December 15th, 224, Mercan Era
Sunday
Main Plaza of Louiz, Capital City of the Mercan Empire
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"Former Prince Florence Plaridel, convicted traitor against the crown and conspirator in the attempted rebellion of the empire! For these crimes, you are sentenced to death!"
The imperial herald's voice thundered across the stone plaza, each word a hammer blow echoing off the towering marble walls. Thousands filled the square, their voices a chaotic storm—shouts of anger, betrayal, disbelief—all merging into a deafening roar.
They once loved him.
The third prince.
The silver-haired royal with the golden eyes who had graced this very plaza, not with wealth, but with kindness. His smile had been a beacon of hope for the common folk. A prince who knelt beside the wounded, whose hands had once lifted the fallen.
Now, he knelt in chains.
Florence Plaridel stood shackled at the execution block, stripped of every title and trace of dignity. His wrists bore iron cuffs, the metal biting deep, leaving raw, bloodied welts against his pale skin. His silvery hair, once immaculate, now clung in tangled strands across his face—yet it could not conceal his golden eyes.
Those eyes, the unmistakable mark of royal blood, did not falter. They burned still—defiant, unyielding, piercing the crowd with silent judgment.
On the raised dais, Emperor Ramille II sat draped in robes as heavy as the empire's sins. Gold dragons coiled around his sleeves, their ruby eyes lifeless compared to the gaze that met his from below. His face was a mask of indifference, yet his eyes betrayed it. A flicker of discomfort.
Even now, Florence's stare was a silent accusation.
The emperor's voice broke through the crowd, cold and absolute.
"Proceed with the execution."
The imperial knights moved in perfect formation, their armor clanking as they forced Florence to his knees. The wooden platform groaned under his weight.
The executioner stepped forward. Cloaked in black, face hidden behind a steel mask, he raised a gleaming axe—its blade honed to a cruel, perfect edge. The pale winter sun caught its surface, reflecting the prince's bowed figure like a prophecy etched in steel.
"Kill him!" someone screamed.
"End the traitor!"
The crowd swelled with fury, voices blending into a beast's roar.
Yet Florence remained silent. Unbroken.
The axe rose higher.
And then—
The world shattered.
A violent storm of petals—roses, lilies, violets—exploded from nowhere, a whirlwind of impossible color blinding the crowd. Their sweet scent overwhelmed the bitter stench of sweat and fear, drowning it completely.
Then came the sound.
A roar. Deep. Resonant. Unnatural.
"Protect His Majesty!"
Knights surged forward, shields raised, swords ringing free—but in split seconds.
The petals scattered. The air cleared.
"The traitor-!"
Eyes darted back to the execution block, searching for the tarnished prince.
He was gone.
The executioner stood frozen, the axe still raised, his face pale and bewildered. All that remained of Florence were the broken chains, clattering to the wood like a final, mocking laugh.
The Rebel Prince had vanished.
---
Earth, Philippines – Taguig City
December 15, 2024 | 2:00 PM
Freyah Lima woke with a violent gasp.
Her lungs burned, desperate for air, as if she'd been drowning.
Sweat clung to her skin, dampening her temples, and her heartbeat pounded so fiercely it echoed in her skull.
She blinked, chest heaving.
Familiar walls.
Soft lavender curtains.
Shelves filled with childhood trinkets.
Posters of the animes she had once adored.
Her old bedroom.
The ache in her chest sharpened. This... shouldn't be possible.
Trembling, she snatched her phone from the nightstand, the screen flaring to life.
December 15, 2024
2:05 PM
The numbers glowed in bold certainty.
"No... that's not right."
Her fingers fumbled to open the calendar app, double-checking, triple-checking—
The date didn't change.
It was today.
The memory hit like a blade driving deep.
The ruins. The blood. The dagger sinking into her flesh. Falling in the cliff...
Falling.
Falling.
The unbearable pain and...
Dying.
She staggered back, heart hammering against her ribs as though trying to break free.
She had died.
But here she was—alive. Whole. Young.
Frantic, Freyah rushed to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at her stole the breath from her lungs.
Wide black eyes.
Smooth, unblemished skin.
Her chestnut-brown hair cascading past her shoulders—so vibrant, untouched by the scars she had once worn.
It was real.
She was back.
And there were only six hours left.
Her stomach twisted with dread.
Six hours until the apocalypse begins.
Tears blurred her vision, but she fought them down. Not yet. She couldn't break now.
Grabbing her phone again, she opened her banking app and transferred a quarter of her savings to her father's account.
Then, she hit call.
Once. Twice.
"Hello?"
Her father's voice—calm, familiar, steady—nearly shattered her resolve.
Tears welled up, but she forced herself to stay focused.
"Dad."
"Is that Fey?"
"Ate Fey?!"
She trembled even more when she heard her mom's and younger siblings voice at the other side.
"Fey, how are you?"
"Listen carefully. I don't have time to explain, but I just sent you money. You need to buy food, water, medicine—everything you can. Lock the house with everyone inside by 5 PM. Please trust me. Don't open the door for anyone after dark."
A pause.
"Fey? What's going on? You sound—are you okay?"
Her throat closed. No, I'm not okay. I'm terrified.
But she couldn't say that.
"Dad, please." Her voice cracked. "I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me. At exactly 6:55 PM, there will be a global blackout. And after that..."
The words caught, twisting painfully in her chest.
"Monsters will appear."
Silence.
"I know it's hard to believe, but please believe me..." Seconds ticked by.
Finally, he spoke, the voice softer. "You've never lied to me before, Fey. I'll do as you say."
Relief flooded her.
"Thank you, Dad. I love you."
"I love you, too, Fey."
Her breath hitched.
How long had she wished - begged - to hear those words again?
"I'll come back. I'll see you all soon. I promise."
"We will wait for you."
The call ended.
Freyah stood there, hands trembling, heart still echoing with dread.
Six hours.
This time she would not fail.
She would save everyone dear to her.