The Tyrant's Infinite Rebirth System

Execution and Rebirth

The fires of the burning city cast an eerie glow over the execution square. Smoke curled in thick plumes, blotting out the sky, while the iron scent of blood choked the air. Thousands had gathered—loyalists, deserters, the common folk who had once trembled at the mere mention of his name. Now, they stood watching, not with fear, but with something far worse—relief.

Riel Draven, the Tyrant of Blackthorn, was on his knees.

His hands were bound behind him with rune-etched chains, suppressing the vast well of power that had once made him a god on the battlefield. His armor, once polished obsidian, was shattered, caked in dried blood and grime. Wounds marred his body—cuts, bruises, deep gashes from a battle that had never been fair.

Before him, standing with smug satisfaction, were the men he had once called brothers.

General Velkor, his chief strategist, the man who had pledged undying loyalty, now wore a polished imperial uniform. General Saelin, his sworn shield, had his sword drawn, its edge still wet with Riel’s blood. And worst of all—General Hadric, his childhood friend, the one who had sworn to stand by him until the end, looked at him with nothing but cold detachment.

Riel’s body ached, but his rage burned hotter. “Cowards.” His voice was hoarse, but it carried across the square. “You needed the empire to leash me? You think they will reward you for this? You think they will trust traitors?”

Velkor smirked. “Trust was never our concern, Draven. You were too dangerous to leave unchecked. The empire doesn’t need warlords—they need order.”

“Order,” Riel scoffed. “You think slaughtering the only man who kept the northern tribes at bay will bring peace? You think the empire will honor their word?” He turned his gaze to Hadric. “And you? Have you nothing to say?”

Hadric’s grip on his sword tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was worse than any words.

A drum rolled. The executioner stepped forward — a faceless figure in imperial garb, gripping a greatsword meant to sever a man in a single strike. The crowd held its breath.

Riel straightened his back. Even in chains, even kneeling before death, he refused to bow. If he was to die, he would die looking his betrayers in the eye.

The greatsword lifted.

Time slowed.

A hundred battles flashed through his mind. The mountains he had conquered. The men who had followed him. The kingdom he had built from nothing, only to be betrayed by those who lacked the will to rule.

It was wrong. All of it.

He was not meant to die like this.

The greatsword fell—

Darkness.

Nothing.

Then—

A gasp. Air flooded his lungs, ragged and desperate. Riel bolted upright, his body shaking, drenched in cold sweat. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He clutched at his throat, expecting the wet gurgle of blood, the searing agony of a blade. Instead, he felt only smooth, unscarred skin.

His hands trembled. His arms — thin. His legs — weak. His body — foreign.

The scent of burning cities had been replaced with the musty aroma of damp wood and stale linens. Instead of an execution square, he was in a cramped, dust-filled chamber, its furniture sparse and rotting. A single candle flickered on a bedside table, casting long shadows across the cracked walls.

This was not death.

His breath came in sharp bursts as he stumbled from the bed, his legs almost giving out beneath him. He caught himself against a nearby chair, gripping the splintered wood so hard his knuckles turned white. He turned, catching sight of a warped, dusty mirror leaning against the wall.

A stranger stared back.

The face was younger — barely out of adolescence. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and gaunt features spoke of illness, of years spent in suffering.

Then he saw the hair.

Not the raven black of Riel Draven. This was silver.

A memory — not his, but imprinted — slid into place.

Riel Varelis.

The crippled third son of House Varelis. A sickly, useless noble. A family disgrace.

Realization struck at his ribs.

Fifteen years.

He was fifteen years in the past.

Before his rise. Before his empire. Before the betrayal.

His hands clenched. This was not mercy. This was not a gift. This was a test.

Then, like a whisper in the back of his mind—

[Rebirth System Activated]

A sharp pulse of energy ran through his skull. He staggered, clutching his temples as a flood of information poured into his thoughts. Words, cold and absolute, seared into his mind.

[Mission: Change Fate or Be Erased]

His breath caught. He could feel it—the weight of those words. They weren't suggestive. They were commanding.

He hadn't come here to relive the past, he had come to rewrite it.