The empire had gathered to watch its greatest hero die. Rain hissed against the black stones of the Imperial Square as General Marcus Voss was dragged toward the Imperial Tribunal in chains, his once immaculate uniform torn across the chest and dried blood darkening his lower lip. Three weeks earlier, those same streets had erupted in celebration when Marcus returned from the Northern War, with citizens throwing flowers beneath his horse and soldiers chanting his name, yet today those same people screamed for his execution while rotten fruit struck his shoulders. Marcus barely reacted to the insults because something else bothered him more than the humiliation, as the crowd kept repeating the same accusation with almost identical words, as though someone had taught them exactly what to say. A woman near the fountain shouted that he was the butcher of the empire, and seconds later a merchant repeated the phrase before a soldier near the eastern gate did the same. Marcus slowly raised h

Commander Garran Holt's summons arrived before breakfast, and Marcus knew what waited inside before he broke the seal because he had received the same order twenty years earlier. He had accepted the northern command without hesitation back then, believing the position would accelerate his rise, only to discover years later that it had placed him within reach of the men who eventually destroyed him. This time, he folded the summons and slipped it into his coat, then looked toward the courtyard where soldiers were already preparing for morning drills. He did not know what refusing the command would change, but he knew he would rather face an unknown future than willingly repeat the road that had ended with his execution.Darius caught up with him outside the barracks, fastening the strap of his sword as he walked. "You are going to Holt's office?" he asked, studying Marcus with the same suspicion he had shown since morning. Marcus nodded and continued toward the command wing, but Darius

Marcus woke before dawn with his hand already beneath his pillow, fingers closing around the black token he had hidden there before sleeping. The compound outside was still quiet, but years of war had taught him that silence could be more dangerous than noise, especially after someone had entered his room without leaving a single trace. He remained still for several moments, listening to the distant footsteps of the night guards and the faint rattle of weapons against armor, while the message from the previous night remained on his desk where he had left it. You changed the first move. We changed the second. Whoever had written those words knew about his actions, but Marcus intended to discover how much they truly knew.He pushed aside the blanket and crossed the room, keeping his movements slow and deliberate as he approached the desk. The folded report lying beside the lamp looked ordinary, but every word inside it was false because Marcus had written it specifically for the person

The blade fell in Marcus's memory, but when he opened his eyes, he was staring at the wooden ceiling above his bed instead of an execution platform. He sat up, reached for the papers beside him and checked the date twice because the answer still felt impossible, twenty years earlier than the day he had died. The shock of his second life had already begun to fade, replaced by a colder determination that refused to let him waste the opportunity he had been given. Marcus dressed quickly, picked up the map on his desk and stopped when his eyes reached the eastern road.A supply convoy would pass there before sunset, and Marcus remembered exactly what would happen because he had witnessed its consequences in his first life. The convoy would be attacked near the old stone bridge, several soldiers would die, and Captain Elias Vane would suffer an injury that would later change the course of his career. Marcus had once considered the incident insignificant, but one of the men connected to tha