The clash of steel and the roar of battle filled the air. Duke Ryan Arnold sat astride his warhorse, his armor bloodied and dented, but his gaze remained unyielding. His crimson cape, bearing the crest of his noble house, fluttered in the chaotic wind. The battlefield was chaos—a sea of soldiers, shouting orders, and the pungent stench of death.
"Hold the line!" Ryan bellowed, his voice cutting through the cacophony. His men, battered and weary, rallied to his call. They were outnumbered, surrounded, and hope had long since abandoned them, yet their loyalty to the Duke kept them fighting.
Ryan's sword—a masterpiece of craftsmanship and magic—gleamed as he cut through enemies with precision. He was a warrior born, a leader admired, yet in this moment, he was a man weighed down by his failures. He had seen it coming—the betrayal by the king he had sworn to serve. The reinforcements promised had never arrived, leaving him and his men to die as pawns in a larger game of power.
The ground beneath him trembled as a wave of enemy cavalry charged forward. Ryan's second-in-command, Captain Elias, rode to his side.
"My lord, we cannot hold much longer!" Elias shouted, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Ryan clenched his jaw, his mind racing. He had always prided himself on his strategic brilliance, yet now, there was no strategy to save them. Death was inevitable.
"Elias," Ryan said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. "Take the remaining men and retreat to the forest. Use the cover to scatter. Live to fight another day."
Elias's eyes widened. "But what of you, my lord?"
Ryan shook his head. "I will buy you time."
Before Elias could protest, Ryan spurred his horse forward, charging directly into the enemy ranks. The soldiers around him stared in awe and horror as their Duke became a blur of steel and fury. He fought like a man possessed, cutting down enemy after enemy, his body a whirlwind of motion.
But even a man like Ryan Arnold was not invincible. An arrow pierced his shoulder. A sword sliced across his side. His vision blurred, and the world seemed to slow.
As he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him, memories flooded his mind. The grand halls of his estate. The faces of his loyal subjects. The laughter of his younger sister, who he had always protected. He had been born into privilege, into power, yet he had never truly understood the weight of those blessings.
In his final moments, Ryan gazed upward at the stormy sky. He whispered words that no one would hear: "If only… I could do it all again."
The darkness closed in, and Ryan Arnold, the Duke of House Arnold, breathed his last.
Warmth. Softness. A gentle breeze.
Ryan's eyes fluttered open, his body aching but… alive? He sat up, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric of a tattered shirt. He looked down at himself and froze.
His armor was gone, replaced by ragged, patched clothing. His hands, once calloused but strong, were now thin and weak. The nobleman's insignia that once adorned his chest was nowhere to be found.
He was in an unfamiliar place—a small, shabby hut with cracks in the walls and a dirt floor. Outside, the sound of children laughing and villagers chatting reached his ears.
"What… is this?" Ryan muttered, his voice unfamiliar even to himself. He stumbled to his feet, catching sight of a small mirror on a rickety table.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
Gone were the sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes of Duke Ryan Arnold. In their place was the face of a scrawny, dark-haired youth with wide, tired eyes. Panic clawed at his chest.
"Where am I?" he whispered. "Who am I?"
The answer came not from the mirror, but from the memories that weren't his. Disjointed flashes of a life lived in poverty—a name spoken with disdain: Eran.
Ryan Arnold, the Duke of glory and power, was gone. In his place stood Eran, a commoner in an unfamiliar world.
And so, his second life began.