The green glow enveloped him, disorienting and blinding, as if floating in an ocean of liquid light. There was no up or down, only a formless vastness that embraced him with suffocating heat.


    His mind was a whirlwind of distant voices and shattered memories, slipping between the real and the forgotten. He tried to scream, to move, to resist… but his body didn’t exist, he was just a thought trapped in a maze with no exit.


    And then, as if time shattered into a thousand pieces, the light began to fade.


    The sound arrived first, like a sickly heartbeat.


    A distant, ceaseless, raspy murmur. Hoarse voices, engines coughing, the metallic groan of worn-out vehicles, and the endless hum of a weary city. Then came the stench: a thick blend of rancid dampness, stale urine, and garbage fermenting under the sun.


    The Amber District reeked of abandonment.


    His eyelids fluttered open and shut in a slow blink, as if the world needed to reboot.


    The city lights flickered below like an ocean of dead stars. And then he wanted to laugh at the cosmic joke. How many nights had he dreamed of flying? Now, on the crumbling ledge of a building that creaked in the wind, he understood the fine print: flying was just falling with style.


    The bottle of cheap rum in his left hand weighed more than his will.


    —Shit…! —His words fell before he did.


    Before his brain could process what was happening, his muscles had already reacted. His right hand shot toward the ledge like lightning, gripping it desperately as his body dangled over the abyss.


    A dry snap echoed through his dislocated shoulder, wrenching a muffled scream from him. But he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.


    Below, the bottle he’d held a second earlier spun until it shattered on the ground in a shower of glittering fragments.


    “Damn idiot,” he screamed inside his head. “What were you trying to achieve? Die like a fool?”


    With a grunt of effort, he tried to pull himself up with his left arm, but his body had barely any strength left.


    Desperate, he searched for footholds in the building’s fa?ade, digging his soles into bricks weathered by time. But they crumbled without resistance, like layers of dust accumulated over decades.


    —Stay still… —he pleaded with the debris, but it already scattered like funeral ashes, vanishing into the street’s darkness.


    Suddenly, the chunk of ledge in his right hand gave way with a dry crack, and his fingers closed around empty air. Gravity dragged him down, stretching the muscles of his left arm like ropes about to snap.


    His shoulder burned, sweat blurred his vision, and his ears rang with the wild, rapid beat of his own heart.


    —REALLY? Not even a full damn day here, you Ascendant sons of…?! —he roared at the sky, as if defying some mocking god.


    Panic seized his mind like a rampaging beast, but with a guttural cry from the depths of his soul, he silenced it.


    He ignored the pain tearing through his body, as if he were a mere spectator to his own agony. With his left arm, he clung with desperate strength, hauling himself upward. His legs, trembling and on the verge of collapse, barely responded, pushing him a few inches closer to the ledge. Finally, with a last muscle-searing effort, he hooked a leg over the edge.


    Crawling like a wounded animal, he dragged himself onto the roof and rolled onto the cold, rough surface.


    Air rushed into his chest in ragged gasps.


    His right arm hung uselessly like dead weight, while his left trembled uncontrollably. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with dust and blood from his scraped chin.


    He lay motionless for what felt like an eternity, feeling the world spin around him.


    With a pained groan, he forced himself to stand, his gaze lost in the gray sky where heavy clouds seemed to mirror the weight of his own existence.


    —Another damnation disguised as life… Another ending I’d be chained to with no escape. But not this time. They can wait forever, my soul no longer belongs to them.


    Then, he felt it.


    The memories came to him, sharp and precise. They weren’t scattered fragments or blurry dreams; they were his, as vivid as the countless lives he’d already left behind.


    Asteron Draven. That’s what they called him in this cycle, but his existence had always been in doubt. Born into wealth, he lived in exile within his own home. His hair and bearing were unmistakable, the spitting image of his father. But his eyes… those cursed green eyes.


    Rumors, like venomous snakes, branded him a bastard, a flaw in the sacred Draven lineage. His mother blamed him for ruining her reputation. His father, though silent, could never hide the doubt in his gaze.


    DNA tests confirmed what no one wanted to admit: he was a Draven. But being one on paper didn’t restore his place in the family.


    He was a ghost among his kin.


    Raised by strangers, ignored in grand halls, hidden from the world. The Draven name was his, but only as a burden stripped of honor or recognition.


