Azriel stared at his future self and bit his lip.
“What do you mean by that?”
His future self shrugged, the motion casual, almost dismissive.
“It’s exactly as I said… I’m already dead. Ever since you saw me at that void dungeon… I was gone.”
Azriel froze, his gaze locked on the man in front of him.
“How…?”
How was this possible?
If his future self was dead, then how was he standing here? If Azriel was supposed to die, how could he be talking to himself?
“[Redo],” his future self said suddenly, interrupting Azriel’s spiraling thoughts.
Azriel frowned.
“[Redo]?”
Then, his eyes widened as a realization dawned.
His future self continued, a calm, almost detached tone in his voice.
“[Redo]… It’s far more complex than you can imagine. A unique skill that doesn’t require mana at all. But the cost…” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “The cost is our life. It’s absurd, isn’t it? A skill so powerful, so terrifying, yet… so beautiful.”
Azriel hesitated. Then, carefully, he asked, “Didn’t you use [Redo] on us… on our past self in the underground coliseum?”
His future self scoffed, shaking his head.
“You think that was [Redo]? Ha! That was nothing more than a cheap imitation—a skill I created myself. It only works on us and relies on five different mana contracts and rune structures. It’s a mere shadow compared to the real [Redo]. Sure, they might share the same name, but they’re worlds apart.”
Azriel’s face paled as the implications set in.
There were two versions of [Redo]?
And… he had created one of them?
A skill.
A [unique skill] and a [skill] were fundamentally different.
[Unique skills] were something every human was born with. Yet most people couldn’t use them without being awakened because of their immense mana cost.
[Skills], however, were entirely different.
They weren’t innate. They could only be obtained in two ways.
The first was by killing a being with a mana core. Even then, there was only a 5% chance of gaining a [skill]. And whether that skill was useful or utterly worthless was entirely up to chance.
The second way was by finding a [skill book], which could only be discovered in the void realm. But [skill books] were so rare that killing someone for a 5% chance at a [skill] was statistically more likely.
Yet here was his future self, casually stating that he had created a [skill].
And not just any skill—a skill that could somehow alter time and potentially bring himself back to life.
Azriel couldn’t comprehend it.
The mana cost alone should have been unimaginable.
And then there were the five mana contracts and rune structures…
His future self was essentially saying that he had used a skill he created to rewrite their existence, making his past self redo a mana contract over a hundred thousand times…
And he had done it with ease.
Azriel felt his head spinning, his thoughts a chaotic mess.
It was impossible.
And yet…
His future self kept speaking, his gaze fixed on the blinding white sun above.
“But I won’t lie,” he said with a faint smile. “That skill I created? It’s heavily inspired by our unique skill, [Redo].”
“Huh?”
Azriel blinked, stunned.
“[Redo]… it’s essentially me dying. In return, I can project myself back in time—to specific moments. Not physically, of course. Most of the time, we send our consciousness into our past self to influence decisions or events. That’s how we’ve always managed to avoid certain death. By changing the past… we destroy the future.”
Azriel’s breath hitched.
Destroying the future?
His future self’s voice softened, almost resigned.
“Do you know how maddening it is to walk a path with no end? A path that loops endlessly because we made it that way? We kept using [Redo], thinking we could escape death—ours or someone else’s. But no matter how many times we changed the past, someone always died. Most of the time, it was us. Sometimes, it was someone else. And each time, [Redo] erased that timeline, creating another… one where we tried to fix everything.”
He turned to Azriel, and in that moment, Azriel felt like he was staring at a ghost.
Those eyes…
They were his own.
Yet they were so dull.
Devoid of life.
“I don’t know how many times we’ve used [Redo]. How many timelines have been erased. How many times we’ve died—or how many times someone else has. But eventually… something changed. We began to think that maybe the problem wasn’t this world… maybe the problem was us.”
Azriel’s future self paused, his voice low and bitter.
“Do you know what the version of us who used [Redo] before me tried to do? To escape this endless loop, he decided I should die. He wanted me to use [Redo]. But I didn’t comply.”
Azriel’s heart pounded as the words settled.
“And so,” his future self continued, his voice colder now, “he influenced certain events… leading to the deaths of Jasmine and Nol.”
