It's the year 162 After Central Consolidation.

  Aurex Solmirae—The Eternal Emperor himself—named this era.

  Arrogant, isn't it? Naming your own time period, as if assuming your reign will matter enough to be recorded in the history books.

  But I suppose it doesn't matter.

  There won't be any future history books.

  Because in 30 years, this world—Renvaris—will cease to exist.

  That means the end will come in the year 192 ACC. A precise date, not estimated, not guessed.

  How do I know this?

  Because I've lived through this world countless times.

  I call them iterations—each one a perfect repetition. A cycle. A loop.

  I think I'm the only one who realizes it. The only one cursed to remember everything.

  At least, I hope that because I truly don't wish anyone else to suffer like this.

  History repeats with absolute precision. The same people. The same tragedies. The same end. Every single time.

  And no, I'm not doing anything about it.

  Because I can't.

  I've been cursed with what I can only describe as Eternal Suffering.

  My memories remain intact with each iteration—but I have no control. I watch this world through my own eyes, living a life already written.

  Like a ghost trapped in my own flesh.

  I can't change anything. I can't scream or resist. I can only watch.

  Every time, I grow up in Azurheim, a sprawling city in the kingdom of Valoria. It's mostly known for its prestigious swordsmanship academy, The School of Steel.

  Sounds grand, doesn't it?

  But my life was never meant for glory.

  My family are farmers.

  And if you think that sounds dull, try living it forever.

  Just farming. Farming. And more farming.

  That's my eternity.

  Great, isn't it?

  Sometimes, I wonder if everyone experiences life the same way I do. Just watching—like a ghost inside their own body.

  Trapped, helpless, unable to change anything. What a terrifying thought.

  Right now, I'm eating bread with my wife and two children. I already know that our youngest, Ewan, will die.

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  In two years, the royal family of Valoria will visit our city. They call it a parade, a celebration.

  That morning, I will ask Ewan to buy meat from the market. He will be only twelve years old, but our older son, Joren, will be sick that day—just like always.

  The royal family demands absolute respect. When their carriages pass, every citizen must bow.

  To stand is treason.

  But Ewan… he won't bow.

  He'll be watching a cat run across a nearby rooftop.

  He'll be smiling.

  He won't even see the soldier step forward.

  The blade will come fast. He will be decapitated while staring into the sky.

  My wife will see it happen—every time.

  She always goes after Ewan, worried he might get lost on the way back home.

  And when she finally finds him... it's just in time to watch him die.

  She runs home in tears, shaking, screaming, blaming me.

  She hits me. She breaks down.

  Then, she runs.

  Joren and I never see her again.

  A few days later, Joren will pass away from his illness.

  Quietly.

  Just like always.

  And then, it will only be me.

  I will be drafted as a soldier in the Second Holy War, which, from my perspective, is already a lost war.

  The Eternal Emperor always declares war against Gorathal, the western continent.

  It is a land full of terrible abomination.

  But they never cross the vast ocean or attack anyone.

  In fact, we humans are the ones who discover them first—and we launch the first assault without hesitation.

  Almost the entire expeditionary force is wiped out.

  In response, Aurex Solmirae declares a Holy War.

  It becomes known as the Second Holy War, following the First, which took place just over a decade earlier.

  But unlike me, people don't call them by these names.

  They call the first one the Great Holy War—as if there was something noble in all that destruction.

  And the second?

  They call it the Holy War for Freedom.

  As if we were ever the ones defending anything.

  You might notice that I am pretty frustrated about the Holy War. That is not because I feel bad for the monsters living in Gorathal, its because this is the reason for the End of the World.

  A completely pointless war started for no good reason except to show off power.

  As the war situation turns dire, even people like me get drafted. But many, including me, don't show up. At this point, the population will already lose the Emporer's trust.

  It's not like he needs it in any way.

  The result of the war doesnt get decided by farmers or simple soldiers, no… only the truly powerful matter in a conflict of a scale like this.

  When there are people who can wipe out an entire fireball, then what's the point of casting a small fireball?

  In a moment of desperation, the Eternal Emperor makes a fateful decision — to break the ancient seals binding the Deities of the Era of Wandering Gods.

  Their return is nothing short of cataclysmic.

  Divine powers long buried erupt into the world once more, and the gods clash with the demonic hordes of Gorathal in a war that even I, despite all I've witnessed across countless iterations, cannot fully comprehend.

  I only know this: The released mana tears the world apart.

  It begins slowly. The sky fractures, light bleeding through cracks like shattered glass. Time itself begins to behave differently, sometimes slowing down or speeding up.

  And then, one by one, the powerful begin to vanish.

  First, the gods. Then, the demons. Next, the so-called heroes—those blessed with strength, authority, and bravery.

  Even the Eternal Emperor, Aurex Solmirae himself, disappears into the unraveling storm.

  What follows is anarchy. Civilization crumbles. The fabric of the world no longer holds.

  And eventually, even the weakest—people like me—are erased, swallowed by the end.

  Not with fire. Not with violence.

  But with silence.

  The kind that only comes when a world dies.

  And then… it begins again.