    He never had his family’s love, but he had a goal: to forge an Ethereal Heart. His destiny depended on it. They provided tutors, knowledge, all the means necessary. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he never succeeded.


    Year after year, his failure became an inescapable shadow. And when he turned eighteen, the Dravens discarded him like a failed investment.


    So, his existence faded. Invisible within the walls that had watched him grow. Until one day, the silence became unbearable, and he left without looking back.


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    The Amber District welcomed him with filthy streets and desperate people. There, among the outcasts, he found a place to hide, and to sink. But even there, the weight of his failure crushed him. Every day was a struggle, every night a reminder that there was no escape.


    And today, on his thirty-third birthday, he’d made the most drastic decision of all: to end everything.


    But the red door had other plans.


    Asteron gritted his teeth, fists clenched as if trying to seize his own fate. He lifted his face toward Veltraven, a metropolis devoured by its own ambition, where magic and technology converged, and Ethereal Hearts dictated everyone’s destiny.


    No one knew exactly how or why, but centuries ago, Portals ruptured the world like cracks in reality’s veil, shattering humanity’s fragile balance. With them came the World’s Breath, an ancient energy that transformed everything. Humans, once bound by mortality, discovered they could wield powers that existed only in myths. Those with talent and unyielding will learned to weave the Arcane into their souls, forging Ethereal Hearts that made them Arcane Adepts: beings capable of defying nature’s laws.


    In this new world, families like the Dravens rose above the rest. Their power came not from wealth, but from their Adepts and the will to wield them in claiming dominion.


    Asteron let out a stifled laugh, a broken sound that faded into the night wind like a sigh of resignation.


    —A powerful family, yet a discarded son. In an age of magic, yet stripped of its essence. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of this miserable existence. —He chuckled dryly, his gaze fixed on the city glowing before him—. Does it amuse you? Is this spectacle worthy of your gaze, watching me writhe in the mud? You have no idea what you’ve unleashed. If my past lives have taught me anything, it’s that no matter how many times I fall… I always find a way to rise again. And when I do, there’ll be no corner of this world where you can hide.


    The night wind carried his words away, as if the city itself were trying to drown them.


    The pain in his arm distracted him momentarily, and he frowned, contemplating his next move.


    —First, fix this.


    With a trembling hand, he touched his dislocated shoulder, feeling the swelling and heat beneath his skin. He knew what had to be done, and he couldn’t afford hesitation. He positioned himself against the rusted rooftop doorframe and, gritting his teeth with a muffled groan, thrust himself forward.


    The sound of the joint snapping back into place was brief, but the pain shot through him like an electric shock, leaving him breathless.


    For a moment, everything froze. The world narrowed to that searing pain and the nausea rising in his throat. But then, slowly, his arm began to respond again.


    —There we go —he murmured, testing the arm cautiously—. That’s better.


    With a final glance at the city, he stepped into the building’s stairwell.


    The handrail, caked with a crust of dust and rust, seemed to crumble at the touch. The walls, bare and eaten by dampness, revealed layers of peeling paint that flaked away like dead skin. The air reeked of mold and stagnant time, as if the building had been sealed in a capsule of neglect.


    Twelve floors of decay. Twelve floors that mirrored the distorted reflection of his own life.


    The elevator, a rusted relic, hadn’t worked in years. Maybe it never had.


    Luckily, he lived on the fourth floor, so the descent wasn’t long. Yet each step echoed through the stairwell like a dull heartbeat.


    —In all my past lives, I’ve been aware from the start —he muttered to himself, furrowing his brow—. But this time… this time is different. It’s like waking from a dream. Could it be the Red Door?


    The question hung in the air, unanswered.


    As he reached the seventh-floor landing, a harsh, disdainful voice yanked him from his thoughts.


    —Ah, the illustrious member of the Draven family! —a man sneered, his tone dripping with sarcasm—. So you chickened out in the end, huh? Not surprising. You’ve always been a coward.


    Asteron eyed him with contempt. The man stood in the doorway of apartment 702, a bottle in one hand and a mocking smirk on the other. His appearance was as repulsive as his personality.


    —Better this way —the man continued, taking a swig—. Dead men don’t pay debts, and you owe me two months’ rent. If you don’t cough up the money soon, you’ll be sleeping in the gutter with the trash and starving cats. Though, come to think of it, that’s probably too good for the likes of you.


