Crossing Overs

When he opens his eyes, he knows something is very wrong.

Because that is the problem. He is not supposed to wake up at all.

He is supposed to be dead. Straight into the afterlife, not here, blinking blearily at the blurry shapes and the white ceiling. Neither should he be able to feel himself inhaling and exhaling each breath. Feeling the warmth on his skin from midsummer weather and hearing the distant cheery chirpings of bird.

Yunan Lefroyski died.

He is supposed to be dead, gone. The soothing white light that he is suppose to be chasing after. That light that had beckoned to him. Asking him to come closer, cross the line to the promised land. To the freedom which he has been seeking his whole life. To the world peace that he has been striving for.

Well it was either that or eternal burning inferno. An atonement for all that he had done, for all the innocent he had killed.

With the river that is already overflowed with blood. He has killed far too many to simply just wake up so peacefully. So... mundanely.

No use thinking about it now. He hovers his trembling hands before his eyes.

"No..."

His hands that are supposed to be riddled with scars of memories. Countless of precious memories. Of histories, of experiments, of tortures, all gone.

The consequences of his abilities, the carvings and sigils.

Where are they?!

Impossibly smooth skin, soft and unmarred, gazes back at him.

Almost mockingly.

He tears his eyes away from his hands, hastily takes in his surroundings.

He knows this place. This room. The table that is tucked snugly in the corner, the wall sigils, the placement of his mirror that is ladled with papers of all sorts.

A room that he has not used for years upon years.

But this is impossible.

How can this be happening? He killed thousands, renders millions homeless...

He rushes towards the mirror

Eyes widened in horror.

A teddybear patterned onesie that he often wears, glaring back at him. It is a set of clothing that he cherrishes at a much, much younger age. He raises a shaky hand to touch his unmarred face. Where is his disfigured face?

He looks a lot younger, healthier. Face is a lot fuller with baby fat instead of the haunted gaunt look that he has grown used to seeing. His white hair from the stress of his ability, now returned to the dirty brown that he does not think he missed. And his missing right eye is right there, staring in wonder right back at him.

He is Yunan.

34 years old man, a sorceror who had lived a life full of mistake, a life full of blood, sorrow and despair.

He battled against the chosen hero. Incurred the third World Devastations. Massacre millions and then lost.

He is meant to be dead.

Mayhaps... this has anything to do with his last virtuos act?

No. He is not that naive.

This must be an illusion. But nowhere in his infinate source of knowlege can he dig up an illusion so detailed, so very perfect. Nor can it be undetected by him, a master illusionist.

But if he is really here, then does that mean the hero failed?

Was their final obstacle too powerful for them after all? He had though to leave everything up to the hero. Was it too much for him?

Did Yunan chose the wrong person to lead the world of peace? Are all those death meaningless? All his careful planning, null?

If so then he feels... not anger... no.

Guilt.

Sadness.

The faith that he placed on the hero, he is sure the hero valiantly fought till the very end.

Yunan has seen how the hero grows. How he has always fight to protect everyone. Standing up for justice, for the righteous. Fighting for the poor and the meek. Helping countless of people.

And all that hero has ever ask for is for the world peace.

The same goal as him.

But how they both went about it in different way. Vastly different.

But this is his fault.

He has realised too late in the error of his ways.

But...

Yunan looks over at the table top, a look of relief shown on his face when he spots that familiar picture frame.

He moves automatically towards it, almost entranced by the picture that he has not seen for a long long time.

Eva, with her flaming red hair, in the middle, smilling so brightly, so full of life. In her hands she holds two pieces of that ginger ice cream she has always loved.

Yunan and Tedior standing on either side of her. Tedior, the good looking bastard, with a look of annoyance while Yunan reaching sneakily for the ice cream that Eva holds.

Behind the three of them stands their mentor, Professor Kalm smiling so proudly as his silver hair glaringly bright, at the camera with his two hands grasps on top of Yunan's and Tedior's head in warning.

If this truly is an illusion, then why is he a child? A deeply woven illusion as perfect as this resonates with the victims or the caster's desire.

Yet here he is.

A child.

The last thing he desire for is to go through his childhood again. To relive the disgusted stares and hatred looks from his tribes.

To relive the moment where Eva died...

No. This is not an illusion.

He really has been sent to the past. Either that or this is a parallel world.

But Eva is alive, Professor Kalm is too.

He closes his eyes and expands his senses.

Yes, he feels them. Souls that he has not felt in years. The pure innocent soul of Eva's, the jaded soul of his mentor and the pained soul of Tedior.

They are alive!

The happiness bubbles in him. Something that he hasnt feel for a very long time. He feels his tears running down, before hastily wipes them.

No, if he truly is in the past, then he has no time for emotion.

He glances around his poorly managed apartment. This seems to be the period when he is still treated as an outcast by his tribes. Discarded by his tribe members, living outside of their territory away from their sight.

How wonderful.

First things first he needs to check on his soul sigils. He gingerly places the picture frame in front of him and sit down cross legged. Closing his eyes, he reaches deep within him.

What greets him, instead of the firmly weaved thousands of sigils line around his soul, he is met with a chaotic whirlwind of dark, tainted mana.

Floating by in confusion yet calm, he approaches the unknown substance. Puzzled by the complete absurdness of what his years worth of soul training has become.

He ponders on what to be done in this situation. Before finally settling on just touching it, dismantling this unknown. Either by sealing or by weaving, only time will tell.

A single touch to the black tendril and searing, indescribable pain. He was thrown back into the living world, mana pulsing chaotic within him.

It bubbles right underneath his skin, burning and scorching to be let out. He tries and fails to hold it in. The inferno builds up and explodes forwards.

He is thrown back from the immense force, back and head hitting the wall with a sickening crack.

Fire begins to ignite, eating away everything that comes into its path. The table, the childhood memories...

The picture!

Yunan crawls pitifully towards the picture frame. He holds it safely between his grasps, unwilling to let it burn.

How pitiful it is if his second chance ended with his imploding on himself and subsequently burning himself to death.

He chuckles brokenly as his vision gradually fades to black.

The world around in bath in orange and red as the fire greedily demolishes everything in its path.