Chapter 1: The Last Stand
The night was a nightmare unto itself—no moon over the horizon, just blood.
Azrael stood amidst the carnage, his gaze cold as it fell on the crimson flood beneath his feet. The ground, soaked with the blood of his fallen comrades, was the final testament to the massacre of his legion. Once mighty warriors who had sworn to protect the realm now lay mangled, their bodies either torn apart or consumed by the plague—giant, winged beasts that had descended upon them like an unholy storm.
He was the last one standing.
An average soldier like him, with no remarkable skills or divine blessings, had somehow managed to slay the last of the giants. Even now, as he glanced at the corpse of the massive creature, its wings sprawled lifelessly on the ground, disbelief clawed at his mind. How had he done it? He wasn't supposed to survive this.
His grip on his bloodied sword tightened as he coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. His body was on the verge of collapse, and he knew it.
"Why me?" he muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.
If he had known this was how things would end, he would have refused the expedition. He would have done everything to stop his legion from marching to their deaths.
A strained groan reached his ears, breaking through his self-loathing thoughts.
Azrael's head snapped toward the sound. The last giant—the one he thought was dead—was still alive, though barely. It lay sprawled on the ground, its breaths shallow and labored. Rage flared in Azrael's chest as he approached the beast, his sword dragging behind him, scraping against the blood-soaked earth.
"Why are you still alive?" he growled, his voice trembling with hatred. "My legion is dead because of you, and yet you have the audacity to breathe?"
The beast's glowing eyes flickered open, its voice guttural as it spoke. "I must admit... I'm impressed. A mortal—no, a mere physical type—was able to slay me."
"Surprised, huh?" Azrael sneered, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as fury fueled his words. "That your size and so-called divinity couldn't even stand against a human?"
The giant let out a weak, rumbling chuckle. "Don't get overconfident, boy. Every mortal who has slain my kind has met their end shortly after. You... will be no exception."
Azrael gritted his teeth, his anger bubbling over. "Joke's on you. I'm still standing!"
The beast's eyes narrowed, their ethereal glow piercing into Azrael's soul. "Don't delude yourself. I can see through you. Your life is already slipping away. The fate of mortals is set in stone... and your kind's time is nearly up."
A sudden, blinding light illuminated the battlefield. Azrael shielded his eyes, squinting up at the sky. His heart sank as he saw what awaited him.
Above him, the heavens were filled with winged giants—an entire legion of them. Their sheer numbers blotted out the light of dawn, casting an eerie, oppressive glow over the earth.
Azrael's breath hitched. His mind raced with realization.
The plague beasts were never the main threat. They were a distraction.
"You see now," the wounded giant wheezed, a twisted smile playing on its lips. "You were nothing more than an annoyance. A single mortal delaying the inevitable. Soon, there will be no one left to protect your world."
Azrael's jaw clenched. His grip on his sword tightened as he turned his gaze back to the giant.
"Shut up."
The beast continued, undeterred. "If you had honed your skills earlier, perhaps you could have been a threat. But as you are now—"
"I said shut up!"
With a roar of defiance, Azrael swung his sword in a wide arc. The blade cut clean through the giant's neck, and its head rolled across the ground, its glowing eyes dimming into nothingness.
"Asshole," Azrael spat, his chest heaving as he struggled to stay upright.
His attention turned back to the sky, where the army of winged giants hovered, their glowing eyes fixed on him. He could feel their hatred, their disdain. But he refused to look away.
"I might not be the one to save this world," he muttered, raising his sword high. "But I'll make damn sure to take at least a few of you bastards with me before I go!"
The giants shrieked in unison, their cries echoing across the battlefield. A massive ball of light began to form in the sky, growing larger with each passing second. It was aimed directly at him.
Azrael smirked bitterly. His body was too weak to move, let alone dodge.
"Shitty life," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
The ball of light descended, enveloping him in a blinding explosion.
---
Ding!
[TRANSMIGRATION SUCCESSFUL.]
Azrael's eyes snapped open.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth of sunlight on his face. The second was the soft rustling of grass beneath him.
He blinked, confusion clouding his mind. The battlefield was gone. The blood, the corpses, the winged giants—everything had vanished.
Instead, he was lying in a field of green, surrounded by gently swaying wildflowers. A soft breeze carried the scent of earth and grass, and the sky above him was clear and blue.
"What the...?" Azrael muttered, sitting up. He glanced down at himself, his breath hitching.
His hands were smooth and unscarred, devoid of the callouses and cuts that had marked years of combat. His body felt... lighter, stronger. He touched his face, his chest, his arms, unable to shake the feeling that something was off.
Then he heard it.
Ding!
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED. WELCOME, AZRAEL.]
A translucent screen appeared before his eyes, displaying lines of text that seemed to float in midair.
[Transmigration complete. Host has been sent back to the age of 18. Current objective: Prevent the fall of humanity. Time remaining: 5 years.]
Azrael's heart pounded in his chest as the words sank in.
"Five years...?" he whispered.
His mind raced as he scrambled to his feet, his gaze sweeping over the familiar landscape. He knew this place. It was his home—his village from years ago.
"No," he muttered, taking a shaky step forward.
The dirt path leading into the village, the wooden houses, the distant sound of children laughing—it was all exactly as he remembered.
He staggered toward the village square, his breath hitching as he caught sight of a young woman near the fountain.
Leona.
She was alive.
Her auburn hair glinted in the sunlight as she laughed, her carefree smile brighter than he'd ever seen. Azrael felt his chest tighten, memories of her final moments flashing through his mind. Her screams, the blood, the way she had looked at him as life left her eyes...
"Azrael?"
Her voice pulled him back to the present. She was staring at him now, her expression puzzled.
"You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Azrael opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind was spinning, the weight of his situation crashing down on him.
This wasn't just a second chance. It was his only chance.
Five years.
That was all the time he had to prepare for the apocalypse. Five years to change everything.
Azrael clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He wouldn't waste this opportunity. Not this time.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing a weak smile. But inside, he knew: the clock was already ticking.