.
.
.
.
“What did you just say…?”
Azriel stared at him in disbelief, his eyes trembling as the words sank in.
He… Azriel… killed Nol and Jasmine?
His own sister?
Even if it was another version of him, it didn’t change the fact—it was still him.
How could he ever do something so horrifying?
His future self let out a dark chuckle, his expression twisted with something between bitterness and amusement.
“Crazy, isn’t it? Makes you wonder what the hell he went through to become that mad. Seriously, that version of us was a true mad prince. And it makes me wonder what the one before him did to push him to that point. What he endured… what he sacrificed.”
He paused, his gaze distant, as if watching scenes only he could see. Then, with a sardonic laugh, he added, “Anyway, it didn’t take long after that for me to die. When I did, [Redo] triggered, just like it always does. And I… I followed the plan. Because honestly? It made sense. If we were the problem, why not change ourselves? Why not rewrite the past entirely? And that… that’s how you were created.”
“…!”
Azriel’s breath hitched.
“…What?”
“Ronald, Jeanne, and Lia Karumi were never supposed to die.”
“….”
“How we came into this world, even I’m not entirely sure. What I do know is that no matter what we tried, the book always found us—always brought us back to this world. So, we thought, what if we changed a few things before it began? What if we killed them… our family..? I guess I was the only one mad enough to do it.”
His voice dropped to a murmur, almost contemplative.
“Or maybe I wasn’t. Maybe the others have done far worse. Maybe that’s why we’re standing here now. Two of us. Two mistakes born from countless failures.”
Azriel could barely breathe. His world felt like it was crumbling, every word shaking the foundation of everything he believed in.
“I killed them,” his future self said bluntly, scooping a handful of snow from the ground. He clenched it in his fist, the white powder melting into water that dripped between his fingers.
“Because I wanted to see… how much would change. And it did. Creating this twisted timeline, this mess of a reality. But maybe… just maybe, you’ll do better than all of us. You, with your different past. Your different starting point. Going to the Void Realm instead of being saved by Dad during the Void rifts attack.”
He sighed, a long, tired exhalation.
“Though, technically, I shouldn’t have been able to influence so many events. [Redo] isn’t supposed to work that way. But I did it anyway. Using [Redo] over and over to force the perfect ending. Dozens of mana contracts, hundreds of runes… The cost?” He smirked bitterly.
“I didn’t care.”
Azriel’s felt weak as he listened.
His life—everything—was it all a lie?
Every choice he made, every triumph and failure… had it all been manipulated from the start?
His family… they were never supposed to die. Yet they did.
All because of him.
Because he thought it might bring about a greater change.
Azriel gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into trembling fists as he forced himself to suppress the emotions threatening to consume him.
“What… what did it cost?”
His future self turned to him, his expression hollow, devoid of life.
“Getting my soul destroyed in the most excruciating way possible.”
For a moment, Azriel felt nothing but cold.
“Good,” he spat.
“I hope you suffer a long, long time before you become nothing.”
His future self merely smiled at Azriel’s words.
But that smile… it was crooked, twisted in a way that made Azriel’s skin crawl.
“The memory you saw of your family dying… that was just a little theatre I created. None of it was real. All fake. The real memory… Oh, it was so much worse.”
“Father, always turning his back, always staying ignorant… well, I twisted that back all the way before I took his head. Mother, with her vile tongue, always acting like a saint—oh, how satisfying it was to rip that tongue out. And her screams? They were music to my ears.”
“And Lia… sweet, poor Lia, who stayed blind and ignorant through all the suffering we endured—I made sure she wasn’t blind this time. I made her watch it all. Every. Last. Moment. And then, when I was done, I took her head too.”
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.
.
’Huh…’
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.
.
He sighed as though recounting a tiring chore.
“Ah, so many minds I had to manipulate that day. Exhausting work for little old me—who’s already dead, by the way.”
“….”
“I was scared that if I showed you the real memory, it’d break you in a way I didn’t want. You probably would’ve killed yourself at the first opportunity, triggering [Redo]. So, I gave you a… mellowed-down version. My acting back then—considering it’d been a while—wasn’t bad, was it?”