You burst into the private quarters of the Order's head
and act like a lunatic!"
Kael froze.
What?
Kael stared at his mentor,
waiting for… something.
But Kirion's face had already shifted.
Colder.
Stricter.
Strangely unfamiliar.
"I understand," Kirion said slowly,
"that you're not an ordinary student."
His eyes narrowed.
"When your father sent you to my Order,
I was hesitant to accept a true god among mortal initiates.
But he assured me you would behave —
that you wouldn't put your status above the others."
Kael swallowed hard.
His whole body had gone numb.
"And what do I see?"
Kirion went on,
his voice now laced with irritation.
"It's been only a week since you arrived,
and already you act like this?"
Kael staggered a step back.
A week?
The words cut through his mind
like a shard of ice.
He'd misjudged.
This was the past —
but not the day the Order fell.
Not the final moment.
This was the beginning.
Pain twisted in his chest.
This wasn't just the past.
This was the beginning.
His first days in the Order.
Kael's gaze snapped to the wall —
to the mirror.
No…
He stepped toward it,
barely breathing.
No, this can't be real.
The reflection staring back at him
was wrong.
Unfamiliar.
Amber eyes.
Framed by thick, dark-brown brows.
High cheekbones.
A straight nose.
Thin lips.
But the face—
Too young.
He looked… nineteen.
Kael slowly raised a hand,
fingers brushing his cheek.
Gods…
He was barely 190 years old.
Not even of age by mortal standards.
He sucked in a shaky breath,
still unable to fully believe what he was seeing.
His eyes darted around the room,
desperate to find something solid —
something that made sense —
but everything felt too real.
Too vivid.
Too perfect.
Too alive.
"And where is your uniform?"
Kirion continued, irritation rising in his voice.
"Have you really spent a whole week here and still haven't learned the Order's rules?
What is this appearance?
Students of the Order are not to present themselves like this!"
Kael turned to him with a stunned, disoriented gaze.
But Kirion had clearly already made up his mind.
"You'll copy the rules of the Order a hundred times!"
he snapped, turning away as if the conversation was finished.
Kael couldn't move.
He wasn't just in the past.
He was inside his own past.
His fists clenched, trembling.
He forced the shaking out of his breath,
and bowed —
head lowered, exactly as a student should before the head of the Order.
Everything inside him was churning.
Screaming for answers.
But now was not the time.
"Forgive me, Head Kirion."
Kirion only scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.
His eyes were cold.
Stern.
A judgment already passed.
"Today is your first day of training,"
he said firmly.
"Behave properly.
Don't shame your father's name."
His voice left no space for doubt.
No softness.
No recognition.
"And forget your status.
Here, you're not the son of the God of War.
You're a student of the Order.
And I will not tolerate insolence.
Do I make myself clear, boy?"
Kael clenched his jaw,
feeling everything inside him boil.
Anger.
Confusion.
That desperate need to explain —
to make his master understand.
But he knew.
Words wouldn't change anything.
This wasn't the Kirion who died fifteen years ago.
This was the man who saw him not as a warrior,
but as a reckless boy —
sent here on his father's whim.
So he bowed again.
Lower this time.
As if he could bury the storm within him
in a single motion.
"Yes, Head Kirion.
Forgive me.
It won't happen again."
The words were hard.
But steady.
No tremor.
Before he could think,
he turned sharply
and ran —
a flash of lightning through the halls.
"Running is forbidden in the Order!"
Kirion's voice chased him as he reached the door.
But Kael didn't stop.
He ran down the stairs,
taking them two at a time,
his blood pounding in his temples.
The air hit his face —
cool, sharp, refreshing —
but it couldn't calm the storm inside his head.
Everything was too real.
Too vivid.
Too exact.
He saw the Order in its prime —
heard the distant voices of students,
smelled the fresh wood and parchment
that lingered in the halls.
It was exactly as it had been,
fifteen years ago.
He kept running.
Not knowing where,
until his feet carried him
to the bridge over the lake.
Kael stopped abruptly,
gripping the wooden railing with both hands.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, gasping breaths.
He inhaled deeply,
trying to force his thoughts into order.
The beginning.
His first week in the Order.
Gods.
Chronas had sent him back
fifteen years.
Back before the fall.
Before the demon war.
Before the Heavens crumbled.
He was in the past.
Back where everything
could still be changed.
And then —
like a lightning strike —
the thought tore through him.
Naros.
Gods.
Naros!
If Kirion was alive…
then so was he.
That meant Naros had never died in the war.
His chest clenched —
a wave of emotion crashing into him.
Fear.
Hope.
Pain.
It all hit at once,
crushing his ribs,
robbing him of breath.
He remembered losing him.
Remembered the scream that tore his throat apart,
the blood staining the earth beneath his feet.
But now…
Now he had a chance.
He had to be here.
He had to be alive.
Kael pushed away from the railing,
and without a second thought,
took off running.
He raced back toward the students' dormitory.
He would find him.
A bell rang across the Order —
its echo rippling through the streets,
a call to rise and begin the day.
The morning ritual.
Students were waking,
dressing,
falling into their daily routines…
But Kael heard nothing
but the pounding of his own heartbeat.
He ran.
