"Where… did it all go wrong…?"
The words slipped out before Ryn realized he'd spoken them, barely louder than wind scraping across the broken battlefield.
He knelt in the ruins of what used to be a castle, one hand pressed against the gash in his abdomen.
The final monster, a large behemoth with horns as large as a house, was just slain by him. Not out of skill, but sheer luck.
The world's strongest swordsman had already dealt the damage. Ryn just had the last hit, but not before the behemoth inflicted a fatal wound on his stomach.
A terrible trade, some would say.
His vision blurred at the edges. The castle ceiling had been caved open, much like everything else that was around him.
An Evernight sky loomed above—black and endless, like someone had just poured a bucket of black paint all over it.
He gritted his teeth and pulled his hand away from the wound for a moment. The blood didn't stop. It poured, bright and hot, tracing down his arm before splattering against the cracked pavement.
Falling to his side, a pathetic laugh escaped him, broken in the middle.
"I couldn't save anyone…Amelia, Fritz, Magnus, Sera…"
The words stung more than the wound.
His mind suddenly stirred. With all the strength he could muster, Ryn barely managed to flip his body over to see the broken sky above.
"Ahhh, is this what people meant…by your life flashing before your eyes…"
Shapes wavered in the corners of his eyes—shadows, memories, ghosts. He couldn't tell which anymore.
His breath hitched.
Faces flickered behind his eyelids, like more ghost than memory. People he'd sworn to protect. People who should've been here, breathing, cursing, laughing—anything but lying cold under the Evernight sky.
He swallowed hard, but the taste in his mouth was metal and dirt.
What felt like tears broke into another laugh.
"Hah…but I was too weak…anyways."
He exhaled shakily, cold mist forming just in front of him.
"That book…" The words came out in pieces, barely formed. "I… had it… didn't I…?"
The moment he said it, something sharp jolted through his skull. A memory, buried through 10 years of cursed experiences, jolted.
A hall filled with light. A floating tome descending into his palms—old leather, faint glow. A Grimoire.
His fingers brushed the cover—
Then a hand, a terrified hand, slapped the book away.
His father's voice, shaking.
"Not this, Ryn. Not that one. Never that."
The priests rushed in, shouting words he barely remembered.
"Taboo."
"Forbidden."
Ryn had tried to ask why. But, he'd been dragged out before he could finish the sentence.
A second ceremony, where he received a mediocre skill, as the mediocre son. A future that led straight to this ruined battlefield.
The memory broke apart, swallowed by a rush of pain.
Ryn gritted his teeth until they hurt.
"So that's it…" he muttered. "That's… where it went wrong."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint metallic scent of blood to his nose. As if he hadn't already smelled it coming from his own body.
His voice cracked.
"If someone…"
He coughed, blood splattering across the stone.
"…If someone had learned that damn book…"
His hand curled weakly, nails scraping the ground.
"…we'd still be alive."
Ryn's breaths came shallow. Each one felt borrowed from time, and he would have to pay the debt soon.
The Evernight sky loomed above him, endless and empty—
—until something moved.
Impossible.
Nothing had pierced the Evernight for years.
Ryn blinked, tears blurring his vision. The tiny star pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
"Please…" His voice was barely a breath. "Let me… go back… Just once…"
The star expanded.
He closed his eyes and laughed at himself for even considering the possibility.
"So…this was what they meant…by wishing…upon…a…star…"
Everything had dissolved into white.
***
"Young Master?"
The voice drifted in from somewhere far away—gentle, steady, completely out of place.
He snapped his eyes open.
Sunlight pressed against his vision, warm and golden. Leaves swayed above him, their shadows dancing across a white tablecloth. The faint scent of chamomile curled up from a steaming teacup in front of him.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The battlefield was gone.
Just a quiet garden… and the trembling of his own fingers curled around a porcelain cup.
He looked outwards. The sky was clear, even if a little gray, announcing the coming of winter.
"Young Master?" the voice called again, closer this time.
Ryn turned his head slowly.
A maid stood a few steps away, hands clasped politely in front of her apron, worry softening her expression. She looked like she was about to reach for him but thought better of it.
"Are you… alright?" she asked carefully. "You've been staring at the sky for quite a while."
He looked down at his torso, hand already placed there out of reflex.
Then he noticed it…his hands, they were younger, smoother.
The chair beneath him creaked as he pushed himself upright.
This… this couldn't be real.
"Y–Young Master Ryn?" the maid said again, voice rising with concern. "Should I call the Head Maid? Or the Master—?"
Ryn flinched.
"Could you bring me a hand mirror?"
The maid sighed a sigh of relief, reaching into her apron pocket and immediately bringing out one.
Ryn's fingers closed around the cool metal.
He lifted it slowly. A young face stared back at him—
smooth skin, clear eyes, no scars, no exhaustion carved into the lines beneath them.
A face untouched by Evernight.
It was him. It was actually him. Which means…he had regressed.
"…This is real," he breathed.
"Of course it's real, Young Master," the maid said, exhaling in relief. "Your handsomeness hasn't suddenly vanished."
Ryn blinked.
She brightened, warming at her own joke. "Honestly, you gave me quite a scare. But if you're calmly checking your reflection again, then everything must be fine."
He didn't respond.
The maid stepped closer, hands clasped behind her back as she leaned in playfully.
Her tone softened with familiarity.
"You still look exactly the same. Dark purple eyes…dark hair that never stays down… and that calm expression you use to pretend you're not flustered."
He forced himself to swallow. "What…what day is it?"
"It's the day before your ceremony, Young Master?" the maid answered, tilting her head.
He straightened abruptly, setting down the mirror.
"Thank you," he said. "I need to… go."
The maid blinked. "Go where?"
Ryn didn't answer.
Because now the truth was undeniable:
He was twenty again. This was the day before the ceremony.
And somewhere inside that house—was his birthright.
***