TW: suicide, violence, and gore. Please be careful.

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"Morning, Astan."

"Morning, Bern."

"Hey, morning, Boss!"

"Heh. You too, Mevan."

Morning came in a lazy yellowish glow over the mountain ranges of Mavanta, the edge of the known world. It brought forth the stirrings of life, over the wild grassy fields, upon the clear water creek, and into their small village of outcasts.

Astan the Mercenary began his morning routine of patroling the areas. He was the leader of the few able bodied men in his village. Well, he couldn't exactly say 'men', because humankind wasn't the only inhabitants here.

There were fallen kinnarvas; half bird half human kind, who had lost their voices. There were hidden people driven out from their homes, or how they're called around this part of the world; elves. Though Astan prefered to call them shapeshifters instead, as most of them are. There were fauns, nagas, crippled old witches, and even a few heretic monks who became half-demons. And many others.

This was a village for the forgotten people.

Driven out for various reasons but here they were safe. Far from the chaos of the big outside world. Left to die on their own terms, on their own time. Astan was satisfied with that.

"Hey, Bosst. Pssh, thake this thicken with you."

"What's this for, Snakehead?" he asked the sullen half-snake man who was unusually friendly this morning.

"Hanma." Snakehead simply said.

"Oh. Thank you. She'll like this."

Hanma was his daughter whose coming of age was fast approaching. He's fortunate that Hanma took after her mother and not him. He's a burly ugly man, with flattened nose and thick square jaw. His wife, Nara, said that she only married him because he was nicer than other vulgar men. That's a good enough reason for him. It was sweet of his wife to say that.

Astan went by his meagre hut to drop off the gift. Hanma was busy weaving a basket, while his wife Nara was squatting by the kitchen, blowing fire for the earthen stove.

"Wife, here's a chicken from Snakehead."

"Oh, good. Is it for Hanma's birthday?" His plump, kind wife took the chicken from him.

"Mhm."

"Good. I'll pluck it later. Can you go hunt some game? And gather some berries too while you're at it."

"Okay." Astan walked out again and pats his daughter's head on the way. "See you, Hanma."

The teenage girl ignored him. Heh. Just as well. She was sweeter to him when still a child, but now she's growing up and being difficult. Hanma was still angry at him for beating up the young boy next door she'd taken a fancy of. But of course Astan would beat the boy who had his hands halfway inside Hanma's dress.

"You still want to marry that bastard?"

Hanma glared at him. "He's not a bastard! Pilsun is a good man! As good as any here. And I love him."

Astan grunted. "Fine. You can marry him after your birthday."

"R-really?"

Astan shrugged. "You are going to be an adult soon. A free woman. Do what you like."

He hadn't seen Hanma this happy since a long time ago. She beamed so brightly and jumped to hug him tight.

"Thank you, Father! Thank you!"

"Yes. Okay. See you, Hanma." He chuckled and let her hug him until she's satisfied.

"See you, Father! Be safe."

"I will."

Then Astan left to patrol and hunt.

Such a simple life. Simple and crude, yes, but safe. Just the way he liked it. There's no need to worry about politics, about war or any betrayals. No system popping out and goading him to endlessly pursue a futile effort. No magical rishis and their annoying curses. No devas or asuras to think about. No crazy kings slaughtering innocents. No cities being overrun by monsters and demons.

This 48th life of his was peaceful and warm. A good life, Astan thought. Out there in the big bad world, all of those things he dislike must still be happening but they were not his problem.

Out of sight, out of mind.

And after almost a thousand years worth of lifetime, Astan thought that perhaps he could finally die of old age. Perhaps Hanma would give him a grandchild. He might see his wife wrinkled and become forgetful. They would grow old together, or so people call it, or so they had promised at day they were wed.

He wanted to try it at least once. He had never experienced growing to that age, when his hair becomes white and strength left his brittle bones.

No, his deaths were always at a young enough age. They were always violent. Or pathetic. For once he wanted to try dying on his bed in peace. Not stabbed by a concubine or poisoned by a traitor. A peaceful death, maybe from sickness or lameness, surrounded by his loved ones. That would be nice.

"Heh. I shouldn't think of death all the time. Brings bad luck," he mumbled to himself as he climbed a rocky path in the forest on the foot of Mount Mavanta.

He looked up at the gloomy hillside, shadowed by the towering peaks of the mountain. Over this mountain range was the unknown world of the middle realm.

"Maybe in another life I should try climbing you over, Mavanta."

Yes, in another life. Because he's perfectly satisfied with this 48th life and didn't want to waste it with useless ambitions. Astan went deeper into the thicket. He then caught two pheasants and a rabbit. He gutted and cleaned them by a creek before preparing to go back to their village.

The village didn't have a name. A nameless village for a nameless man. Perfect. This 'Astan' was only a name he was called in this life. In another life he had other names. So it can be said that he was a man with many names but none of them are his true name, therefore he was 'nameless'.

