A second chance?

Darkness.

There was only darkness everywhere.

Azrael wasn't sure if he had his eyes opened or not. He felt like he was floating through a void of nothingness in an incorporeal state, in total darkness.

There was no sight nor sound. No smell. He was utterly alone.

And suddenly something moved in the darkness. Something was approaching him.

A light. A dim light which grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. It was like the sun itself, blinding and brilliant.

He was blinded as he felt a hand touch his face. Light began to penetrate his eyes as his vision returned.

Then he saw the beautiful sight before him.

A goddess.

She was the most beautiful being he had ever seen in his life. Her golden hair flowed down to her long, slender body. Her eyes were bright red, and her skin was as white as snow. She had breasts the size of melons hanging from her chest, and her waist appeared to be much smaller than it actually was, giving her an hourglass figure.

But the thing that caught his attention the most was her wings. Yes, she had wings! Her wings flapped like a hummingbird's as her feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Her dress was fashioned from thin silk and floated around her body, revealing her cleavage in the process.

Her long, slender legs were covered by a pair of white and black stockings.

"Azrael," she said, her voice soft and gentle, "my child, you've earned the respect of the 'All above the others,' with your deeds in the mortal realm, and you have earned a wish in return for your services. I am here to grant you your wish."

"A wish," his spirit raced as he felt an urge to speak his desires, "a wish...what do you mean? What kind of wish can I make?"

"Anything you want, my child, and it shall be granted."

"Then..." he said. He thought deeply about what he wanted.

"I want redemption. I want to go back! I...I." His voice choked.

The goddess's lips curved up in a knowing smile, her eyes reflecting ancient wisdom as she regarded the fallen hero. "Yes, dear hero," her voice carried a reassuring cadence, "that is precisely why I am here. I shall grant you this chance at redemption, a path to reclaim your body, your mind, and your heart."

In an instant, a surge of energy pulsed through Azrael, his form reassembling with a fierce vitality. His sinews and muscles knit together, bones realigned with a resolute strength. The sound of bones cracking resonated like thunder, the symphony of a metamorphosis. Limbs took shape, infused with newfound vigor. Organs shifted within him, orchestrated by an ancient magic, a dance of renewal that defied mortality itself.

And then, as the world around him dimmed to obsidian, the boundaries between realms blurred.

...

After what felt like a really long time, he slowly opened his eyes.

His vision was foggy and misty, but at least he wasn't blind anymore. He looked at the scene in front of him.

He seemed to be in a wooden room. The air smelled of herbs and spices.

The room was small, with a bed made of straw and hay. A man in white robes sat next to the bed. On a table beside him, there were bottles and small containers.

"Hey there," the man said. "Looks like you're awake."

Azrael tried to say something, but he couldn't make words yet.

"Don't worry," the man said. "Just take it easy. You'll be able to talk again soon."

Azrael nodded.

Have I returned? He thought.

He could feel his legs, feel his arms, yet the sensation of moving them felt strange to him.

"Where—cough—cough...where am I?" Azrael struggled to speak.

"Greendew Hills," the man in white replied. "Do you remember anything? How did you end up here?"

'Greendew Hills? Wait...I've only been here once.' His heart quickened. 'This is my first day in the kingdom, the day I ran away from home.'

Azrael had fled his home, sneaking onto a ship a few days ago. His memory was hazy, but he remembered the ship being caught in a massive cyclone.

'Four years,' realization dawned. 'I've gone back four years in time.'

A time before he had become a hero, a time preceding his encounters with Celeste and his friends.

Reflecting on them, he clenched his fist, his breath hastening. 'But why? Why would the Goddess send me back in time? Is that even possible?'

Manipulating time—something that could alter lives, resurrect the departed, and undo regrettable choices—such magic surely came with a cost... a price.

"Hey!" the man's fingers snapped. "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," Azrael shook his head. "I think I'd appreciate a bit more rest, if that's alright?"

"Of course, my young friend," the man rose and headed for the door.

Azrael resolved to rest further before contemplating his next course of action.

***

The next time he awoke, no man in white met his gaze, nor did a table laden with vials and potions greet him. His room stood empty, illuminated solely by a burning oil lamp suspended at its center.

With deliberate care, he raised his legs from the bed, aware of the stiffness in his muscles.

He could sense the vitality coursing within, the simultaneously familiar and strange sensation of his own body. He stretched his arms and legs, witnessing the muscles ripple and bulge with newfound strength.

His gaze lowered, and he noticed his attire had changed. A simple white tunic and trousers now adorned him.

This was a time preceding the development of his magic core, years prior to his awakening.

Erindor was a world full of magic and mysteries, where different creatures like elves, dwarves, orcs, and more lived peacefully with humans for many years.

All these creatures were unique in their own ways, but they had one thing in common: magic.

Magic linked all these different beings together, deep within the world. Magic was so strong that those who had it could control their minds, bodies, and souls.

But, there was a catch – this power came at a cost. Magic was like an addiction. Once you had it, you'd want to use it, just like a drug addict needing a fix.

It could make you feel great, but it could also be dangerous, even deadly.

A few special people managed to keep control. Some even became as strong in magic as the gods. They were known as heroes.

However, even among those who could control it, some lost that control. Those were the corrupted ones – evil and selfish. Witches and warlords, they were called.

Magic existed in everyone, though some honed and practiced to enhance their control and skills. Others refrained, fearing that dabbling in dark arts would only shatter the world's tranquillity.

Within this world, opposing forces of darkness and light perpetually swirled. One merely had to choose the path to embrace.

Moving cautiously, like a child taking their first steps, he approached the window, gazing into the obscurity beyond.

The sole companions were the resounding crash of waves, nothing else in sight.

'Feels like I've only been here a few days. The ship must be underwater now. If I can leave, I might save something from the wreckage.'

The ship Azrael had been on got caught in a violent cyclone, destroying it completely. But by luck, he found a piece of wood and survived the storm.

At that time, he was the only survivor from the ship, a headline in local news for weeks.

No one had discovered the wreckage yet, a chance to escape before trouble found him.

There could be things washed ashore. He could make a fortune.

Walking out the door was risky. Jumping from the window seemed smarter; he was only on the second floor, if his memory was right.

He believed he could make the jump.

Nothing here seemed worth his attention; time was slipping away.

Gripping the window frame, he positioned his leg on the ledge, the rough wood texture underfoot.

Just as he was ready to jump, his stomach rumbled.

'I'm too hungry.'

Looking back, he spotted a tray of fruits and bread.

Swiftly eating, he wrapped the leftovers in a hastily fashioned cloth bundle.

He gathered potions and herbs from the room, bundling up everything useful.

Effectively pillaging the room, he returned to the window.

With the bundle's weight, he tossed it first, praying the potions wouldn't shatter. A faint thud followed the weight's impact on the sand.

Azrael readied himself by the window, drawing in a deep breath.

In an instant, the room's door swung open, revealing the man in white. Horror painted his pale face.

"Don't jump—"

The man's words were snuffed out as Azrael leaped from the window, hurtling into the darkness beneath. Swallowed by the night, he vanished from sight.