I blinked, my vision still blurred from the rush of memories, but the reality around me was unmistakable. I was back in the orphanage, the same place I'd spent my childhood, the same place I once tried to forget. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath my feet, the familiar scent of dust and old wood filling the air. Everything was the same, yet everything was different.
I could feel it—the weight of my nightmares pressing down on me, lingering even now as I stood here. Every night, they haunted me, dragging me back to that battlefield, forcing me to watch my failures over and over again. And each time, they felt so real. Too real. I could still hear their screams, still see their faces twisted in pain, still feel Yuna's hand slipping away as the light faded from her eyes.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape it. Every time I closed my eyes, it was like being pulled back into a living hell, forced to relive the worst moments of my life. And the nightmares were relentless, shifting between first-person and third-person perspectives, as if some cruel force wanted me to see every angle of my failure. To watch my comrades die from every possible view. To remind me of how powerless I was.
I tightened my grip on the bedpost, my fingers trembling. The lines between the past and the present were blurring, the echoes of my nightmares still ringing in my ears. Even now, standing here, I could feel the phantom pain of wounds that no longer existed, hear the distant screams of the fallen, and see the blood-soaked battlefield every time I blinked.
I was back in my childhood body, but my mind was still trapped in that nightmare. And no matter how hard I tried to breathe, to calm myself, the fear and guilt wouldn't let go.
Then I heard her voice.
"Are you awake, Tatsuo?"
I looked up, my heart clenching as I saw Yuna standing in the doorway, her bright eyes full of innocence, her gentle smile so painfully familiar. She was so much younger, so full of life. So unaware of the fate that had awaited her in my previous life.
I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe, to push back the images that threatened to consume me. She was here. She was alive. And this time, I wouldn't let her die.
I wouldn't fail her again.
Yuna took a few steps into the room, her gaze soft and concerned. Her eyes were filled with worry, the same eyes that had once looked up at me in trust and admiration. Now, they were looking at me with confusion and fear.
"Tatsuo... you're really scaring me. What's going on? You've been acting so strange lately."
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I looked at her. She was so innocent, so unaware of the horrors that awaited her—the horrors I had already seen. I had to remember. This was the moment. This was the chance I'd been given. I had to stop what was coming and prevent the tragedy that had shattered our world.
"I'm just... I'm just tired," I managed to say, forcing my voice to remain steady. I couldn't let her see the storm raging inside me. Not yet. Not when I was still trying to piece together the fragments of my shattered past.
"It's nothing. Just a bad dream, I guess."
Yuna's expression softened, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. She nodded slowly, her shoulders relaxing just a little.
"Well, if you're sure... but you've been acting so different ever since that night. You've been having nightmares, haven't you?"
Nightmares. Yes, that was what they'd seemed like, all those years ago. But this? This was different. This was my reality now. My curse. My punishment for failing them.
I ran a hand through my messy hair, feeling the weight of my memories press down on me like a mountain. I couldn't stay like this—trapped in the body of a child, powerless and weak. My mind was the same as it had been on the battlefield—strong, unyielding, full of purpose—but my body? My body was young, fragile. A pathetic shell of what I used to be.
But it didn't matter. I still had time. Time to prepare. Time to grow stronger. Time to stop the coming storm.
I wouldn't let the past repeat itself. I wouldn't let her or my teammates die again.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I stood up. The nightmares would have to wait. There were things I needed to do—things I had to set in motion before the darkness came for us again.
"Hey, I need to go out for a while," I said, my voice more even than I felt. I wasn't sure where I'd go or what I'd do, but I couldn't stay in this room, drowning in memories of battles lost and lives stolen.
"There's something I need to take care of."
Yuna gave him a concerned look, but after a moment, she relented.
"Alright, but promise me you'll come back soon. I'll be waiting."
I hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down on me.
"I promise," I replied, but the words felt hollow, uncertain. I didn't know how long I had or what I could accomplish, but I couldn't just sit here, paralyzed by the ghosts of my past.
As I stretched my arms and stepped out of bed, the weight of memories from my previous life settled heavily in my mind. It was an odd sensation—being a child once again, yet carrying the experiences and burdens of a man who had lived through countless battles and hardships.
In my past life, I had been a towering figure, both in stature and reputation. At my peak, I was known as the strongest warrior in history. My body had been sculpted by years of relentless training—broad shoulders, calloused hands that bore the marks of countless weapons, and a frame built for war. My dark, piercing eyes held the sharpness of someone who had seen too much, and a faint scar running across my chest served as a permanent reminder of the life I had led.