Though a thousand years ago, he seemed to actually have an original name. It was a strange world, that place where he came from. A busy earth, with billions of human, tall buildings that pierce the clouds and a strange story titled [Chronicle of Mora].

Out of all his many lives, the story [Chronicle of Mora] was the only constant. Repeatedly reiterated by the so called 'system' in every life, in bits and pieces, fragmented in their disjointed secrets. But it's been more than two decades since he saw the system.

Hopefully, another two decades or more could pass before he saw it again.

Merrily the mercenary razed bushes of berries, stripping them bare of their fruits. He found no monsters or predators roaming around this area, so he was relaxed and took his time gathering. He heard the buzzing of bees and saw their nest up a tall tree. Should he climb up and bring home some honey?

Hanma and Nara would love it. They like sweetcakes.

Astan decided to do so. He tied his catch on a branch high enough from the ground before climbing the tree to steal the bees' hardwork. This body of his had no talent in magic, but he was a great rishi once upon a lifetime ago. He could still manage a few paltry tricks or two. When the buzzing got louder and some bees starting to sting him, Astan touched his throat and chanted the Elder Tongue.

[O breath, take form. By the fire inside me, rise as smoke.]

Smoke flew out in stutters from his mouth. It worked well enough to engulf the bees nest and working to calm the agitated bees down. Astan grinned happily and climbed again to take a chunk of dripping honey comb. It was quite up high, higher than most other trees around. He could view the vast vistas from up here. Let's sight see for a little bit.

Perhaps he could also see the village.

He did. In plumes of smoke and razing fire, and a giant creature in smooth golden mask looming above it. He felt absolute dread spreading throughout his body.

"No... No, not again... NO! NOOOO!"

His disbelief turned into rage. Astan threw away everything and ran back as quickly as he can, drawing out his sword at the ready.

That monster had finally come. That familiar monster, the other constant in his life, had finally arrived.

"Why? Why?"

He had run to the edge of the world. He'd ran so far away, and still that monster found its way here. Has the rest of the world fallen into its hands then? Was all hope already lost? He reached his village and was welcomed by Snakehead's rolling head by his feet.

And a dark sea of monsters, invading the village, overruning the golden fields and the crunching sound of their chewing. Chewing the villagers, swallowing his family.

"RAVANAAA!"

Astan raged and cut the monsters on his path. But the impassive rakshasa did not budge from his throne above their heads. Ravana, in his familiar facelessness, only watched the destruction being laid on his feet.

And Astan was performing a ritualistic dance they always had at the end of a lifetime.

He tore open and beheaded, he ripped and gutted, he crushed and bathed in the blood of his enemies. This brutal routine in the name of survival. He broke open the jaw of the monster who had the lifeless Hanma's head hanging from between its fangs. Loud cracking sound was heard and finally it completely snapped open. The lower jaw dangling open, and Hanma fell to the ground.

Next he gathered what was left of Nara, his wife, whose glassy eyes was looking up at the sky. Half of her body was gone and her entrails were being slurped by a bat-like creature, her blood being lapped clean. Astan skewered the bat through its eyes and cut it half in two, just like what it did to Nara.

He killed through his way, gathering and protecting the remnants of his family. This is really too bad, isn't it? He should've let Hanma rut with that stupid boy next door, that way he might've had a grandchild to spoil rotten by now. He should've paid more attention to his wife, whose rough hands often felt sore from housework. Should've gave her a massage once in a while, or cook for her.

Should've kissed her every morning and every night.

Should've held her tighter. Closer. Forever.

His Nara. His Hanma.

He gathered their remains and fought the monsters surrounding them. He had too many regrets after so many lifetimes. He had lost too much and gained nothing in the end. He would die here, but death no longer scared him.

It was that brief moment after rebirth that was scariest. That brief namelessness.

And the part where he had to accept that his previous life was completely wiped out, never to be repeated. His children would never be reborn as his. His spouses might no longer love him even if he tried to recreate the life. No one to remember them but himself. He would restart to the beginning of the book again. In another body, with another name. Another life.

Another fucking life.

Endlessly, repeatedly, over and over again. And Ravana, that faceless rakshasa with his golden mask, would come to him at the end. Like that reliable old friend you secretly hated.

In his last moment as Astan the Mercenary, he raised his bloodied sword to the sky and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Ravana! Remember me! I am called Astan!"

Ravana won't remember him, he knows. Won't remember the insignificant Astan, just like Ravana didn't remember him as the powerful Balsala who managed to cut one of his arms, nor as the vicious Elia who sacrificed her followers to run a few steps further. None of him mattered in the end.

"Remember my name, old friend. Only you can..."

Maybe one day a miracle could happen and someone would remember him.

A crazed smile appeared between his tears. Somehow he felt Ravana also smiled back at him from behind that ugly golden mask, as if amused to see a plump meal making noises before its end. The giant reached out his taloned hand to pluck his latest human when Astan swung his sword to his own neck, cutting them almost completely off.

His last vision was red.

Red on golden.

Red on smooth golden mask against the blue sky.

Then darkness came to him.