Lucian stood in the middle of the white realm again, where the air didn't move, and time didn't breathe.
Then, from the pale fog, the same figure stepped forward, clothed in black threads that looked like smoke caught in still water.
The God of Death.
"It's been a while, Lucian," the god said, voice neither cold nor warm, just inevitable.
Lucian's hands shook as he staggered back. "You… YOU!!" he screamed, and his throat burned, but he didn't stop. "END THIS NOW!! I—I WANT TO DIE NORMALLY! I WANT IT TO END, DO YOU HEAR ME!? WHY DID I GET TO LIVE SUCH A NIGHTMARE!! WHY ME?!"
The God of Death did not move, did not flinch, did not blink.
"What killed you was something," he said slowly, "and that something is not just a monster, not just a traitor, and not just a person. It is part of the reason you're looping, and part of the reason you're still breathing. You don't understand it yet, but as you continue to live and continue to fail, you'll begin to see what it really is."
Lucian stepped forward, breathing hard. "What something? What the hell does that even mean? Are you saying there's a thing hunting me through time? Or is it me? Is it ME killing myself every time without knowing?!"
The god looked at him, expression unreadable. "Ask all you want. Some answers won't come when you beg for them."
Lucian's voice cracked. "Then tell me this. If I keep dying, and I keep living again in someone else's life, then what happens to the person I was? The one I left behind?"
"If you transmigrate into the past," the god said calmly, "then that version of you—the one from your last life—will continue to live. Because you are now earlier in the thread. But if you go into the future, then that body—the one you once used—is already dead. Dead by someone else's hands. And that death is part of the chain."
Lucian's eyes widened. "So if I kill someone now, and then I go to the future, they're already gone... because I killed them. But if I kill someone in the future, and then go to the past, they'll still be alive—but destined to die no matter what?"
The god stared. "Correct."
Lucian's knees gave out. He dropped, gasping. "Then… everything I do repeats. Every death I cause—it sticks."
"Some deaths are anchored," the god murmured. "Some aren't. You'll learn which is which or you'll die before you do."
Lucian's fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms.
"You don't care," Lucian whispered.
"No," the god said. "I don't. I told you the first time, didn't I? I'm only here because I'm bound to witness. Not because I care."
Lucian lifted his head, fire burning behind his exhausted eyes. "Then I'll live," he said through grit teeth. "I'll live, and I'll protect everyone I care about, no matter how many times I die, no matter how twisted this becomes. And when I reach the end…"
He stood back up.
"I'll find you."
He took a step forward.
"And I'll kill you."
The God of Death tilted his head slightly, unimpressed.
"Are you done?"
"Heh, I mean, you did pretty well in your second attempt, Lucian, so I suppose I should give you something. Clues, let's call them—important ones, of course. I'll let you ask three questions, and I might answer them, or I might not, depending on how I feel."
Lucian stepped forward slowly, gripping the edge of his own confusion, though his voice held steady.
"If I keep transmigrating... then does that mean I'll eventually become every single person in this world? Is that how this works?"
The God of Death gave a dry chuckle, as though the question amused him.
"No. Not even close. Every identity the system throws you into, Lucian, is someone that didn't originally exist. They're not people pulled from some list. They're fabricated—custom-made lives that begin only because you stepped into them. So in a way, you're not inheriting lives; you're creating them. Every time you fail, a new version of reality grows around a new shell of a person you become. And when you die in that life, well, that version remains and continues to exist in the past, sometimes with your ideologies... sometimes not. It's not population replacement—it's population expansion."
Lucian stayed quiet for a moment, digesting the answer, but his hands clenched now, and his next words came faster, almost desperate.
"Then what happened to my army—Drogas, Veyra, all of them? What happens to the people who survive after I die? Do they just vanish into nothing, or do they live on?"
"That... depends entirely on how and when you died. Your presence in a life doesn't just erase once you're gone. The people you affected—especially the ones closest to you—keep living. Maybe Drogas tries to avenge you. Maybe Veyra falls into despair, or maybe she ends up rebuilding something new. Their paths diverge, but they're not deleted like files, Lucian. They're living whole lives in branches you never get to see again unless the system sends you near them in another life."