I could still recall the feel of my weapon in my hands, the scythe that had carved through enemies with precision and power. Yet, none of my strength or skills had been enough to save those I cared about. The memory of that final battle was as vivid as the day it happened—the clash with the Vampire Elders, the despair of losing my comrades one by one, and the desperate grief I felt as Yuna's life slipped away as she healed me, her last smile haunting my nightmares.
I clenched my small fists, frustration bubbling within me. In that final battle, I had been unstoppable—a force of nature driven by rage and despair. I defeated the last Vampire Elder, cutting him down with the strength of my sorrow. But even in death, he had the last laugh. He cast the reincarnation spell that ripped me from my body, from my life, and threw me back to my childhood.
Now, standing in this frail, tiny body, I felt the stark contrast. I was weak, helpless, a mere shadow of what I used to be. My hands were soft and small, devoid of the calluses that had been my constant companions. My reflection in the room's tiny mirror mocked me, showing the face of an innocent child, spiky black hair tousled, dark eyes wide with youthful fear. But behind those eyes lay the soul of a warrior.
"This time," I muttered, my fingers digging into my palms, "things will be different."
This second chance isn't something I plan to waste. The enemies who want to harm this world—and the people I care about—won't catch me off guard again. My body may be young and weak, but my resolve has never been stronger.
I force the memories back and look around the room, grounding myself in the present. It's so different from the grand halls and battlefields I once knew. Instead of banners stained with blood or armor piled by the door, there are bunk beds, old and creaking, lined against the wall. The wood is scratched and worn, probably passed down through generations of orphans. Patchy blankets rest on thin pillows, neatly arranged.
It feels strange, standing in this small, crowded room with my memories of commanding armies and facing down the most powerful beings in existence. The air is stuffy, tinged with dust and the faint scent of old wood. Under the beds, I spot small treasures—the other boys' keepsakes and trinkets, little pieces of lives untouched by the war that's coming.
A thin stream of light seeps in through a window, just enough to catch the scuffs on the floorboards. I walk over and rest my hand on the windowsill, its wood cool and rough under my fingers. I used to look through windows like this and see battlefields, fires raging in the distance. Now, all I see are rooftops and the sky painted in soft hues as the sun begins to set.
Everything's so… peaceful.
My chest tightens. It's unsettling, knowing what's coming. Knowing that this quiet village, these blissfully ignorant people, will face the wrath of the Vampires before long. That this orphanage, this tiny room that feels so fragile, will be swallowed by darkness if I don't change things.
The floor creaks under my weight as I turn to leave. The hallway is narrow and cold, its stone walls rough beneath my fingers. I let my hand trail along as I walk, feeling the chill seep into my skin. It's oddly comforting, this coldness. It reminds me that this isn't a dream. That I'm really here.
Dim candlelight flickers from old sconces along the walls, shadows dancing as the flame wavers. The air smells faintly of candle wax and damp stone, a scent that mingles with old memories—memories of darker, colder places. Places where shadows hid monsters.
I shake off the thought. Not here. Not yet.
The boys' sleeping quarters are just behind me, the door left slightly ajar. Across the hall, the girls' room sits quietly, their curtains drawn. Floral patterns, delicate and fading, hang in the windows.
They remind me of Yuna—of the light she brought, even in my darkest moments.
I promised her I'd come back.
My chest tightens again. This time, I won't break that promise.
The hallway stretches out before me, leading deeper into the church. Its floorboards creak beneath my small feet, echoing faintly against the stone walls. A shiver runs through me. This body isn't what it used to be. No longer the towering figure that once inspired fear and respect. Just a child now, barely tall enough to see over the pews.
But my eyes… They still carry the weight of all I've seen. All I've lost.
I stopped at the classroom door. It's slightly open, just enough for me to see the rows of wooden desks and the chalkboard up front. Sister Mari's desk sits neatly by the board, stacks of books arranged with care. The walls are decorated with colorful drawings, bright and hopeful. They seem so far away from the darkness I know is coming.
My fingers curl into a fist, knuckles whitening. How long until this room is empty? Until those drawings are torn down, the hope they represent is shattered? I refuse to let it happen.
My eyes shift to the door beside the classroom. Thick, heavy oak, reinforced with iron hinges.