Past white-stone buildings,
through courtyards and plazas,
Kael rushed —
passing students just now stepping out of their rooms,
still drowsy,
wrapped in the blue robes of the Order.
Some stopped,
glancing at him in surprise —
it wasn't every day you saw someone sprinting
with their face lit up
in such raw emotion.
But Kael paid them no mind.
His goal was ahead.
He burst into the dormitory,
flew down the corridor,
skipping steps on the stairs,
counting the doors in his head.
And then—
this one.
No hesitation.
No second thought.
He yanked it open
The door slammed loudly against the wall,
but Kael didn't stop.
He froze at the edge of the bed.
Before him —
that silhouette.
Long pale hair spilled across the pillow,
tangled in fabric,
falling in soft waves over the blanket.
The face was turned away.
The room was still.
The sound of deep, unhurried breathing
filled the silence.
"Naros!"
A mumble came from the bed,
half-asleep, grumbling:
"Heaven's heir, let me sleep a little longer…"
Kael couldn't breathe.
It twisted inside him
so hard
he almost gasped aloud.
He's alive.
He's really here.
Kael stepped forward —
no hesitation,
no thought,
no moment to breathe.
He grabbed him by the shoulders,
ripping the blanket with him
in one swift, desperate motion.
Naros's eyes snapped open.
Green.
Alive.
Bright as fresh grass after rain.
Warm.
Unclouded by pain.
Untouched by death.
He blinked,
winced,
frowned at the sudden wake-up.
"Kael, for the gods' sake…"
his voice still rough from sleep,
"Can't you give me five more minutes?"
Kael couldn't take it.
He didn't speak.
He just pulled him into a hug —
tight, full-body,
wrapping arms and blanket and everything around him,
not letting go.
Not even for a second.
He was here.
Alive.
Kael held him
as tightly
as his strength allowed —
as if letting go
would make Naros vanish.
Fade like a mirage.
"Heaven's heir… you're going to crush me.
Naros's voice was muffled.
He gave a small cough,
trying to pull back.
Kael loosened his grip sharply,
but didn't let go.
His fingers still clenched the blanket,
his breath uneven,
his chest tight.
And then—
damn it—
tears spilled down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry,"
he whispered,
his voice cracking.
"Please…
I'm so sorry."
Naros stilled in his arms.
His eyes, still cloudy with sleep,
sharpened in an instant —
focused.
Wary.
"Did something happen?"
His tone changed —
no more lazy teasing.
It was firm now. Alert.
"You…
did something happen?"
Kael pulled back fast,
turning away,
wiping at his face like he could erase the weakness.
But his gaze drifted back to Naros
almost immediately.
"No.
No."
He shook his head,
blinking,
forcing the tears back.
"Nothing happened.
It's just…
I missed you."
He didn't even realize
when he leaned forward again
and wrapped his arms around his friend once more.
"I missed you so much…"
Naros raised an eyebrow,
but still gave him a light pat on the back,
clearly not understanding a thing.
"Hey, we just saw each other yesterday."
His voice carried a teasing note.
"It's only been one night — and you already missed me this much?"
Kael felt a tremor go through his body.
One night.
For Naros, it really was.
But for Kael…
it had been fifteen years.
"I mean, I know I'm incredible,"
Naros grinned,
but a flicker of concern flashed in his eyes,
"but… are you okay?"
Kael finally let go,
his gaze drinking in that face —
those bright green eyes,
those soft features,
that slight smile untouched by war or death.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
He ran a hand down his face,
drawing in a deep breath.
"Just…
just had a bad dream."
Naros frowned.
"A bad dream?"
"Yeah, yeah. A dream."
Kael nodded quickly,
avoiding eye contact.
He had to leave. Now.
"I'll go.
You get dressed.
I'll see you in the dining hall, yeah?"
Naros blinked,
still looking a bit puzzled,
but nodded.
"…Alright."
Kael stepped out,
quietly shutting the door behind him,
and immediately leaned against the wall,
his breath ragged.
Inside, everything was a storm.
Adrenaline still surged through his veins.
His heart wouldn't slow.
Gods.
He really was here.
In the past.
Naros was alive.
Kirion was alive.
But now what?
"Kael!"
He turned sharply.
Down the hallway walked a tall young man.
His light hair tied into a perfect tail,
his uniform spotless —
not a single wrinkle, not a single flaw.
Shian.
Gods…
Kael blinked.
He couldn't believe it.
Shian.
Senior student.
One of the best fighters in the Order.
He died in the war too.
But now…
he stood here.
Alive.
Smiling.
"You've got your first training today!"
Shian said cheerfully, approaching.
"Nervous?"
Kael swallowed.
"A little."
Shian laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry.
You've worked hard all week."
Then his gaze drifted downward —
and he grimaced.
"…What are you wearing?"
Kael looked down.
Undergarments.
The fabric he wore beneath his armor.
Shian chuckled again,
giving him another pat on the shoulder.
"Go get changed.
Gods forbid the elders see you like this —
or worse, that grump Kirion."
Then he paused,
studied Kael a little closer,
and added, more quietly:
"…Also?
Wash your face.
You look like hell."
Kael nodded,
offering no protest,
and turned, walking quickly back to his room.
He needed a moment.
To breathe.
To exist