He paused, then added, more pointedly, "And as for your harem companions—the women who stood beside you—they don't disappear either. They're not bound to your failure. If you loop again, they might still be alive somewhere, just... different. Veyra might be a student in a magic academy and Airi could be leading a battalion. You might pass them and not even know."
Lucian's voice dropped lower, but it didn't shake.
"If I… let's say, if I cause a war in the past—like, a full-scale war, with armies, kingdoms, and blood—does that mean that war will echo into the future? And if it does... how the hell do I undo it?"
The God of Death didn't answer immediately. He just smiled, not warmly, not cruelly—just distantly, like he'd heard that question far too many times before.
"You think time is a line, Lucian. But it's more like a scar that keeps reopening. If you cause a war in the past, then yes, that war won't just stay there—it will bleed into futures that follow. But it won't always look the same. Maybe the kingdoms you broke never recover, or maybe they evolve into tyrannies because of what you did. Sometimes, peace happens, but it's the kind that's built on silence and fear. Other times, that war becomes myth, and people fight again in its name."
He paused, letting that settle in before continuing.
"And undoing it? That's where it gets complicated. You can't always fix a war by just preventing the battle. The moment the idea of that war was planted—when trust shattered, when alliances cracked—that's when the war began. You'd have to go before the cause.."
Lucian frowned, eyes narrowing. "But what if I go far enough back—what if I change the hearts of the people before they even think of raising a blade?"
The God of Death raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"Then you're not undoing war. You're rewriting history. And the more you do that, the more resistant the world becomes to change. That's called Information Inertia. The timeline adapts to protect key events. Wars, deaths, disasters—they become anchors. You don't just erase them, Lucian. You have to offer something greater to replace them."
Lucian blinked. "Like what?"
The God of Death smiled again. "Sacrifice, a different tragedy, or maybe a heavier truth. Something painful enough that fate considers it an equal exchange."
He turned, as if he was done speaking, but left one final thought lingering in the still white air.
"So if you do go back and try to stop a war, just be sure that what you're offering in its place... doesn't start something worse."
Lucian's thoughts tangled and spiraled as if they were clawing at each other in desperation.
What if the soldiers I trained… actually become powerful enough to start a war without me? What if all the strength I gave them turns into something monstrous in the wrong hands?
He shut his eyes tightly, but it didn't help.
The images kept forming. Drogas leading a crusade, Veyra standing in blood, not beside him but ahead, and Guinevere chained somewhere again, forgotten in the ruins of a kingdom he once swore to protect.
And if a war like that already happened… then I need to be sent to the past to stop it. But what if it's not just war? What if the world ends because of something I did… or didn't do?
Lucian clenched his fists.
I have to fix every little consequence and every damn mistake. And I still have to find Guinevere… and maybe, if the world allows it, I'll meet Veyra and Airi again. But this time, I'll find them myself. I won't rely on fate, or system gifts, or easy connections.
And the scariest part wasn't death. No, not anymore.
It was knowing that this would never be easy again. That he was now someone who had to carry hundreds of versions of himself, choices, failures, deaths—and keep going anyway.
He wasn't excited. Not even afraid.
He was tired...
He could cry forever. He could scream and fall to the ground and curse the sky. But he wouldn't.
Then, the God of Death spoke again.
"Also, be careful. I'm not the only god in this universe. And gods… aren't the only powerful things walking across it either."
"…I will."
He looked up.
"Just tell me. Where am I going next?"
A system panel hovered before his eyes. White text on black void.
---
New Identity: Ichiro Amon
Age: 40
Race: Human
Realm: Shattered Realm
Continent: Flowery Continent
Country: Dai-Kuni
Time: 1 Year And Two Months Before King Elowen's Death
Title: Wandering Samurai
Talent: Untalented.
---
The name burned itself into his memory. Ichiro Amon… He would become this man now.
And maybe die as him.
"Dai-Kuni, huh…? A new life again."
He whispered it to himself.
The realm began to fade.
And Lucian…
Fell.