My eyes shift to the door beside the classroom. Thick, heavy oak, reinforced with iron hinges.
It has no visible keyhole, only a small engraved symbol replacing where the keyhole should be, which feels out of place compared to the rest of the church's humble décor. Sister Mari strictly forbids anyone from entering or even getting near it, and the children often whisper about what might be inside, adding to the air of mystery.
The hallway stretches before me, leading into the main church. I step forward, my footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the nave ahead. It's larger than I remember—more imposing, the ceiling arching high above like the open maw of a beast. Faint whispers resonate through the space, trailing off into nothingness. It feels hollow. Empty.
My eyes trace the worn wooden pews, neatly arranged but weathered, their surfaces polished smooth by years of use. I can almost see the ghosts of faces that once filled them—smiling, praying, laughing. Faces that will one day vanish. Faces I failed to protect. My fingers curl, nails digging into my palms. Not this time.
The stained-glass window above the altar catches my gaze, an angelic figure with open wings frozen in solemn grace. During the day, its colors would spill across the floor, bathing the room in a soft, multicolored glow. I remember sitting there once, letting the light dance across my skin, Yuna laughing beside me, her voice bright and innocent. I wonder if she still laughs like that. If she still believes in angels.
A faint chill seeps through the stone bricks, crawling up my spine. The air is thick with the scent of incense, just as I remember, mingling with the earthy aroma of old wood. The candles flicker along the walls, their tiny flames struggling against the shadows. It feels colder than before. Lonelier. Or maybe that's just me.
I pass the alcove where weathered books line the shelves, spines cracked and faded. Religious texts and children's stories are meant to inspire hope. Hope. I almost laughed. What good did hope do last time?
My feet carry me to the dining room, a familiar warmth lingering in the air. Long tables and sturdy benches wait patiently, ready for the children's shared meals. Candle sconces cast a soft glow, and the floor is scuffed with the marks of hurried footsteps. I can almost hear the laughter, the chatter, feel the brush of tiny hands tugging at my sleeve, begging me to play. They were so innocent. So trusting. And had I let them down.
My chest tightens, a knot of frustration twisting deep inside. I shake it off, turning my gaze toward the kitchen doorway. The faint smell of bread and stew wafts from within, warm and inviting. It's comforting, grounding. I let the scent fill my lungs, anchoring me to this moment, this time. I have another chance. I won't waste it.
The orphanage feels smaller than I remember, yet the weight of the past presses down, heavy and suffocating. I can't stay here. Not now.
I step outside, the wooden door groaning as it closes behind me.
Its stone facade is rugged and weather-beaten, with patches of moss creeping up its sides. The arched doorway at the entrance is framed by a wooden door reinforced with iron bands. Above the door, a smaller stained-glass window mirrors the angel motif inside, its colors dulled slightly by the grime of years.
The bell tower, though not particularly tall, is a defining feature. The bell within is cracked, rarely rung, and serves more as a symbol than a functional piece of the structure. The roof is slate-tiled, and many of the tiles are chipped or missing, leaving gaps where light filters through into the attic.
A narrow dirt path winds through the small garden, where hardy plants like marigolds and daisies bloom. Stones painted by the children line the edges, vibrant splashes of color against the earth. I follow the path, my steps slow, heavy. I should feel comfort in this place, this sanctuary. But all I feel is the weight of memories.
Even in its worn-down state, the church holds a kind of beauty, embodying resilience and hope in its quiet, steadfast presence.
I find myself at the edge of the orphanage grounds, staring out at the village. Cracked cobblestones, wooden homes with overgrown gardens—everything is just as I remember. Yet it feels wrong. Off. The air is too still, too quiet.
They don't know what's coming. But I do.
My hand reaches instinctively for my back, for the familiar weight of my scythe. Nothing. My fingers close around empty air. No weapon. No magic. No power. I clench my fists, frustration burning in my chest. I've been stripped of everything. Everything but my memories.
I close my eyes, the ghost of the blood-red moon haunting my thoughts, a reminder of the final battle. Of everything I lost. Everything I failed to protect. It's coming again—the darkness. The Vampires. The war. The destruction.
But this time, I can stop it.
I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, grounding me in this present. The past is already rewriting itself. I have time. I have knowledge. And I won't make the same mistakes again.
Turning away from the village, I look back at the orphanage church, its worn walls standing strong against the passage of time. It held us once. It gave us hope. It can do it again.
This time, I'll protect them. All of them.
I won't fail again.