    Asteron recognized him instantly: the building manager. A human-shaped parasite whose soul was as rotten as the apartments he rented. He’d built a business on others’ misery, charging exorbitant rents and enforcing repulsive contracts, especially on female tenants.


    Asteron stared at him, a deep hatred burning in his eyes.


    —What the hell did you just say, you bastard? —he asked, his calm voice barely masking the fury within.


    The manager gaped, clearly stunned by Asteron’s defiance. His face flushed red with rage, and he opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of insults. But a soft, trembling voice from inside the apartment cut him off.


    —Please, don’t do this —a woman whispered, her tone laced with fear and desperation—. My husband will be home soon. Don’t ruin everything… over nonsense.


    The man fell silent, though his eyes blazed. He glared at Asteron and spat:


    —This isn’t over, you idiot…


    With a grunt, he stormed inside and slammed the door, rattling the frame.


    Asteron clicked his tongue in disgust and continued downward. Reaching the fourth floor, he opened the door to apartment 406.


    The place was modest, even shabby, with a hole in the wall he’d never bothered to fix. But it was his.


    It felt like he’d lived a thousand lives in one, each more exhausting than the last. As he shut the door, he slumped against it, crushed by the weight of those accumulated existences.


    He inhaled deeply, but the air brought no relief. He needed something more, something to jolt him from this endless lethargy.


    Dragging himself to the bathroom, he faced the cold shower, a reminder of his powerlessness. The boiler had been broken for months, and the manager, a master of evasion, always had an excuse to avoid fixing it.


    He undressed slowly, every movement heavy with fatigue, and stepped under the icy stream.


    The frigid water needled his skin like shards of ice. It stole his breath and bit into his bones. He stood motionless, letting the water punish him, hoping it might cleanse his mind. But thoughts crept in like rats, gnawing at the corners of his consciousness.


    —Look at you —he muttered, smiling bitterly as the water mocked his defeat—. You didn’t even push harder to get it fixed.


    He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the damp, moldy tiles. The icy droplets slithered down his skin, reminders of all he’d allowed.


    —Did you really think enduring in silence was the answer? —he whispered hoarsely—. Were you so afraid of losing the scraps you had? Is this how you wanted to live? Crawling for crumbs?


    The water flowed on, cold and indifferent, leaching the last warmth from his body.


    Asteron let out a hollow laugh.


    —It was only a matter of time before this drained what little will to live you had left.


    When he finally turned off the faucet, his skin was numb. He dressed in “clean” clothes, if the threadbare, faded garments could be called clean. The seams were frayed, the colors washed out, but they were all he owned.


    He collapsed onto the bed, the worn mattress sagging beneath him as if exhausted by the years.


    He closed his eyes, but his mind refused rest.


    —That Red Door… —he whispered as memories of past lives surged like a spring—. Forgotten faces, skills once mastered, loves and wars that no longer belonged to him.


    —Why now? —he murmured, cracking his eyes open to stare at the cracked ceiling—. There’s never a chance without a price. What am I missing?


    His thoughts were interrupted.


    The neighbors had begun their weekly ritual: shouts, slamming doors, and the occasional creative insult piercing the thin walls.


    Asteron covered his eyes with his arm, as if it could shield him from the domestic cacophony.


    —Ah, yes, the soundtrack of my life —he muttered sarcastically—. All that’s missing is an invitation to join. No thanks. I’d rather save up to escape this cheap theater. Though, of course, I’d need money first… which seems harder than fleeing this cesspit.


    Then, something shifted.


    Suddenly, the shouting ceased, as if the world’s volume had been turned down. The room’s oppressive humidity vanished. The mattress beneath him melted away, replaced by something firmer, more natural.


    Something was wrong.


    He snapped his eyes open and bolted upright, scanning his surroundings in disbelief.


    He wasn’t in his room, his apartment, or even the city.


    He stood beneath a sea of stars burning with an intensity he’d never seen in this lifetime, as if the sky itself had leaned closer to earth to flaunt its splendor.


    The grass beneath his feet was fresh and soft; the air smelled of damp soil and wildflowers. Towering around him were trees like ancient giants, their twisted trunks stretching so high their canopies seemed to brush the stars. The murmur of a nearby stream mingled with rustling leaves and distant nocturnal calls.


    For the first time since regaining memories of his past lives, something defied his understanding.


    —Where the hell am I…? —he murmured, his voice lost among the trees—. And how did I get here?