"You are a pitiful man, Renard."
Blood soaked the battlefield of Astralis as Renard stood, his left arm—or what remained of it—hanging uselessly at his side. Though both of his eyes were slashed, the cruel fate had allowed him to retain just enough vision to witness his final moments.
To see the man before him in all his terrible glory.
Klean Weaver, the last of the Weaver's bloodline and the true heir of Fate. The only wall that stood between Renard and the Seven Houses.
The great hero stood an arm's length away, his golden eyes reflecting the dying sunlight. Despite being covered in blood, he was beautiful in a way only heroes could be—radiant and untouchable.
His silver hair caught the light like a halo, and for a fleeting moment, Renard understood why they called him humanity's greatest champion.
Klean's sword rested against Renard's chest, its tip poking his skin through the torn clothes. Yet the blade trembled ever so slightly; it was the hero's hesitation. Even the great hero was hesitating.
"It doesn't have to end like this."
Klean's voice carried a warmth that Renard knew he didn't deserve.
"Just surrender, Renard. I'll convince the Lords to forgive you for what you have done."
Despite this kindness or perhaps because of it—a chuckle escaped Renard's throat, which soon turned into a wet cough that spattered blood across the pristine blade at his chest.
"Pitiful? Yes, I suppose I am." He laughed, his teeth red from the blood. "But you, Klean—you're a coward! You are nothing but a fucking coward."
Renard stepped forward, feeling the sword trying to dig deeper into his chest. He felt nothing; the pain had become an old friend by now—one that he had long since sacrificed for power.
"You knew what they did!" His voice rang across the silent battlefield, raw with rage. "To my family and to your family as well! The atrocities of the Seven Houses have stained every stone on this continent, and yet! Yet, you chose to forgive them?"
Even as he uttered those words, it tasted like ash in his mouth. He scoffed.
"Oh, great hero of humankind, tell me—how many pieces of your soul did you have to sell to forget the screams of your kin?"
Klean spoke nothing, but that was enough of an answer.
Perhaps he had finally run out of pretty words and noble sentiments. Or perhaps, deep down in that righteous heart of his, he knew Renard was speaking the truth.
But just then, a voice cut through the deadlock like winter frost.
"He's beyond saving, Klean. The Lords are waiting—finish him off."
It was Irene Aster, the Eight-Star Magician. One of the Eight Heroes of Astralis alongside Klean.
She stood at a distance, her pristine white robes stained red. A mockery of purity as she dragged Renard's last faithful companion across the bloodied ground.
Esther, his beautiful shadow-walker, the pride of the Great Green Forest, was now reduced to nothing more than a broken mass of black fur.
The sight of her broken form ignited a rage so profound that Renard could barely contain it, but before he could voice his fury, Klean's voice came once again.
"One last time, Renard Grim." All warmth had fled from his voice.
"Surrender."
As if snapped back by those words, Renard remembered the cruel hand of fate once more. His rage disappeared like morning mist and was replaced by a bitter smile that cracked his split lip even wider.
"In your dreams, you assh—"
The sword plunged forward before he could finish, and the world seemed to have exploded in white-hot agony.
As his knees buckled and his vision blurred, Renard caught one final glimpse of Klean's face.
A single tear traced down the hero's cheek, glinting like a star falling from heaven.
"Forgive me…"
Klean's whisper was the last thing he heard before darkness claimed him.
✽✽✽
Uncomfortable and nauseating.
That was what Renard felt as his consciousness returned.
His eyes snapped open. Soft, cushioned seats were facing each other, and the steady creak of wooden wheels rolling against the earth filled his ears. He was in a carriage.
For a moment, his mind went blank. Then, confusion hit him like a wave.
'What in the world?'
His mind struggled to make sense of what was happening.
Hadn't he just died? He clearly remembered Klean's sword piercing his heart!
"This can't be right…" ge muttered, looking around frantically.
"Did that bastard Klean spare me? Is this some kind of sick joke of his?"
His eyes darted around the carriage interior. No ropes, no chains, nothing to bind him with.
"Are you kidding me?" he growled, his voice rising with each word. "The Seven Houses think they can just capture the Beast Sovereign without even tying him down? Me? The Seventh Commander of the Demon Army?"
