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Chapter 2: Return to the Past
Darkness swallowed him whole as Damian's consciousness fell endlessly into the void.
His past life flashed before his eyes like a fleeting lantern, scenes rushing by in a blur.
The faint memory of holding his mother’s hand, strolling through the garden of the side palace—an image now clouded by time.
Anna and Felix, shedding tears on his behalf at his mother’s funeral.
The years of childhood scorn, where he was belittled for his lack of talent.
The grotesque, unrecognizable corpses of Anna and Felix.
The moment he first struck a contract with a demon.
His aimless wanderings across the vast continent.
The perilous days spent crossing the line between life and death with his guerrilla comrades.
And finally, his own death.
They say that those who practice Black Magic are doomed to fade into complete oblivion.
Unlike others, they are denied the chance of reincarnation; their existence is erased entirely.
Even if this were true, he felt no fear. He had long since prepared himself for this outcome.
Moreover, he had no desire to be reborn.
Right now, he was simply weary.
He only wished for these lingering thoughts to vanish swiftly.
“Hm…”
Suddenly, a soft, comforting sensation enveloped his entire body. Sounds from his surroundings tickled his ears, coaxing his eyes open.
“Felix! Felix! The young master has opened his eyes! Hurry, come quickly!”
At the familiar sound of a woman’s voice, Damian instinctively turned his head.
The last time he had seen her, fine wrinkles had begun forming around her eyes and lips. But now, there were no wrinkles—her face was as smooth as it once was, years ago.
It felt like he was looking into the past.
“Anna…”
When Damian softly called her name, Anna grasped his hand tightly and buried her face in the blanket. Her warmth seemed to melt away the tension in his body and soul.
Her sobs mixed with the dampness spreading across the sheets.
“Oh, how worried I was! Why did you push yourself so hard…?”
Bang. The door swung open, and Felix, the butler, rushed in, panting heavily.
“Young master, are you alright? Is there any pain or discomfort?”
Felix knelt by his bedside, his voice filled with concern.
“It’s such a relief… Truly a relief.”
His voice cracked as he turned away, tears welling up in his stern, angular face. It was almost amusing to see such a composed man on the verge of tears.
“Ishtar… Even at the very end, she refuses to give up…”
Damian sat up, letting out a bitter chuckle.
“S-Sir, surely not…?”
“After that duel, it seems his mind hasn’t recovered…”
As Damian continued to mutter incomprehensible words, Anna and Felix’s faces turned pale with worry.
“Young master! Please lie back down. You still need to rest.”
“Anna is right. I’ll go and fetch a healer immediately.”
The scene felt like a dream—or rather, it was a dream.
Ever since he saw their corpses, he had longed for days like this.
Ironically, when this life was his everyday reality, he never appreciated its value.
“It’s alright, it’s alright.”
He waved them off dismissively, leaving the two puzzled.
“Come closer, both of you.”
When Anna and Felix approached, Damian spread his arms wide and pulled them both into a tight embrace.
“I missed you. Truly.”
They stammered in confusion, but their voices didn’t reach his ears. All he wanted now was to feel their warmth.
“Thank you, until the very end. And… I’m sorry.”
Anna and Felix had been with him ever since his mother was brought into the imperial palace as the Emperor’s favored consort.
His mother, once a dancer, had earned the Emperor’s affection but faced relentless persecution from the Empress’s faction.
Anna and Felix had been the ones to stand by her, laughing and crying together, protecting her with unwavering loyalty.
When Damian’s mother died in a mysterious accident when he was only four, they faithfully upheld her wishes and devoted themselves to caring for Damian.
In the past, he had failed to understand their genuine love and often lashed out at them for trivial matters.
It was only after their deaths that he realized they were his only true family.
“Even if you tempt me like this, the answer is still no.”
She truly was a dreadful demon, to strike at his most vulnerable spot like this.
But in a way, he was grateful.
Even if it was just an illusion, he was able to say the words he had always longed to tell them.
However, he would not yield. Succumbing to this illusion would only dishonor their memory.
He would burn everything—this illusion, and even himself.
“…Why isn’t it working?”
Damian loosened his embrace and blankly stared at his own hands.
He had intended to incinerate this entire space with Hellfire, the first black magic he ever learned.
Yet no matter how hard he concentrated, the green flames did not appear. Rubbing his hands together or exhaling deeply made no difference.
Even if this place was an illusion crafted by Ishtar, as long as his soul was intact, he should be able to use black magic.
Black magic is invoked through a contract with a demon, and that contract is imprinted on the soul.
He attempted other black magic spells, but the result was the same.
“Could it be…?”
He had assumed it was an illusion upon seeing Anna and Felix. But he realized he needed to look at the situation from a broader perspective.
Ignoring their pleas, Damian jumped out of bed and stood before a large mirror.
His pale skin, lowered line of sight, and youthful face—there was no trace of the black magician who had once roamed the battlefield.
“What is this…?”
Even his voice and speech patterns felt strange. Instead of the gravelly voice of a hardened warrior, it was the voice of a boy untouched by the scars of war.
And most critically—
“They’re gone, gone, gone! Not a single contract remains!”
Damian had forged numerous contracts with demons to gain power. Yet now, not a single one remained.
“It’s clear that he must have hit his head hard during that duel! I told you we needed to intervene, Felix!”
“Calm down, Anna. There was nothing we could do. It was the young master who initiated the duel with the Fourth Prince.”
‘The duel with the Fourth Prince… I remember it.’
He was sixteen then, after his last magic tutor abandoned him. “Even in death, that lowborn woman’s offspring is a disgrace.”
Damian, who had held his tongue until then, exploded in anger that day. He challenged the Fourth Prince to a duel but was utterly defeated.
Afterward, he fell gravely ill and spent weeks bedridden.
That was a story from the distant past. But Anna and Felix spoke as if it had only happened a few weeks ago.
Which could only mean—
“Young master! Where are you going?”
“Don’t stop him, Anna. The young master’s illness is of the mind. We must observe him for now.”
“You want us to just stand by while he roams barefoot in his nightclothes?!”
Ignoring their protests, Damian made his way out of the side palace. He needed time to think.
His younger body, the reactions of Anna and Felix, the missing contracts.
And Ishtar’s final words: “So struggle as much as you want.”
Damian realized he had returned to the past. Sixteen years old, once again a powerless, despised illegitimate child barely surviving in the side palace.
“So this is what she meant by struggling from the start.”
Ishtar, Mistress of Wrath and Compassion.
If she, a supreme ruler among the Lords of Hell, could turn back time, it was entirely possible.
The question was why.
Every action of a demon stems from a contract. Without mutual consent, they cannot exercise their powers.
Damian had rejected Ishtar’s offer. He couldn’t have unconsciously agreed.
Yet Ishtar still sought to possess him. This wasn’t out of kindness.
There had to be a scheme behind it, and it likely wasn’t in his favor.
But—
“It hurts…”
He glanced back to see blood trailing from his footprints. In his haste, he hadn’t even bothered to put on shoes.
The sting, the ache—it was painful. But it was this very pain that made him realize this wasn’t a dream.
Damian took in his surroundings and found himself standing at the center of the imperial plaza.
The same place where his and his comrades’ heads had once been displayed, where Mikhail had proclaimed himself Emperor.
The sunlight shone as brightly now as it did back then.
“……”
He looked up at the throne where Mikhail had once sat.
A symbol of imperial authority passed down through generations.
If he had the strength, he would take that throne.
The chance for revenge was his once more.
He turned away from the plaza, heading back to the side palace with a new resolve.
This time, he would rise.
