The world was silent.

Nothing stirred in the empty wasteland, save for the faint, ever-present hum of the air. The ground beneath was cracked, lifeless, and the sky above was a dull, unbroken gray. This was not a place for the living. It was a place where even hope had long since died.

Valen stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the horizon—where the shattered remains of ancient cities lay in ruin. His clothes clung to his form, worn from countless battles. His body, once strong, now felt hollow, as though it had been emptied of meaning. The sword in his hand had long lost its purpose.

He didn't know how long he had been standing there. Time, it seemed, had no meaning. His last memory was the flash of steel and the sensation of his body failing him. The pain had been unbearable, but it had ended. Or so he thought.

The world felt wrong, as if it was bending, twisting in on itself. His heart beat—slow, steady. Too steady. He should have been dead. But here he was. Alive?

A sudden awareness stirred in his chest, and with it, the realization that something had changed. This wasn't the battlefield, not the place where his life had been taken. He was somewhere else. Somewhere… unfamiliar.

A voice, distant and cold, pierced the silence.

"You are not dead."

Valen's expression didn't shift. The words held no comfort, no warmth. He had long since abandoned the need for such things. Life, death—they meant nothing now. They were just another cycle, one that had been broken only to begin again.

"You have been given another chance. A chance to do what you failed to do before."

Valen's eyes narrowed, though no real emotion registered on his face. Another chance? He had long stopped seeking second chances. What was the point? The world had moved on without him, and in truth, so had he. But this voice—this force that spoke to him—demanded attention.

"You can rewrite your story. Or you can let it play out again. The choice is yours."

He didn't respond. The silence had swallowed him whole, and nothing mattered anymore. He had lived through too much to care about "choices." The wars, the betrayals, the endless slaughter—it had all led to this. A place without end, without meaning.

And yet…

A strange impulse tugged at him, the faintest echo of something he had long forgotten: a need to move forward. To break free from the hollow existence he had been given. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Valen looked down at his hands. They were steady. Younger, even.

The pain, the death—none of it mattered now. He wasn't sure why he was here, or how this was even possible, but one thing was clear. He was back, and the world…

The world was still waiting for him to break.

Slowly, he turned from the empty horizon, walking toward the unknown.