Year 2064.

Eryndor’s eyes shot open, his body jerking upright as he awoke with a start. The sensation was disorienting—one moment, he was a battle-hardened man in his thirties; now, he was back in the body of his younger self. The sudden change felt foreign, his limbs lighter, his senses sharper, yet his mind retained the weight of his past life.

As he adjusted to the bizarre transition, a familiar voice echoed in his mind, calm yet commanding. It was the angel’s recorded message.

“This is a recorded message. Do not reply. You have been granted the Blessing of the Angel. Use it wisely.”

And with that, the voice faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Eryndor took a deep breath, steadying himself as he scanned his surroundings. He was seated in a large, ornate hall filled with children dressed in luxurious academy uniforms. The intricate crests embroidered on their clothing marked them as members of noble families—future elites of the world.

The air was filled with chatter, the idle conversations of privileged youths who had yet to face the harsh realities of life. Eryndor found the situation strangely amusing. He glanced at the polished table before him and then at his own body, which was leaner and younger than he remembered. A surge of nostalgia swept over him as he recognized this place—the prestigious Aurelian Academy.

"So, it’s true. I’m back to my younger days," he thought, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

He raised his wrist, looking at the sleek smartwatch strapped to it. The date on the display read: October 1, 2064.

"Sixteen years before the apocalypse begins... seems like I have one extra year as a bonus," he mused. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by the ghost of a memory—a flash of pain, blood, and regret.

A loud crash jolted Eryndor from his thoughts. A heavyset boy was thrown forcefully against a bench near him. The sound reverberated through the hall, silencing the chatter as all eyes turned toward the scene. Standing over the boy was a tall, striking young man with golden hair that shimmered under the academy lights. His piercing blue eyes glinted with cold amusement as his friends snickered around him.

Eryndor’s gaze narrowed as he studied the aggressor. There was no mistaking his identity—Sylas Vrenar, a member of the infamous Vrenar Clan, known for producing some of the world’s most skilled assassins. Sylas was every bit the embodiment of his lineage: handsome, confident, and exuding a predatory aura.

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The fat boy on the ground whimpered, clutching his side as he tried to get up. Sylas’s voice cut through the hushed hall, sharp and disdainful. “You think you can skulk around unnoticed, huh? Next time, keep your eyes where they belong.”

The snickering of Sylas’s companions grew louder as the fat boy stammered an apology. Eryndor watched the scene, his sharp eyes taking in Sylas’s commanding presence. The memory of this boy’s future death flickered in his mind—a tragic waste of talent.

"In the future, he dies in an A-rank dungeon... a preventable accident," Eryndor thought. "If I can save him, he’ll become a valuable ally."

Sylas turned slightly, his gaze locking with Eryndor’s. For a brief moment, the two stared at each other. Sylas raised an eyebrow, his expression curious, as if sizing Eryndor up. The corners of Eryndor’s mouth twitched in a faint smile. With a subtle nod, Sylas acknowledged him before returning his attention to the fat boy.

Eryndor leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. Sylas was more than just a spoiled noble; he was one of the best assassins of the next generation, a prodigy capable of turning the tide in the apocalypse. But his potential had been cut short when a dungeon mishap—a mix of poor planning and overconfidence—claimed his life.

"Not this time," Eryndor vowed silently. "I’ll make sure he survives. He’s too valuable to lose."

Eryndor returned his attention to himself. He mentally activated his system interface, the familiar grid of information appearing in his mind. His eyes immediately caught the sight of his old trait, The Sacrifice of the God, marked by a gray line. It was inactive, locked, with a timer ticking down, though it offered no indication of when it could be used again.

"So, it’s still with me... but unusable for now."

He frowned but shifted his attention to a new addition to the interface. A second trait gleamed in gold text:

(Blessing of the Angel

Grants the Hunter unlimited potential. Unlocks the ability to exceed previous caps).

Eryndor’s brow furrowed. Unlimited potential was an incredible gift, but it came with a catch. The sheer amount of work required to harness such a blessing was daunting. In his past life, he had clawed his way to B-rank, and even that had been a monumental effort. To now ascend beyond human limits would demand a level of discipline and training he hadn’t experienced before.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay calm. "This is no time to feel overwhelmed. Unlimited potential means unlimited power if I’m willing to put in the effort."

Still, the weight of the task lingered. For now, he filed the thought away. There was plenty of time to strategize later.

His thoughts returned to Sylas, who had resumed his place among his clique. Eryndor couldn’t ignore the instinctual tug in his mind. The Vrenar Clan’s reputation wasn’t just for producing assassins; they were renowned for their loyalty to those who earned their respect.

"Sylas could be a valuable ally... or a dangerous threat. Either way, I’ll need to deal with him carefully."

Sylas, noticing Eryndor’s gaze again, gave a faint smirk. It wasn’t mocking—if anything, it was a subtle recognition, as if Sylas understood that Eryndor wasn’t like the other students. Eryndor nodded back, his expression neutral.

As the hall returned to normal, Eryndor made his decision. He would ensure that Sylas survived the dungeon incident that would claim his life in the future. But more importantly, he would forge a connection that could turn Sylas into a trusted ally when the apocalypse came.

"I’ll save you, Sylas. And you’ll help me save this world."

The bell rang, signaling the end of the session. The students began to file out of the hall, their conversations resuming as the earlier tension faded. Eryndor stood, his posture relaxed but his mind racing.

October 1, 2064. Sixteen years before the apocalypse. One extra year to prepare. It wasn’t much time, but it was enough if he used it wisely.

His immediate goal was clear: establish connections, gather resources, and begin laying the groundwork for the training program that would one day save humanity. Sylas Vrenar was only the first of many pieces in a much larger puzzle.

To Be Continued…