He clenched his fists, ready to unleash his fury.
"Those arrogant, stuck-up nobles! Do they think I'm some harmless pet they can—"
But then, all of a sudden, he stopped his rant mid-sentence as he felt some weight on his lap.
Looking down, his breath caught in his throat.
There, sleeping peacefully with her head resting on his thigh, was a young girl. She couldn't have been more than 10 or 12 years old, with a delicate face that could only be described as angelic.
'…Aria?'
He didn't even need a moment to identify the girl… It was his sister!
His dead sister.
Why was she on his lap? And why did his lap feel so… small?
Panic surged through Renard as he raised his hand—and froze at what he saw next.
These weren't his hands!
At least not the hands of the feared Beast Sovereign. These were a child's hands—smooth, unblemished, untouched by any war. They were without a single scar or callus to mark the battles he had fought.
He stared at his hands, then at his sister. Then back at his hands. And his sister again.
'Maybe I'm hallucinating? They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die…'
To test if this was real, he did the first thing that came to mind—he pinched his sister's cheek.
Aria shot up instantly, her amber eyes blazing.
"Ow! Brother, what was that for?" the girl demanded, rubbing her cheek with a pout on her face.
Even though angry, she looked more like a puffy kitten than anything else.
Before he could answer, she grabbed his arm and pinched him back—hard.
"Ouch!"
The pain shot through him like lightning.
Pain. Something he shouldn't have been able to feel. Not after he had given up that ability years ago in exchange for power.
'This… this is real!'
Renard froze, staring at empty air!
He was back…!!
"Brother?" Aria's initial irritation melted into concern as she saw her brother's stunned expression. "Are you okay? Did I pinch too hard? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Renard didn't let her finish. Instead, he pulled her into a tight hug, breathing the familiar scent of jasmine that reminded him of home. He could feel everything—her warmth, her softness, her life. Sensations he'd forgotten long ago.
Aria stiffened in surprise before hesitantly hugging him back.
"Brother? What's wrong?"
Tears began flowing down Renard's cheeks as he clutched his sister tighter.
What wouldn't he have given to hear this voice again? To feel her warmth against his chest?
In his past life, he had offered everything—his humanity, his feelings, even his soul—just for a chance to avenge his family.
But now, holding her in his arms, feeling her presence, hearing her gentle voice… he realized that no power in the world could compare to this moment.
His arms tightened around her, afraid that if he let go, she might disappear like a fading dream.
How many nights had he woken up screaming her name? How many times had he wished to see her smile just one more time? And now, she was here, alive and safe in his arms.
"Brother?" Aria's voice was muffled against his shirt. "I can't breathe!"
Reluctantly, he loosened his grip but didn't let go.
He couldn't. Not yet.
Aria didn't ask any more questions; she just held him while he cried.
Maybe she thought she really had actually hurt him with that pinch – but it didn't matter.
What mattered was that this wasn't a dream.
He was back.
Back to the time before misfortune touched House Grim. Back to the time when his sister and his family were alive!
As he held his sister—his dead, alive, precious sister—a cold determination settled in his heart.
He had time.
Time to make all the things right.
He didn't care how he had returned to the past or why he still remembered everything. None of it mattered. What mattered was that he was given a second chance.
But then, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water on his head, a terrifying realization hit him.
His arms stiffened around Aria as the memories crashed into him like a tidal wave.
He remembered.
This carriage. This moment.
His breath caught in his throat as the pieces clicked into place.
This wasn't just any day from his past. This was that day.
The day everything began to fall apart.
This was the day his sister died.
His arms around Aria tightened subconsciously as the memories threatened to overwhelm him.
Soon, their carriage would be ambushed.
And soon, he would watch helplessly as his beloved sister was cut down before his eyes, and the first piece of his world would crumble into ruins.
Unless he changed it.
His jaw clenched as he looked down at Aria, who was still nestled safely in his arms, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited her.
Not this time.
This time, he had the knowledge of what was coming.
This time, he had the chance to protect her. To change it.
The Seven Houses wouldn't just be destroyed this time.
No. Destruction wasn't enough for them.
'I'll devour them alive!'
As if responding to his resolve, a mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
Ding!
[Initiating the Devourer's Legacy]
一一✽✽✽一一