CHAPTER 1: The Day He Died

Ren Yoru always expected to die young—he just never thought death would feel familiar.

When the rebel intelligence board rolled out the mission brief, they labeled it a surgical strike. The veterans in Ren’s squad called it a suicide run. Ren called it inevitable. He’d studied enough statistical after‑action logs to know that infantry units who breached the Neo‑Tokyo Citadel never returned—because the Citadel learned from every failed incursion. Tonight it would learn from him, too—just not the lesson it expected.

Sector 5 lay in ruins between Ren and the towering black fortress. Charred apartment blocks leaned against shattered mag‑rails, as if the city had tried to hold itself up and failed. High above, drone swarms stitched the night sky into a shifting red net, marking every rebel heat signature. In the distance, the upper‑sector reactors burned violet, turning low clouds into bruised glass.

Ren sprinted through an avenue of overturned commuter pods. Boots crunched broken safety glass; each step hit like a hammer against bruised arches. His breath steamed in the chemical fog—a cocktail of ozone, melted plastic, and something like burning copper.

[SYSTEM CORE — OFF‑LINE]
[NEURAL SYNC — UNAVAILABLE]
[COMBAT MODE: MANUAL]
[NOTE: RESPONSE DELAY 0.0 s — YOU ARE ON YOUR OWN]

“No interface. Perfect,” he muttered, wiping iodine‑smelling sweat from his brow. The Citadel’s EMP curtain had fried every smart‑weapon in their kit. All that remained was instinct, muscle memory, and fear.

A blur of silver eyes slid into Ren’s periphery—Ayane, fifteen, shoulders thin beneath an oversize tactical vest, ponytail whipping in the heat plume. She clutched an encrypted data core the size of a child’s heart—crystalline, flickering with a code cascade that looked like falling snow.

“I’ve got the chip!” she shouted, voice raw from smoke.

Ren hooked her wrist and yanked her behind a toppled mag‑train. “Stay close. If we lose that core, every death tonight is for nothing.”

Ayane flashed a nervous grin. “Copy, captain.”

He hated when she called him that—like the title gave him power over how many people he could keep alive.

A seismic thud cut short the moment. A mech‑sentry plunged onto the boulevard—eight tons of obsidian alloy, red optics scanning. Its ion‑lance crackled, casting starburst shadows across the wreckage.

Ren thumbed his hilt. A violet blade roared to life, bathing crushed concrete in ghost‑light—the same doomed color that haunted rebel memorial walls.

“Ayane—run.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

She bolted anyway, darting through smoke while Ren met the mech head‑on. Steel and plasma collided; a shockwave rattled shattered storefronts. The first strike numbed his arms. The second pierced his rib cage, hurling him against a graffiti‑scarred wall.

[VITALS: CRITICAL — COAGULATION FOAM ?]
[AUTO‑MED: OFF‑LINE]

Pain became a tidal roar. He tasted iron, saw whiteness creeping into the corners of his vision.

Across the alley, Ayane screamed his name—a raw, shattering sound that lanced through the ringing in his ears.

A crisp female voice crackled in his comm:

“Stand down, Ren. This wasn’t part of the mission.”

Juno. Friend, teammate—soon‑to‑be traitor. Static crackled around her next words.

“They only wanted the girl,” she continued. “You were expendable.”

Betrayal cut deeper than the plasma pike. The mech pinned him to brick; blood flooded his lungs; the world drifted sideways.

[SYSTEM FAILURE]
[REBOOT PROTOCOL — ERROR]
[UNAUTHORIZED OVERRIDE DETECTED]

A pinpoint of white ripped open behind his eyes. The alley dissolved. Firestorms unburned. Screams reversed into silence.

ECHO PROTOCOL INITIALIZING
MEMORY IMPRINT ACCEPTED
TEMPORAL STABILIZER ONLINE
OVERWRITE TIMELINE? Y/N

He couldn’t speak—throat filling with copper—but every fragment of him screamed Yes.

Memory unwound: a mother’s lullaby over cracked speakers; a father executed at dawn; Sector 5 aflame; Ayane’s silver eyes dimming as drones dragged her away.

[SYNC 3 % … 21 % … 58 % … 100 %]
[TIMELINE RESET — SUCCESS]

Ren gasped awake beneath a pale sunrise—seven years earlier. His uniform was crisp, unmarred by war; his ribs unbroken. The Citadel still loomed on the horizon, but today its walls looked merely tall, not impossible.

[SYSTEM CORE — ONLINE]
[NEURAL SYNC — STANDBY]
[WELCOME, TRAINEE REN YORU]

A dormitory speaker crackled with morning drill announcements. Somewhere down the hall, cadets laughed at a joke Ren hadn’t heard yet. The scent of steamed rice drifted through vents—an aroma absent from the battlefield future.

Ren touched his side—no wound, no scar, only steady breath. Yet the echo of pain lingered, like a faded bruise on memory.

In the corner of his HUD, a new icon pulsed—an eye of violet flame.

This time, the System whispered, the Citadel won’t be ready.

Ren exhaled. The second chance felt heavier than death—but it was his. And he intended to make the Citadel choke on the lesson.

He rose, shoulders squared, and stepped toward the future he’d already survived once.