The world was quiet.
Not the peace of a calm forest or the hush of a snow-covered field—no, this silence was absolute. The kind that came only after the end. A stillness that pressed down like a shroud over the ruins of a once-great civilization.
At the peak of the world, amidst shattered pillars and faded sigils, a lone figure sat slouched atop a stone throne.
His name was Arkanos.
The Mad Archmage. The Devourer of Realms. The Last Flame of Magic.
But titles meant nothing now. Not to the wind that howled through broken windows. Not to the corpses of kings that had long since turned to dust.
He was alone. Utterly, profoundly alone.
Wrinkled hands rested on a staff cracked from countless battles. His robes, once embroidered with gold and dragon-blood thread, were now little more than rags. Even his beard, once as white and wild as lightning, had dulled with age and sorrow.
Before him, a circle of ancient runes glowed faintly on the ground—pulsing like the heartbeat of a dying beast. Books lay open, their pages fluttering with arcane wind. A chalkboard had been dragged here from who-knows-where, filled with calculations so complex only madness or genius could explain them.
Arkanos stared at the spell array in silence.
Chronos Loop. A heretical spell, older than recorded magic. Banned by every Tower, every Council. A loop not of time, but of life. A second chance—not to change the past, but to be reborn into a new future.
He had spent the last decade preparing it.
Not to gain more power. Not to conquer another plane.
But simply… to feel again.
To laugh without bitterness. To cry without shame. To walk barefoot on grass without calculating the leyline beneath it. To hear a child's voice and not flinch, remembering the orphans lost in a war he started.
He was tired of being a god.
"I have seen too much," he muttered, voice barely more than a whisper. "I have killed too many."
A flicker of something—perhaps regret—passed through his sunken eyes.
"I've studied the stars, mastered the soul, rewritten the laws of creation. And yet…"
He looked down at his trembling hand.
"I never learned how to live."
The final components clicked into place. The air grew thick, mana gathering like a storm over the tower. The spell circle brightened, casting his gaunt face in brilliant gold. Thunder rumbled—not from the sky, but from the world itself, as reality braced against what he was about to do.
Chronos Loop: one chance, one life. No guarantees.
If the spell failed, his soul would be scattered.
If it succeeded…
He would be reborn. Somewhere. Somewhen. A new body. A new life.
The thought made him smile—softly, sadly.
"No more towers," he murmured. "No more titles. No more madness."
He raised his staff.
"Just… one more chance."
The spell ignited.
Light poured out like liquid fire, wrapping around his frail body. The runes screamed. Reality bent. Time cracked.
And in that blinding maelstrom, Arkanos closed his eyes.
Not in fear.
But in hope.
---
When the light faded, the tower was silent again.
The runes were gone. The staff lay broken. The air was cold.
And the old man?
He was slumped forward, eyes closed, the faintest smile on his lips.
As if in death… he had finally found peace.
> "Next time…" his voice echoed faintly in the empty tower.
"…I'll live."