Blood hissed on the scorched stone as Ryon stumbled through the smoke-clogged battlefield. The air was thick with the metallic tang of iron, screams, and crackling magic. His fingers trembled around the hilt of his broken staff, the crystal tip shattered from overuse.
He could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat and the relentless war cries of the Southern battalion. Their banners shimmered like blood-soaked veils in the distance, and their armored spellcasters advanced with eerie precision.
This was supposed to be a clean assault. A Northern ambush to cripple the Southern flank before the tide of war returned. But they had been waiting. Somehow, they had known.
Ryon fell to one knee beside the charred remains of a comrade. The boy's face was melted beyond recognition. Could've been Eiran. Or maybe Malk. It didn't matter. Everyone was dead or dying.
He pressed his palm to the cracked earth, trying to summon a protective sigil. Light flickered weakly beneath his skin—but the spell collapsed in his palm. His mana was nearly dry. And his bones screamed from overcasting.
"Ryon!" someone called from behind—a desperate voice, female. Elia, the healer. She was limping toward him, hand raised.
A second later, a fireball slammed into her chest.
She didn't scream. Just turned to ash mid-step, her body crumbling like dry leaves in the wind.
Ryon stared blankly. His vision blurred. Time slowed.
Then he looked up—and saw her.
A Southern Archflame hovered high above the battlefield, long silver hair whipping in the storm, her hands glowing with divine fire. Her eyes locked onto his, and in them, he saw no hatred. No mercy either.
The fireball she summoned this time was different. It wasn't meant to scorch. It was meant to end.
A burning sun condensed in her palms. It thrummed with cosmic heat. Ryon stood, unsteady, arms raised out of instinct. There was no time to run. No shield to summon.
For a single heartbeat, he saw the entire battlefield from above—burning soldiers, dying mages, a storm of screams.
Then the fireball struck.
There was no pain. Just a flash.
But the darkness wasn't quiet. Voices whispered in the void.
> "Target confirmed. Cycle reset complete."
"Soul imprint stabilizing. Subject: Ryon."
"Warning: curse detected in new host. Proceed with overwrite?"
"Affirmative. Engaging survival protocol. Mission begins in 3... 2... 1..."
His body convulsed. Heat rushed through his veins—not like fire, but like a reboot. Ryon tried to scream, but there was no mouth.
He fell—or maybe rose—through the void, pulled by invisible chains of fate.
When light returned, it was too bright.
He gasped, choking on air.
A soft breeze kissed his face, carrying the scent of wild roses and metal.
Above him: a sky too blue, too serene.
Below him: a bed of silk, too soft for war.
...the shocked faces of at least twenty girls, armored, tall, and angry. Their hair was braided in battle-knots. Their hands hovered over blades.
One stepped forward. Her voice was sharp as steel.
"You—what are you? Speak, curseborn!"
Ryon opened his mouth to answer.
But the words that came out weren't his.
> "System Activated: Welcome, Ryon. You have 7 days to make 3 women your wives... or perish."